My boss yet again postponed my performance review today. Argh! Don’t get me wrong I’ve got nothing bad to expect and he’s one of the best bosses I’ve ever had. And he has a million things on his plate at the moment which has lead to thus far, two postponements of my review. But……I just hate performance reviews. Whether they are good, bad, ugly or fabulous, I can’t stand the hour you have to spend where your life (well your work life…which lets face it is your life) is laid in front of you and you’re given a grade. I wish I could just send my parents along like we did at school. And they would come home, give you a hug and advise that everything was super and they’re so proud of you. Instead you have to endure an hour of management speak and discuss where you have been, where you are going and where you want to be in the next year when in fact if you had a million in the bank, you’d be anywhere but here.
Thursday, 31 July 2008
Tuesday, 29 July 2008
PROJECT RUNWAY AUSTRALIA: Episode Four
The challenge for this episode was to design a glamorous frock for an AFL footballer’s girlfriend to wear down the red carpet at the Brownlow Medal (kind of like the Academy Awards of AFL: Australian Football League). The challenge commenced in the middle of the sacred ground of AFL: the Melbourne Cricket Ground. Eight footballer’s wives were present and each chose the contestant they wished to work with. Of course Helen “It’s a walk in the park” Manuell declared that she had designed frocks for five of the girls and almost laid an egg trying to tell everyone. Part of the brief was to design not only something glamorous but in accordance with what the footballer’s girlfriend wanted. Makes sense really; all except for Helen. When Helen’s girl presented her ideas for her frock, Helen dismissed them immediately and told her that she would take care of it. She is a full bag of wrong but so annoyingly fun to watch.
My new hero is Lui. I ironically didn’t say much about him on my last PRA post because I couldn’t quite remember what he made or contributed. In this challenge his personality and skills really came out and in my opinion he made the best frock. At first it looked like a complete disaster for him The outfit he made initially resembled something out of the last days of Pompeii. His footballer’s girlfriend looked like she wanted to throw herself into Mt Versuivus when she first saw it. He had four hours to re-do the frock and he turned into something that was both glamorous and very original. In my opinion all the other frocks paled in comparison.
Lui’s, Juli’s and Helen’s frocks were the only ones which were above average….(yes Helen…who would believe it). The rest of the collection I thought was very ordinary and bordering on embarrassing.
Here’s a run down of the contestants and their entries:
The special guest judge this time round was designer Peter Morrisey who seemed as impressed as christmas to be there.
Winner: Juli Grbac: Juli’s brief by her footballer’s girlfriend was to make her look like a Creatian Goddess. And she did. She also looked like an extra off My Fair Lady but the judges seemed to love it. I liked it but I didn’t love it.
Leigh Buchanan: Leigh’s entry was allowed through straight away to the next round. My honest opinion: his client looked like she was wearing a black satin nightie. It was boring but well made.
Petrova Hammond: Petrova’s entry was also allowed through straight away to the next round. Her client also looked like she was wearing a nightie…except this time a pink and blue nightie. I found it boring too but it was well made.
Helen Manuell: Helen made a very elegant black and gold frock and her footballer’s girlfriend looked hot. It was very Grammy Awards. The trouble was she didn’t follow any of her client’s instructions or requests. I’m not quite sure whether her client was entirely comfortable with the revealing outfit. Still, all that aside, Helen made the third best outfit behind Juli and Lui.
Lui Hon: In my opinion Lui made the best outfit. It was original and elegant. His client went from absolutely loathing the outfit to absolutely adoring it after he totally overhauled it when she initially didn’t like it. The judges loved the frock. It is something I could see on Cate Blanchett.
Brent Zaicek: I love Brent. He’s cute as a button and he’s got that Kiwi country-boy knockabout feel to him. But….his frock was crap. It was poorly made and it looked like a piece of white material with a black belt around the waist and the top cut out for his client’s tits. She looked like a wet cat. Enough said.
Mark Antonio: In my opinion Mark should have been eliminated in this challenge. His outfit was nothing short of appalling. His client looked like she had rolled in my mother’s salmon curtains and walked out the door. It was dreadful. Like Brent’s outfit, there is no way Mark’s model could go out in such an outfit. She would be a laughing stock.
Eliminated: Shane Garland: I felt sorry for Shane. His frock wasn’t outstanding but his client could still get away with walking down the red carpet unlike Mark’s and Brent’s clients. She looked beautiful and presentable. The frock was made up of a deep lipstick red material. The top part looked great but when u looked at the lower half, the frock didn’t fit the model properly and the finishing made her look bigger than she actually was. Still it was streets ahead of Mark’s monstrosity. Mark should have been eliminated.
PROJECT RUNWAY AUSTRALIA FOXTEL ARENA MONDAYS 8.30pm
My new hero is Lui. I ironically didn’t say much about him on my last PRA post because I couldn’t quite remember what he made or contributed. In this challenge his personality and skills really came out and in my opinion he made the best frock. At first it looked like a complete disaster for him The outfit he made initially resembled something out of the last days of Pompeii. His footballer’s girlfriend looked like she wanted to throw herself into Mt Versuivus when she first saw it. He had four hours to re-do the frock and he turned into something that was both glamorous and very original. In my opinion all the other frocks paled in comparison.
Lui’s, Juli’s and Helen’s frocks were the only ones which were above average….(yes Helen…who would believe it). The rest of the collection I thought was very ordinary and bordering on embarrassing.
Here’s a run down of the contestants and their entries:
The special guest judge this time round was designer Peter Morrisey who seemed as impressed as christmas to be there.
Winner: Juli Grbac: Juli’s brief by her footballer’s girlfriend was to make her look like a Creatian Goddess. And she did. She also looked like an extra off My Fair Lady but the judges seemed to love it. I liked it but I didn’t love it.
Leigh Buchanan: Leigh’s entry was allowed through straight away to the next round. My honest opinion: his client looked like she was wearing a black satin nightie. It was boring but well made.
Petrova Hammond: Petrova’s entry was also allowed through straight away to the next round. Her client also looked like she was wearing a nightie…except this time a pink and blue nightie. I found it boring too but it was well made.
Helen Manuell: Helen made a very elegant black and gold frock and her footballer’s girlfriend looked hot. It was very Grammy Awards. The trouble was she didn’t follow any of her client’s instructions or requests. I’m not quite sure whether her client was entirely comfortable with the revealing outfit. Still, all that aside, Helen made the third best outfit behind Juli and Lui.
Lui Hon: In my opinion Lui made the best outfit. It was original and elegant. His client went from absolutely loathing the outfit to absolutely adoring it after he totally overhauled it when she initially didn’t like it. The judges loved the frock. It is something I could see on Cate Blanchett.
Brent Zaicek: I love Brent. He’s cute as a button and he’s got that Kiwi country-boy knockabout feel to him. But….his frock was crap. It was poorly made and it looked like a piece of white material with a black belt around the waist and the top cut out for his client’s tits. She looked like a wet cat. Enough said.
Mark Antonio: In my opinion Mark should have been eliminated in this challenge. His outfit was nothing short of appalling. His client looked like she had rolled in my mother’s salmon curtains and walked out the door. It was dreadful. Like Brent’s outfit, there is no way Mark’s model could go out in such an outfit. She would be a laughing stock.
Eliminated: Shane Garland: I felt sorry for Shane. His frock wasn’t outstanding but his client could still get away with walking down the red carpet unlike Mark’s and Brent’s clients. She looked beautiful and presentable. The frock was made up of a deep lipstick red material. The top part looked great but when u looked at the lower half, the frock didn’t fit the model properly and the finishing made her look bigger than she actually was. Still it was streets ahead of Mark’s monstrosity. Mark should have been eliminated.
PROJECT RUNWAY AUSTRALIA FOXTEL ARENA MONDAYS 8.30pm
C
Monday, 28 July 2008
The Dull Knight
I went and saw the new Batman film Saturday night: The Dark Knight. The film of course has garnered a lot of attention due to the fact that it stars Heath Ledger who passed away earlier in this year. The Dark Knight will most likely be the most successful film out of the Batman Franchise thus far having taken an amazing $300 million in ten days (in the US alone) with some predicting that it may go on to challenge the box office supremo Titanic's taking of $600 million, over eleven years ago.
The film is magnificently shot. Apparently 30 minutes of the film was shot on IMAX cameras. The scenes done amongst the Hong Kong skyscrapers are gob-smacking. I almost felt like I was in an IMAX theatre.
The story starts off with a fantastic robbery scene in which Joker impersonators rob Gotham City's main bank. There is a new crime serge in town and Gotham City is determined to stop it. They call on Batman. The mob are rattled by the city's declaration to destroy them: they hire the Joker to kill Batman (Christian Bale) and anyone else who crosses their path. The spotlight is on The Joker. Heath Ledger is outstanding continually bubbling over with evil lunacy. I would however stop short of awarding him the "mesmerising performance" badge. It is a good performance and certainly leaves Jack Nicholson's more comical version of The Joker in the original Batman Film very much in the shade. At times though Ledger weirdly sounds like Maxwell Smart (1960s version); I kept expecting him to pick up his shoe and order a cab.
The last film Batman Begins was about the man behind Batman: Bruce Wayne. Christian Bale made him a passionate and complex person. You felt for him. You wanted him to win. In this film Bale seems to think such passion and complexity is created by continually speaking in a ridiculously husky voice as if he is appearing in a porn spoof. Batman is wooden and droll. In a nutshell he is about as charismatic as cardboard.
Ledger's Joker fills this charismatic black hole. As a result this film isn't about Batman at all. It's about The Joker. The audience ends up wanting the Joker to win; anything not to have old Bat face up there on the screen with his justice and his eyeliner. The Joker's narcissistic forms of violence become the true stars of the film. His victims are stuffed with grenades, shot point-blank in the head, filled with razors, butterfly-kissed with knives and set alight just for fun. The violence is relentless. Maggie Gyllenhaal challenges the Joker in the charisma stakes in her role as Batman's former girlfriend and the love interest of Gotham District Attorney, Harvey Dent (Aaron Eckhart). Gyllenhaal is reminiscent of another era of movie star and if they ever do a biopic on Greta Garbo, she's the girl to do it. Unfortunately just as her part is getting interesting in the film, she is struck out, a victim no doubt of quite misogynist script editing. With all the chicks out of the picture, the big boys are then left to tear each other apart.
At 2 hours 40 minutes, this is a long film. About three quarters of the way through I had "so is this it?" realisation and the film started to lose me. Tim Burton's two Batman films (Batman and Batman Returns) are still my favourite simply because they were entertaining on every level. They were fantastically escapist, they had action but most importantly they still had a sense of humour. The Dark Knight in its attempt to be dark and mysterious through its extreme violence has taken all the fun away and become decidedly dull.
C
Thursday, 24 July 2008
My Winter of Diabetic-Content
This cold snap that we’re currently experiencing in Sydney is turning me into a diabetic. I cannot stop eating. And we ain’t talking low GI good stuff either. Fuck it in the last two weeks I’ve been on a high GI rampage. Literally I’ve been getting high on High GI. Not one saturated fat has been left unturned nor any processed meat left clinging to itself nor any carbohydrate wrapping device left in its plastic bag. If it hasn’t been dipped, dumped and dunked into ten thousand calories of oil….I’m not interested. Fried chips, fried rice, fried chicken, fried potato….Jesus…I’d eat my own right hand if it was covered in canola. Add to that pies, sausage rolls and any type of pastry surrounding a solid item, I’m banging down my arteries to get me a piece. And then you have the bacon, the eggs, the butter, the white bread and recently re-discovered pudding recipes such as apple crumble and rice pudding “which are just so easy to make.” The latter items alone have enough kilojoules to power a small Mongolian army….for weeks. I may as well just book my bed at the RPA cardiac unit now.
To make matters worse my willingness to exercise in this cold weather is nort. At the best of times I hate exercise. If I could take a pill instead I would and believe me if it’s developed I’ll be straight up there to get my prescription. But until then I have to pay people to yell at me to exercise or go to rooms heated to that of the surface of the sun to make sure I keep myself “noice”. I haven’t been to gym in two weeks. Since doing bikram yoga, my motivation to do a weights work out has been like a deflating balloon. I’m just not interested. Two weeks ago I completed my experiment of doing bikram yoga four times a week for a month. It was good but it gets a tad dull doing the same thing every session as well as the fact it is too expensive ($18 per session or $165 per month for unlimited) So I’m going to go back to doing yoga once a week and doing bootcamp again (outdoor exercise group: Outdoor X) twice a week in the Domain in the city at 6.30pm. I’ve been doing bootcamp on and off for two years. There’s a group of eight of us and it’s basically been the same group for the last 12 months. We have one instructor Ray and we do everything from running 6ks in an hour session to boxercise, strength or a combination thereof. At this time of the year it’s about the most fun you can have running around in the dark with your clothes on. I caused a little bit of a stir in the group when I announced 6 weeks ago that I was going to take a break to try out bikram for a month. It was like I’d announced my own crucifixion.
Really?
Why are you going?
What is this bikram?
Are you going to come back?
You’ve been doing it for so long, it would be a pity to let it go.
Don’t forget us.
I assured them that I wasn’t about to bless them and wash their feet. I would be returning. I just needed a bit of a change and this bikram was certainly different. Like Jesus I returned from the dead…..last week. And unfortunately yoga had not given me the Jesus stamina I’d hoped for. The session involved running up and down all the stairs of Lady Macquarie’s chair and doing boxercise in between. I lost count of the times I dry wretched. It was exhausting although my fellow disciples had appeared to have increased their fitness levels four fold. …which made me even more exhausted with jealousy. In the intervening days I’ve been hoping to get my sorry ass down to the weights room at Fatness First at Bond st in the city but I just can’t seem to do it. The lure however after 5pm of my couch, tracky dacks and ugg boots together with green coconut cream curries and tim tam desserts have been winning out every time. My waistline is of course embracing such activities and as a result is setting sail and discovering new territory every day.
http://www.outdoorx.com.au/
To make matters worse my willingness to exercise in this cold weather is nort. At the best of times I hate exercise. If I could take a pill instead I would and believe me if it’s developed I’ll be straight up there to get my prescription. But until then I have to pay people to yell at me to exercise or go to rooms heated to that of the surface of the sun to make sure I keep myself “noice”. I haven’t been to gym in two weeks. Since doing bikram yoga, my motivation to do a weights work out has been like a deflating balloon. I’m just not interested. Two weeks ago I completed my experiment of doing bikram yoga four times a week for a month. It was good but it gets a tad dull doing the same thing every session as well as the fact it is too expensive ($18 per session or $165 per month for unlimited) So I’m going to go back to doing yoga once a week and doing bootcamp again (outdoor exercise group: Outdoor X) twice a week in the Domain in the city at 6.30pm. I’ve been doing bootcamp on and off for two years. There’s a group of eight of us and it’s basically been the same group for the last 12 months. We have one instructor Ray and we do everything from running 6ks in an hour session to boxercise, strength or a combination thereof. At this time of the year it’s about the most fun you can have running around in the dark with your clothes on. I caused a little bit of a stir in the group when I announced 6 weeks ago that I was going to take a break to try out bikram for a month. It was like I’d announced my own crucifixion.
Really?
Why are you going?
What is this bikram?
Are you going to come back?
You’ve been doing it for so long, it would be a pity to let it go.
Don’t forget us.
I assured them that I wasn’t about to bless them and wash their feet. I would be returning. I just needed a bit of a change and this bikram was certainly different. Like Jesus I returned from the dead…..last week. And unfortunately yoga had not given me the Jesus stamina I’d hoped for. The session involved running up and down all the stairs of Lady Macquarie’s chair and doing boxercise in between. I lost count of the times I dry wretched. It was exhausting although my fellow disciples had appeared to have increased their fitness levels four fold. …which made me even more exhausted with jealousy. In the intervening days I’ve been hoping to get my sorry ass down to the weights room at Fatness First at Bond st in the city but I just can’t seem to do it. The lure however after 5pm of my couch, tracky dacks and ugg boots together with green coconut cream curries and tim tam desserts have been winning out every time. My waistline is of course embracing such activities and as a result is setting sail and discovering new territory every day.
http://www.outdoorx.com.au/
C
Tuesday, 22 July 2008
I NEVER LIKED YOU
Yes well it's overwhelmingly campsexual of me to admit, but I am absolutely loving the Australian version of Project Runway. It leaves the American and British versions for dead. The contestants are so much more entertaining and appear to be far more adventurous when it comes to their designs. They are Kath n Kim meets Vivienne Westwood meets Mr G meets Mad Max. They are hilarious and already there have been catfights galore.
Project Runway Australia (PRA) is based on the American original and it involves fashion designers competing by making specific garments for specific challenges. All contestants appearing on the show are designers residing in Australia. Supermodel Kristy Hinze is the host. I use the term super loosely…she's appeared once in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit edition and you can find her on about page 85 of the Victoria Secret's catalogue. The only thing "super" is probably the billionaire she's dating; Netscape creator Jim Clarke. However she is proving to be quite a good television host. After a shakey start in the first episode where her facial expression appeared to be operated by hydraulics, in last night's episode she's settled quite nicely into the role. She's already offering constructive criticisms to the contestants that easily byepass her american counterpart Heidi Klum's fascist offerings of "I like it"; "I don't like it." The other two permanent judges are fashion buyer and trend forecaster, Sarah Gale and fashion designer Jayson (that's with a Y) Brunsdon. Sarah thus far has had the best line of the show when reviewing one of the contestant's designs. "That outfit is a dog. It's going to go barking off the shelves in no time."
The mentor to the designers is Henry Roth; an Australia fashion designer who has lived in New York for the last ten years. This is a tough role to fill as Tim Gunn in the american version of PR has virtually turned himself into the stylist du jour in the United States with his own spinn off show: Tim Gunn's Guide to Style. It would have been easy for the producers PRA to simply get an Australian impersonation of Tim Gunn. Thank god they did not. Yes Henry's face does seem to resemble that of a bird's stuck in a vice and would perhaps would scare small children without the correct lighting; however he has made the mentor role his own and is proving valuable assistance to the contestants on the show.
The contestants though are the real stars of this show. They are bringing back camp ochre humour to Australian television like never before. Not since Graham Kennedy and Blanketty Blanks has there been so much camp in one hour of television. It's a welcome relief from the Kyle-Jackie O-Rove McManus "eat ya rice bubbles" version of televised entertainment. There were 12 contestants at the start of the show. As of last night's episode, there are now 8.
The Contestants
(in order of elimination)
Alison Davis, 21, West Pennant Hills , Sydney, New South Wales: poor Allison was supposed to design something glamorous but ended up making an outfit that resembled a bowl of fruit.
Deborah Pak, 35, Sydney NSW : In episode two, designers were asked to create an outfit that could go from the beach to the bar. I actually didn't mind the swimsuit Deborah designed. It was the skirt which looked more like a sarong which let her down.
Sophie Spalding, 22, Adelaide South Australia: Ah! I was so disappointed when Sophie was eliminated last night. She was one of my favourites. She had a classic 50s style to her which came out in her designs. In last night's episode designers were paired to design an outfit from spare car parts and the style was to be sporty. It was a brilliant challenge and certainly showed the talent of all the designers as there really wasn't a complete dud amongst any of the designs. Sophie was paired with Petrova. Both girls share similar design tastes. Their design was criticised for not being sporty which was the brief of the challenge. I quite liked their Jetson's style outfit though. It was Petrova's choice of a coil style fascinator/hat which turned the outfit from fashion to costume. The hat was made out of a spring and unfortunately made the model look like the Tin Man. Even though the hat was Petrova's choice, the judges elected to eliminate Sophie as she was the team leader of the group and made the final decision to let the hat in. Bummer!
Oren Nuri, 29, Bondi Sydney NSW (Originally from Israel): Quite a striking looking Israeli boy who seems to be quite a talented tailor and designer but unfortunately tried to make pants out of a tyre in last night's spare parts challenge. The pants just didn't fit the model and she ended up looking like an extra off Mad Max. Still it wasn't hideous. Oren was paired with Mark.It was a double eviction last night so Oren was the second person to go. I found it interesting that the judges did not apply the same reasoning they applied to Sophie and Petrova to Mark and Oren. They eliminated Sophie because she was the team leader and made the final call with respect to the tin man hat even though it was Petrova's idea and was executed by Petrova. On the other hand, the pants were Mark's idea and he was the team leader. Oren simply made the pants and Mark still let them in, yet it was Oren who was eliminated. Odd!
(still in the running)
Brent Zaicek, 32, Sydney NSW: I love Brent. He's a kiwi boy and the only "dude" of the group. He's kinder like a sewing surfie. I love his enthusiam. He just gets in there and does it. Before PRA, he'd never designed anything for women. Everything though he's come's up with has been thoroughly original but better still, sellable. I think JaYson has a crush on him as he seems to gush over everything Brent designs. I'm with him. He and Shane deservedly won last night's challenge. I really think Brett's got a great chance of winning the competition.
Helen Manuell, 38,Melbourne, Vic: Helen is the contestant that everyone loves to hate but doesn't want evicted because she creates a debarcle in every episode. She is like that mature age student at uni who has done not only all the minimum readings but also the recommended ones and spends all the tutorial letting everyone know this. Out of all the designers I think she is the least creative and adventurous. But she's great for the show. Last night she did her block accusing Oren of stealing her block……he designed his ill-fated pants on her block. I am sure it was by mistake but Helen turned into the middle eastern peace process.
Julijana "Juli" Grbac, 29, Brisbane, Qld: I love Julie. Great Brissie girl with that long drawl that is the south-east queensland accent. I have loved all her designs. She was paired with Helen last night. Poor thing. Still she was the one who came up with the great design which won favour with the judges. Helen made a hideous handbag out of a mudflap which literally looked like a handbag made out of a mudflap. Being the team leader Juli made the call not to use the handbag much to her credit. Her running commentary of Helen was hilarious!
Leigh Buchanan, 31, Brisbane, Qld: Leigh is the QUEEN comedian of the group and is thoroughly entertaining. He is a very talented semestress and won the first challenge. I'm not sure whether he is entirely original as say Brent or Juli. His designs, particularly his winning design in the first challenge, show a definite influence by Vivienne Westwood. Regardless he is so much fun to watch…very entertaining.
Lui Hon, 33, Melbourne, Vic : Lui is the quiet one of the group. His designs are well liked by the judges. I just can't seem to remember what they are!
Mark Antonio, 22, Sydney NSW : Mark is second to Leigh in the Queen comedian stakes. He is very entertaining. He won the second challenge for the beach to bar design for a very cool black number. Apart from having a concern about his carbon footprint by the amount hairspray he uses in his hair, I think Mark is a definite top three contestant.
Petrova Hammond, 27, Melbourne Vic : I am biased. I wish Sophie was still in the competition and Petrova evicted for designing that ridiculous spiral hat.
Shane Garland, 41, Sydney NSW: Shane is another quiet one but is also well-liked by the judges. He and Brett worked well together to design their felt, rubber sports outfit. It rocked.
PRA is on Monday nights at 8.30 on ARENA (FOXTEL) and then repeated again sometime on Saturday. I only just realised that the theme song I Never Liked You is actually by the Australia band Rogue Traders. I normally can't stand their music but this song is catchy…..a lot like PRA.
C
Monday, 21 July 2008
YOGA RAGE
Maybe it was the celebrity filled class at Bikram yoga, the bitter cold chill outside or my body’s desperate lack of electrolytes; whatever it was, it lead to Judy and I having our first fight the Friday night before last (or should I say, a partial disagreement….gentlemen who lunch do not raise their cuffs). We have known each other for almost four years and in that time we have become firm besties. Strangely and nicely, we’ve never fought and I’m not sure whether that is a good thing and a bad thing. As much as I detest and dread confrontation (how on earth I ended up being a lawyer is beyond me), my closest friendships have had the required confirmation of a mutual moment of not being amused. I think Judy and I have successfully avoided such a moment due to the fact that we are quite similar. We were both raised by dominant mothers who taught us that there was simply no excuse for the absence of a happy face and witty conversation regardless of whether one was confronted by war, famine or boring company. Combining this social aptitude with an amazingly well attuned shared sense of humour, Judy and I get on very well.
We met upstairs at the Shift through Christopher. It was November 2004. I’d just got back from being in INDYIAA for six weeks and was still offering every second stranger 20c to carry my bags and buy me packets of cigarettes. It didn’t seem to work in Australia the way it did in India. I mentioned this to Judy and he snorted vodka and soda all over me. We had an instant connection. It is of course through Judy, that I got the nickname Colin (and he, the name Judy) after we discussed our dream dinner party invite. It would be from the acting couple, Judy Davis and Colin Friels, to their Balmain residence. We met the week that Colin Friels had appeared in court on an AVO (restraining order) preventing him from harassing and/or abusing his wife after a dinner party they had went a little pair shaped.
“That was a very expensive vase Colin,” Judy would scream.
“Fuck you Judy,” I would scream back. We’d fake slap, pretend strangle and order more vodka. The routine lasted all night and well into the next day. Patrons didn’t know whether to clap or call the police. It was all crazy wild and so much fun.
Since Judy met Colin, there have been a gazillion more of these crazy wild nights, lapsed boyfriends, lost jobs, pointless affairs, roots to remember and plenty of “where the hell is my life” goings. We share not only the same sense of humour but a similar passion for books, theatre, politics, film and the hope to be one day chased by the paparazzi. We’re both waiting for our own reality TV shows, book deals and subsequent ranges of linen at K Mart. In the mean time we will drink, smoke and do yoga.
Which leads me back to last Friday night. It was freezing. Judy and I decided to do the 5.30 yoga class. I was about to leave work at 4.45 when I had a couple of “5 o’clock specials” come through. Once I sorted those, I didn’t get to leave work until 5.10pm. The walk to the Bikram school normally takes 20 mins. So I sprinted from my office. At lunch time I’d purchased a new winter double breasted overcoat from the Myer sales. It is spectacular but not that conducive to running. By the time I got to the school, I looked like a cardiac arrest. I ran in, snap changed and went into the class with my towel a couple of minutes before it began. I got a position next to Judy. There was something missing but I couldn’t think what. I was so relieved to be there in time that I was just happy just to lie there and catch my breath. The floor did seem harder. It wasn’t until the instructor came in and turned on the lights that I realised I was lying on my towel sans my yoga mat. This is the yoga equivalent of turning up to a swimming lesson naked. I quickly ran out of the class, grabbed my mat and returned.
Judy and I were in the second row where you are allowed to practise if you can touch your toes but can’t yet remove your underwear with your teeth like those in the first row. The back row is for those who have not done bikram before or are on their ten day introductory pass. They generally look terrified and as the class progresses with the 40 degree heat intensifying, they resort to spasmodic moments of collapse and utterances of “you’ve got to be fucking joking.” Of course I am so in my yoga zone that I don’t notice such cries for help and I certainly never find myself smirking at virgin yogis’ pain. I am too busy watching the blood disappear from my right big toe, as it turns black and falls off.
Friday night the back row was awash with celebrities…..d-class….but celebrities all the same. There was the bookie son of a well known racing identity (lets call him J), some reporter from Channel Nine (lets call her L for Legs), an African American guy who is on MTV (lets call him MTV) and a former Cleo Bachelor of the Year, (lets call him G), who also works for Channel Nine and according to the tabloids, changes girlfriends like I change songs on my ipod. I’ve always thought G was quite dishy in a pretty boy way and he still ain’t bad in real life but like all television and movie stars in real life, he looked like he’d been put in the microwave a bit too long and consequently appeared to be a fraction of his size. He was still quite pleasant to have in my rear view though. What was more amusing, was watching poor J famboozle his way through the class. J is in his mid twenties and is quickly becoming one of Australia’s most successful bookies. What he makes up in finances, he loses in looks. With the body of Pinocchio and the face of a dropped pie, poor J is about as sexy as cat food. And he was about as co-ordinated as an earthquake. It didn’t help either that he happened to be standing next to the hottest and most flexible person in the room. If L was any more flexible, Channel Nine wouldn’t bother flying her overseas for stories, they would just FedEx her there instead.
J begged to leave several times. Trying to leave a bikram yoga class early is like trying to defect from East Berlin in the 70s; unless you can dig a tunnel, it ain’t gonna happen. The instructor blocked J’s every request.
J: I don’t think I feel very well
Instructor: J just sit down and breathe.
J: I feel dizzy.
Instructor: J just sit down and breathe.
J: Can I go outside and get some fresh air?
Instructor: J just sit down and breathe.
The humiliation you have to endure in order to escape the rest of the class, you are better to simply grit your teeth and tough it out. J took this view until about half way through the class when finally all the stand up poses were completed. This is normally the psychological turning point for me. If I can make it through all the stand up poses, then I can finish the rest of the class. Even though all the back and spinal stretch poses are actually more intensive and a harder work out; because you are lying on the ground doing them, psychologically they are not as taxing. J didn’t think this was going to be the case and had enough. This time without asking, he jumped up, grabbed his bottle and mat and made a cartoon dash to the door hoping to avoid the instructor’s bullets. He took several but managed to get out much to the envy, but also relief of the rest of the class. L had enough as well and quickly followed suit. Ironically there was no protest from the female instructor as L’s fliptop body exited the room.
Mr MTV was by far the hottest man in the room but was the only one wearing his shirt. Considering there were some men in the class who should have been wearing a sports bra, Mr MTV’s shirted torso was more than a little ironic….it was downright cruel. If this guy had any more pull, he would have formed his own constellation. The air pressure in the room changed every time he moved a limb. Meanwhile it soon became apparent to me that Cleo’s Bachelor of the Year was wearing no underwear which if God had given him an arse, would have been quite appealing. But God didn’t; yes, he had an old man’s arse flappin’ in the breeze like mamma’s curtains. Attached to his drapes were a pair of very lazy boxer shorts riding lower and lower by each sit up pose. It was a whole bag of wrong.
Apart from all these obvious distractions, I quite enjoyed the class although as per usual I felt absolutely exhausted once it finished. You are supposed to have a teaspoon of celtic salt in a glass of water after the class to replace all the electrolytes you’ve sweated out in the 40 degree conditions. It’s like drinking gravel. I skipped my dose of it and headed straight to the showers.
I met Judy in front of the school. It was bloody cold. We watched Mr MTV leave and decided immediately that we were starving. Neither of us felt like Japanese at Don Don’s where we have been going regularly. We decided to walk up the strip to see what was on offer. I suggested the Court House Hotel Bistro (upstairs) which does a great steak and barramundi. Judy didn’t seem fussed.
Judy: Yeah doll sure. Go where you want to go.
Me: No well, where do you want to go?
Judy: It doesn’t worry me. I don’t love it and I don’t hate it (the court house).
Judy has a remarkable way of sometimes getting his point across by not making a point at all. Normally I don’t care but in my electrolyte starved frame of mind his indifference was quite frankly starting to give me the shits.
Me: what do you feel like then?
Judy: Well what about that place over there.
Me: Steak, seafood and pasta…yeah ok….although the pub would be just as good.
Judy: Yeah okay well if you like that, lets do that.
Blind Freddy could have sensed that he wasn’t keen on the idea but I was determined to have my barramundi and eat it too. We went to the Court House. My growing agitation joined us as well.
The bistro on a Friday night is always full of your “dinner and a show” style poofs. Generally they are in their late early 50s; they like a ‘noice’ meal and a crisp dry white and perhaps a flutter on the pokies and a bit of a dance at Palms afterwards. They always wear a collar and a nice firm trouser. Conversation is usually littered with polite laughter and many “and remember whens”. There is an atmosphere of a pre-sms era when people picked up the telephone to ask someone on a date and at least cooked them breakfast the next morning if the date was a “success”. The place was sensibly busy.
“ Good evening gentlmen….just the two of you is it?” said the waitress.
ME: Yes please can we grab that table next to the window ?
Waitress: No problem
She took us to my preferred table, gave us menus and requested our drinks order. I was so thirsty although I was determined not to have a full strength soft drink. Soft drink is my weakness and since I’ve started bikram yoga, my thirst for “lolly water” has been insatiable.
ME: I’ll have a diet coke.
Judy: Have another soft drink John.
ME: It’s a diet coke.
Judy: Only fat people drink diet coke.
ME: What do u want me to order….tea?
The waitress gave us that polite screen saver smile that wait staff often do when patrons are about to have a domestic in front of them.
Judy: You could have water. I’ll have a soda water thanks
I was furious. Receiving dietary advice from Judy I thought was like receiving dietary advice from Patsy Stone. The last thing he ate was a kettle chip in 1974 and even that gave him constipation. I picked up the menu to alleviate my worsening mood but it was too late. My temper had control of the switchboard and it was quickly turning all the lights off. And there was no switching them back on. Judy could have turned his soda water into wine and cured random cripples; regardless, I was still going to be rather pissed off.
The waitress cautiously returned with our drinks. Judy ordered his salad like he was Gidget and I ordered my barramundi and chips like I was Roseanne Barr. We both looked outside down on Taylor Square hoping for some inspiration to refresh the mood. It didn’t.
Judy (spotting the Batman billboard): I can’t wait to see Batman Begins
Me: Yeah it looks good.
Judy: Heath Ledger is supposed to be brilliant.
Me: Yeah he’s getting pretty good reviews
Judy: He’s such an amazing artist.
Currently there is a television advertisement in Australia for a cereal where two men are sitting in an open plan office eating this cereal. One of the men says “This All Bran is delicious”. A very tall woman then pops her head above the petition and says/asks: “Tall Jan is Malicious?”. Both men protest. She reacts angrily. “I heard what you said. Tall Jan is Malicious.” She then storms off to file a grievance. I had a similar reaction to Judy bestowing such an artistic honour on our Heath.
ME: I don’t think he was an amazing artist at all. People only say that now because he is dead
Judy: Well he was. He was a very talented actor.
Me: That doesn’t make him an amazing artist!!!!! An amazing artist doesn’t spend 33 thousand dollars a week paying for an empty Manhattan apartment and get a housekeeper to come and clean it!! If he was true to his art, he would be doing community theatre back in Perth or busking on the streets of Paris.
Judy: So an amazing artist you’re saying is someone who shouldn’t have any money or have commercial success? What about Brett Whitely and his paintings? That’s a ridiculous thing to say.
Me: No…you’ve missed my point!
He’d missed my point because I’d missed it myself which only made me more furious. As a result I resorted to yelling jumbled words.
Me: You know he wasn’t an artist!….you know….if he was ….you know….he’d be in Paris!….or in street theatre!
What was with Paris? Or street theatre? What on earth was I trying to say? My embarrassing inability to put forward a reasonable argument in the negative against Mr Ledger being an amazing artist was now firing my temper to amazing levels, not to mention starting to cause an amazing scene at the bistro.
Judy: Can you not raise your voice at me? You are yelling at me.
I was losing the argument and I couldn’t stand it. I was so angry I couldn’t even maintain eye contact. If he said another word, he was gonna wear his bloody soda water. I heard myself think this and realised what I had to do.
Me: I’m sorry Paul I’m going have to go. Sorry I’m not in the right head space.
Judy: What? You’re going? Ok go.
Me: I’m sorry. I will cancel my meal. I will call you tomorrow.
Judy: Don’t bother. Bye.
It was the only option. My blood was boiling and I was worried that I was going to completely lose my temper and start screaming. It wouldn’t be pleasant and certainly not funny in any respect. I cancelled my meal with the waitress who still had her screensaver on. I picked up my new jacket and exited the bistro like Joan Crawford. All I needed was a pillbox hat and a bottle of Pepsi.
Once I was downstairs, I sent Judy a text immediately apologising for my behaviour. I was still angry but it wasn’t because of him. I was just in a post yoga rage.
Judy sent me back a text straight away:
Nothing to forgive doll. One must storm out when one has a new mink.
C
We met upstairs at the Shift through Christopher. It was November 2004. I’d just got back from being in INDYIAA for six weeks and was still offering every second stranger 20c to carry my bags and buy me packets of cigarettes. It didn’t seem to work in Australia the way it did in India. I mentioned this to Judy and he snorted vodka and soda all over me. We had an instant connection. It is of course through Judy, that I got the nickname Colin (and he, the name Judy) after we discussed our dream dinner party invite. It would be from the acting couple, Judy Davis and Colin Friels, to their Balmain residence. We met the week that Colin Friels had appeared in court on an AVO (restraining order) preventing him from harassing and/or abusing his wife after a dinner party they had went a little pair shaped.
“That was a very expensive vase Colin,” Judy would scream.
“Fuck you Judy,” I would scream back. We’d fake slap, pretend strangle and order more vodka. The routine lasted all night and well into the next day. Patrons didn’t know whether to clap or call the police. It was all crazy wild and so much fun.
Since Judy met Colin, there have been a gazillion more of these crazy wild nights, lapsed boyfriends, lost jobs, pointless affairs, roots to remember and plenty of “where the hell is my life” goings. We share not only the same sense of humour but a similar passion for books, theatre, politics, film and the hope to be one day chased by the paparazzi. We’re both waiting for our own reality TV shows, book deals and subsequent ranges of linen at K Mart. In the mean time we will drink, smoke and do yoga.
Which leads me back to last Friday night. It was freezing. Judy and I decided to do the 5.30 yoga class. I was about to leave work at 4.45 when I had a couple of “5 o’clock specials” come through. Once I sorted those, I didn’t get to leave work until 5.10pm. The walk to the Bikram school normally takes 20 mins. So I sprinted from my office. At lunch time I’d purchased a new winter double breasted overcoat from the Myer sales. It is spectacular but not that conducive to running. By the time I got to the school, I looked like a cardiac arrest. I ran in, snap changed and went into the class with my towel a couple of minutes before it began. I got a position next to Judy. There was something missing but I couldn’t think what. I was so relieved to be there in time that I was just happy just to lie there and catch my breath. The floor did seem harder. It wasn’t until the instructor came in and turned on the lights that I realised I was lying on my towel sans my yoga mat. This is the yoga equivalent of turning up to a swimming lesson naked. I quickly ran out of the class, grabbed my mat and returned.
Judy and I were in the second row where you are allowed to practise if you can touch your toes but can’t yet remove your underwear with your teeth like those in the first row. The back row is for those who have not done bikram before or are on their ten day introductory pass. They generally look terrified and as the class progresses with the 40 degree heat intensifying, they resort to spasmodic moments of collapse and utterances of “you’ve got to be fucking joking.” Of course I am so in my yoga zone that I don’t notice such cries for help and I certainly never find myself smirking at virgin yogis’ pain. I am too busy watching the blood disappear from my right big toe, as it turns black and falls off.
Friday night the back row was awash with celebrities…..d-class….but celebrities all the same. There was the bookie son of a well known racing identity (lets call him J), some reporter from Channel Nine (lets call her L for Legs), an African American guy who is on MTV (lets call him MTV) and a former Cleo Bachelor of the Year, (lets call him G), who also works for Channel Nine and according to the tabloids, changes girlfriends like I change songs on my ipod. I’ve always thought G was quite dishy in a pretty boy way and he still ain’t bad in real life but like all television and movie stars in real life, he looked like he’d been put in the microwave a bit too long and consequently appeared to be a fraction of his size. He was still quite pleasant to have in my rear view though. What was more amusing, was watching poor J famboozle his way through the class. J is in his mid twenties and is quickly becoming one of Australia’s most successful bookies. What he makes up in finances, he loses in looks. With the body of Pinocchio and the face of a dropped pie, poor J is about as sexy as cat food. And he was about as co-ordinated as an earthquake. It didn’t help either that he happened to be standing next to the hottest and most flexible person in the room. If L was any more flexible, Channel Nine wouldn’t bother flying her overseas for stories, they would just FedEx her there instead.
J begged to leave several times. Trying to leave a bikram yoga class early is like trying to defect from East Berlin in the 70s; unless you can dig a tunnel, it ain’t gonna happen. The instructor blocked J’s every request.
J: I don’t think I feel very well
Instructor: J just sit down and breathe.
J: I feel dizzy.
Instructor: J just sit down and breathe.
J: Can I go outside and get some fresh air?
Instructor: J just sit down and breathe.
The humiliation you have to endure in order to escape the rest of the class, you are better to simply grit your teeth and tough it out. J took this view until about half way through the class when finally all the stand up poses were completed. This is normally the psychological turning point for me. If I can make it through all the stand up poses, then I can finish the rest of the class. Even though all the back and spinal stretch poses are actually more intensive and a harder work out; because you are lying on the ground doing them, psychologically they are not as taxing. J didn’t think this was going to be the case and had enough. This time without asking, he jumped up, grabbed his bottle and mat and made a cartoon dash to the door hoping to avoid the instructor’s bullets. He took several but managed to get out much to the envy, but also relief of the rest of the class. L had enough as well and quickly followed suit. Ironically there was no protest from the female instructor as L’s fliptop body exited the room.
Mr MTV was by far the hottest man in the room but was the only one wearing his shirt. Considering there were some men in the class who should have been wearing a sports bra, Mr MTV’s shirted torso was more than a little ironic….it was downright cruel. If this guy had any more pull, he would have formed his own constellation. The air pressure in the room changed every time he moved a limb. Meanwhile it soon became apparent to me that Cleo’s Bachelor of the Year was wearing no underwear which if God had given him an arse, would have been quite appealing. But God didn’t; yes, he had an old man’s arse flappin’ in the breeze like mamma’s curtains. Attached to his drapes were a pair of very lazy boxer shorts riding lower and lower by each sit up pose. It was a whole bag of wrong.
Apart from all these obvious distractions, I quite enjoyed the class although as per usual I felt absolutely exhausted once it finished. You are supposed to have a teaspoon of celtic salt in a glass of water after the class to replace all the electrolytes you’ve sweated out in the 40 degree conditions. It’s like drinking gravel. I skipped my dose of it and headed straight to the showers.
I met Judy in front of the school. It was bloody cold. We watched Mr MTV leave and decided immediately that we were starving. Neither of us felt like Japanese at Don Don’s where we have been going regularly. We decided to walk up the strip to see what was on offer. I suggested the Court House Hotel Bistro (upstairs) which does a great steak and barramundi. Judy didn’t seem fussed.
Judy: Yeah doll sure. Go where you want to go.
Me: No well, where do you want to go?
Judy: It doesn’t worry me. I don’t love it and I don’t hate it (the court house).
Judy has a remarkable way of sometimes getting his point across by not making a point at all. Normally I don’t care but in my electrolyte starved frame of mind his indifference was quite frankly starting to give me the shits.
Me: what do you feel like then?
Judy: Well what about that place over there.
Me: Steak, seafood and pasta…yeah ok….although the pub would be just as good.
Judy: Yeah okay well if you like that, lets do that.
Blind Freddy could have sensed that he wasn’t keen on the idea but I was determined to have my barramundi and eat it too. We went to the Court House. My growing agitation joined us as well.
The bistro on a Friday night is always full of your “dinner and a show” style poofs. Generally they are in their late early 50s; they like a ‘noice’ meal and a crisp dry white and perhaps a flutter on the pokies and a bit of a dance at Palms afterwards. They always wear a collar and a nice firm trouser. Conversation is usually littered with polite laughter and many “and remember whens”. There is an atmosphere of a pre-sms era when people picked up the telephone to ask someone on a date and at least cooked them breakfast the next morning if the date was a “success”. The place was sensibly busy.
“ Good evening gentlmen….just the two of you is it?” said the waitress.
ME: Yes please can we grab that table next to the window ?
Waitress: No problem
She took us to my preferred table, gave us menus and requested our drinks order. I was so thirsty although I was determined not to have a full strength soft drink. Soft drink is my weakness and since I’ve started bikram yoga, my thirst for “lolly water” has been insatiable.
ME: I’ll have a diet coke.
Judy: Have another soft drink John.
ME: It’s a diet coke.
Judy: Only fat people drink diet coke.
ME: What do u want me to order….tea?
The waitress gave us that polite screen saver smile that wait staff often do when patrons are about to have a domestic in front of them.
Judy: You could have water. I’ll have a soda water thanks
I was furious. Receiving dietary advice from Judy I thought was like receiving dietary advice from Patsy Stone. The last thing he ate was a kettle chip in 1974 and even that gave him constipation. I picked up the menu to alleviate my worsening mood but it was too late. My temper had control of the switchboard and it was quickly turning all the lights off. And there was no switching them back on. Judy could have turned his soda water into wine and cured random cripples; regardless, I was still going to be rather pissed off.
The waitress cautiously returned with our drinks. Judy ordered his salad like he was Gidget and I ordered my barramundi and chips like I was Roseanne Barr. We both looked outside down on Taylor Square hoping for some inspiration to refresh the mood. It didn’t.
Judy (spotting the Batman billboard): I can’t wait to see Batman Begins
Me: Yeah it looks good.
Judy: Heath Ledger is supposed to be brilliant.
Me: Yeah he’s getting pretty good reviews
Judy: He’s such an amazing artist.
Currently there is a television advertisement in Australia for a cereal where two men are sitting in an open plan office eating this cereal. One of the men says “This All Bran is delicious”. A very tall woman then pops her head above the petition and says/asks: “Tall Jan is Malicious?”. Both men protest. She reacts angrily. “I heard what you said. Tall Jan is Malicious.” She then storms off to file a grievance. I had a similar reaction to Judy bestowing such an artistic honour on our Heath.
ME: I don’t think he was an amazing artist at all. People only say that now because he is dead
Judy: Well he was. He was a very talented actor.
Me: That doesn’t make him an amazing artist!!!!! An amazing artist doesn’t spend 33 thousand dollars a week paying for an empty Manhattan apartment and get a housekeeper to come and clean it!! If he was true to his art, he would be doing community theatre back in Perth or busking on the streets of Paris.
Judy: So an amazing artist you’re saying is someone who shouldn’t have any money or have commercial success? What about Brett Whitely and his paintings? That’s a ridiculous thing to say.
Me: No…you’ve missed my point!
He’d missed my point because I’d missed it myself which only made me more furious. As a result I resorted to yelling jumbled words.
Me: You know he wasn’t an artist!….you know….if he was ….you know….he’d be in Paris!….or in street theatre!
What was with Paris? Or street theatre? What on earth was I trying to say? My embarrassing inability to put forward a reasonable argument in the negative against Mr Ledger being an amazing artist was now firing my temper to amazing levels, not to mention starting to cause an amazing scene at the bistro.
Judy: Can you not raise your voice at me? You are yelling at me.
I was losing the argument and I couldn’t stand it. I was so angry I couldn’t even maintain eye contact. If he said another word, he was gonna wear his bloody soda water. I heard myself think this and realised what I had to do.
Me: I’m sorry Paul I’m going have to go. Sorry I’m not in the right head space.
Judy: What? You’re going? Ok go.
Me: I’m sorry. I will cancel my meal. I will call you tomorrow.
Judy: Don’t bother. Bye.
It was the only option. My blood was boiling and I was worried that I was going to completely lose my temper and start screaming. It wouldn’t be pleasant and certainly not funny in any respect. I cancelled my meal with the waitress who still had her screensaver on. I picked up my new jacket and exited the bistro like Joan Crawford. All I needed was a pillbox hat and a bottle of Pepsi.
Once I was downstairs, I sent Judy a text immediately apologising for my behaviour. I was still angry but it wasn’t because of him. I was just in a post yoga rage.
Judy sent me back a text straight away:
Nothing to forgive doll. One must storm out when one has a new mink.
C
Wednesday, 16 July 2008
THE INVASION OF THE SINGING CATHOLICS
In the movie, The Invasion of the Body Snatchers, human society is invaded and replaced without that human society realising. Nicole Kidman wore a very bad wig and ten kilos of botox in an excruciatingly bad remake of the 1970s classic last year. Sydney at the moment is dealing with its own type of invasion. Instead of carrying pods and throwing up all over you, they are carrying ipods and orange fluorescent backpacks singing random songs of halleluiah at you. Yes World Youth Day has landed it's big fat papal arse on the emerald city.
World Youth Day is an international convention of young Catholics organised by the Catholic Church. It occurs every four years and is kind of like a Catholic Woodstock…….except there are no drugs, no sex and no alcohol…..so really it's more stock, less wood. I have no idea how long the concept has been going but this year it is Sydney's turn to host the event. It is actually the biggest convention ever to come to Australia…even bigger than the Olympics in 2000.
The Pope touched down on Sunday and since then an estimated two hundred and fifty thousand "pilgrims" have followed. Consequently Sydney has been turned into some sort of Las Vegas styled Catholic World. Suddenly the streets are awash with peddlers selling Glow in the Dark Virgin Maries, Flying Jesus's and Stick on Stigmata. It is impossible to catch a train, buy a bottle of milk or tend one's garden without a pilgrim popping their head up and singing a ditty about Jesus. And that's the thing. These pilgrims cannot seem to stop singing. I'm wondering if somebody is spiking their holy water. They all think they are the Van Trapp Family singers continually bursting into song in public locales. The city streets and offices are full of the echoes of hymms from my Catholic youth. Sitting in my office I continually feel like I am in Church and find myself accidentally genuflecting every so often.
So yeah being brought up a stiff upper lip "don't clap your hands" Catholic, I'm finding the evangelocal Jesus rocks attitude a little nauseating. Having said that though, there is a great atmosphere in the city at the moment. After gym last night I went for a walk around the city and Darling Harbour. There was a fantastic vibe with people having an awesome time. Earlier in the evening there had been a mass to over 150 thousand people (how many barrels of holy wine would you need for that) at Barangaroo: Sydney's former wharf otherwise known as the Hungry Mile. This mass was then followed by a rock concert. The aerial pics looked amazing. It certainly has been a great introduction to Barangaroo as a public space particularly a concert area.
It was all good, until my journey home on the train which was pilgrimmed wall to wall. As per usual, they did not stop singing. Hymn after hymn of waiting for the lord, saying hello to the lord, saying goodbye to the lord and wondering where the lord has gone. No wonder Jesus sacrificed himself…he did it to get some peace and quiet.
World Youth Day is an international convention of young Catholics organised by the Catholic Church. It occurs every four years and is kind of like a Catholic Woodstock…….except there are no drugs, no sex and no alcohol…..so really it's more stock, less wood. I have no idea how long the concept has been going but this year it is Sydney's turn to host the event. It is actually the biggest convention ever to come to Australia…even bigger than the Olympics in 2000.
The Pope touched down on Sunday and since then an estimated two hundred and fifty thousand "pilgrims" have followed. Consequently Sydney has been turned into some sort of Las Vegas styled Catholic World. Suddenly the streets are awash with peddlers selling Glow in the Dark Virgin Maries, Flying Jesus's and Stick on Stigmata. It is impossible to catch a train, buy a bottle of milk or tend one's garden without a pilgrim popping their head up and singing a ditty about Jesus. And that's the thing. These pilgrims cannot seem to stop singing. I'm wondering if somebody is spiking their holy water. They all think they are the Van Trapp Family singers continually bursting into song in public locales. The city streets and offices are full of the echoes of hymms from my Catholic youth. Sitting in my office I continually feel like I am in Church and find myself accidentally genuflecting every so often.
So yeah being brought up a stiff upper lip "don't clap your hands" Catholic, I'm finding the evangelocal Jesus rocks attitude a little nauseating. Having said that though, there is a great atmosphere in the city at the moment. After gym last night I went for a walk around the city and Darling Harbour. There was a fantastic vibe with people having an awesome time. Earlier in the evening there had been a mass to over 150 thousand people (how many barrels of holy wine would you need for that) at Barangaroo: Sydney's former wharf otherwise known as the Hungry Mile. This mass was then followed by a rock concert. The aerial pics looked amazing. It certainly has been a great introduction to Barangaroo as a public space particularly a concert area.
It was all good, until my journey home on the train which was pilgrimmed wall to wall. As per usual, they did not stop singing. Hymn after hymn of waiting for the lord, saying hello to the lord, saying goodbye to the lord and wondering where the lord has gone. No wonder Jesus sacrificed himself…he did it to get some peace and quiet.
C
Thursday, 10 July 2008
CRUNCH
Ok I take everything back about summer being absent. Winter slapped me in the face this morning. It was absolutely freezing …a big fat zero on our balcony thermometer. It's still absolutely freezing although am now very cosy in my office looking at the grey freeze outside munching on a pie which contains about 5 million calories. I'm going to have to run to Melbourne and back to burn it off. Remarkably I got to work early this morning. I would like to think it is my enthusiasm for a Thursday but it was more to do with Ross Greenwood on the Today Show. He advised that my generation would require at least one million dollars in super to retire and to achieve this we must begin self-contribution around the age of 30. Thanks Ross. I'm almost four years late; just what I wanted to hear over my porridge. So in my old age, not only will I have to deal with rising sea levels, widespread destruction and the odd climatic refugee on my doorstep, I will most likely have to be running some sort of fraudulent carbon trading scheme just to pay for the milk and a night at the disco. Such things should not be discussed on television before midday. Accordingly I switched Mr Ross off, left my upset porridge and catapulted myself outside. It's payday today and I receive my tax cut from Kevin Rudd. Thanks Kevin. I also no longer have any university debt munching at my salary as I finally paid it all off in June. I was quite excited about the prospect of having a nice little sum of extra cash around; that was until I received a letter from the bank last Friday advising that they were putting our mortgage interest rate up not once but twice in one month. Merry Happy End of Financial Year! Don't you just love a Credit Crunch? I hope they give me the dates for the next one. And of course no Credit Crunch is without an Energy Crisis is it? Petrol today is $1.73 a litre. So unless I buy a horse, there goes all my extra money and more. Enjoy your tax cuts everyone!
Wednesday, 9 July 2008
An Absence of Summer
Well July announced its arrival this morning. It was 2 degrees in the hills of Dulwich at dawn and I kept hoping that my bed would take me to work. It didn't. I hate winter in summerland. Like a regretful e-bay purchase, it arrives late unannounced and you wonder why you ever looked forward to it in the first place. Those of you tanning your asses off in the Northern Hemisphere must be choking on your long island iced teas right now saying "Winter? Australia? You guys know nothing". Yes I know a top of 12 degrees in the mother country is enough to cause random breakouts of nudist colonies amongst our British brothers and sisters. Whereas a top of 12 degrees in Summerland causes the average antipodean to hit his or her snooze button several more times, make a pot of tea and put on a suitable scarf. There is no widespread panic. Not a lot happens at all. And herein lays the problem. Winter in summerland is bland. There are no blizzards, ice storms, winter wonderlands or messages from the Queen. No sons of God were born in June, July or August and there is no Auld Lang Zyne equivalent for the End of Financial Year. The closest we get to a cultural event is a half yearly clearance. The light is never turned off; it is simply turned down. It's not cold enough to wear a mink but not warm enough to find a beach. We are left for three months on our couches in our seasonal waiting rooms. There is no winter in summerland, there is simply an absence of summer.
C
Thursday, 3 July 2008
Dancing in the Dark
I wasn't meant to go out Saturday night. I'd spent the whole day in doing domestics, facebooking and blogging; I was quite happy to stay at home. Judy was coming over for a late DVD (Big Business) and I was doing a roast chicken. Perfect cosy weather activities. I'd just finished writing the last entry on thoroughlymodern when the home-phone rang. It was 8.30pm.
"Hi…..I don't think I can drive," the voice slurred on the other end of the phone.
Me: Who is this?
I recognized the voice but I love hearing the ridiculous sound of a grown man's voice saying the words: "It's Judy."
"It's Judy". Of course it was. I'd only been talking to him an hour and a half ago. He was going to have a quick cheap eat at Surry Hills with friends and then was driving out to my place. He was putrid.
Me: Who spiked your drink?
Judy: Todd McKenney, lets go out.
Me: No. I want to stay in. You go out.
Judy: Boring
Me: Yeah I know, I'm trying to make it a habit.
Judy: Oh…Ivanka Trump is on Oprah…..bye.
He slammed the phone down. I tended to my chicken and realised I'd forgotten to put the timer on. I'd overcooked it by about half an hour; enough to turn it from tender to bender. It was so tough I would have had to put my foot on it to cut it. Throwing it in the bin, I opted for French cuisine instead; a bottle of wine and cigarettes.
I checked manhunt. No messages and nothing to look at. I checked gaydar; a message from Boris in Siberia who gave me his entire life story. He had been looking for that special man for so long and now he had appeared to have found him……me. What a relief I thought; my wait is over, I shall pack some cardi's and move to the artic circle and live in an igloo with Boris. I lit another cigarette and thought again; I'm not ready to commit; I hit the auto "no thanks" button and kept scrolling.
You could scroll your whole life away on manhunt and gaydar. Profile after profile of persons looking for everything from love, romance, good times, clean linen to do me over quickly and love me like you hate me. "No Asians; no offence but it's just not my thing" read one profile (as do many) as if Asian people are like a meal you buy at a local pub. Tolerance and acceptance is something the gay community promotes and champions; yet strangely on these sites, such virtues remain an option.
I continued to scroll through a list of potential one-night husbands when my mobile rang. The word Judy appeared on the screen. I hesitated for a moment. Answering it would only lead to trouble. I was weak. I'd just finished my entire 'french dinner" and without any electronic suitors oozing through my pc, I was on a one-way trip to a town called Boredom which if I answered Judy's call, would lead further to that city called Disaster; a place I'd been to with Judy many times. The trouble with Disaster is that it is always so much fun. I took the call.
Me: Hi doll
There was blearing music coming down the phone
Judy (screaming): Doll come to Manacle.
Me: No doll
Judy: Come on doll. I'm here with Trev
Me: Really? Are there many there?
I hadn't been to Manacle since its re-opening where they had three barmen on for about 400 people.
Judy: Yeah it's packed.
Me: Is it possible to get a drink before Tuesday?
Hi Doll it's Trev.
Trev had snatched the phone.
Trev: Doll you've got to come down and help me
Me: What do you mean?
Trev: It's Judy. I think he's been drinking petrol. He's got that look in his eyes.
We all know that look. Judy after about 12 vodkas, starts to appear as if some body has opened the top of his head and poured a jug of water in. His eyes bumble around like dead gold fish and he starts to sway as if he is on a boat.
Trev: He's had about 8 vodka and sodas in 45 mins. I can't keep up.
It seemed like an emergency, I had to go.
Me: I'll be there in five.
I didn't realise what I was wearing until I got to the leatherman on the door. A lightweight FCUK white knit with dusty blue genes and white joggers. I looked more like an aerobics instructor than a leatherman. Mr Leather didn't flinch though and let me straight into Manacle which is located in the back bar of The Clarence Hotel……and is completely without light. Apart from the bar, the rest of the area was like your local cemetery at midnight. Yes leather bars are supposed to be dark and dirty but this was more like solitary confinement. People were bumping into each other, striking up conversations with inanimate objects and were generally just lost due to the lack of visibility. I was the only person wearing white so it was easy for Trev to spot me. Otherwise, I would have had to go back to my car to get a torch.
Trev: hi doll
Judy: Colin!!!
Me: Hiya
Trev: Welcome to Mortischa's den.
Me: Yeah what's the story?
Trev: They're trying to save their Carbon footprint
Me: I think they've chopped their foot right off.
Judy: Colin I'm buying you a drink.
Judy careered off into the darkness.
Me: He'll never find us
Trev: Doll in that outfit, you're the local lighthouse. He can't miss you.
We continued to chat although it was difficult to hear over the loud music. We were feeling more and more like blind deaf mutes. Hear no evil, see no evil, and speak no evil. Mind you Trev and I were used to it……we'd spent half our lives in such an environment. We both hate the quiet.
Me: Where's Bernice?
Trev: On his way.
Me: Where is he?
Trev: On a date….someone he met at Ken's
Me: A sauna date?
Trev: Ya
Me: How 80s
"Hi…..I don't think I can drive," the voice slurred on the other end of the phone.
Me: Who is this?
I recognized the voice but I love hearing the ridiculous sound of a grown man's voice saying the words: "It's Judy."
"It's Judy". Of course it was. I'd only been talking to him an hour and a half ago. He was going to have a quick cheap eat at Surry Hills with friends and then was driving out to my place. He was putrid.
Me: Who spiked your drink?
Judy: Todd McKenney, lets go out.
Me: No. I want to stay in. You go out.
Judy: Boring
Me: Yeah I know, I'm trying to make it a habit.
Judy: Oh…Ivanka Trump is on Oprah…..bye.
He slammed the phone down. I tended to my chicken and realised I'd forgotten to put the timer on. I'd overcooked it by about half an hour; enough to turn it from tender to bender. It was so tough I would have had to put my foot on it to cut it. Throwing it in the bin, I opted for French cuisine instead; a bottle of wine and cigarettes.
I checked manhunt. No messages and nothing to look at. I checked gaydar; a message from Boris in Siberia who gave me his entire life story. He had been looking for that special man for so long and now he had appeared to have found him……me. What a relief I thought; my wait is over, I shall pack some cardi's and move to the artic circle and live in an igloo with Boris. I lit another cigarette and thought again; I'm not ready to commit; I hit the auto "no thanks" button and kept scrolling.
You could scroll your whole life away on manhunt and gaydar. Profile after profile of persons looking for everything from love, romance, good times, clean linen to do me over quickly and love me like you hate me. "No Asians; no offence but it's just not my thing" read one profile (as do many) as if Asian people are like a meal you buy at a local pub. Tolerance and acceptance is something the gay community promotes and champions; yet strangely on these sites, such virtues remain an option.
I continued to scroll through a list of potential one-night husbands when my mobile rang. The word Judy appeared on the screen. I hesitated for a moment. Answering it would only lead to trouble. I was weak. I'd just finished my entire 'french dinner" and without any electronic suitors oozing through my pc, I was on a one-way trip to a town called Boredom which if I answered Judy's call, would lead further to that city called Disaster; a place I'd been to with Judy many times. The trouble with Disaster is that it is always so much fun. I took the call.
Me: Hi doll
There was blearing music coming down the phone
Judy (screaming): Doll come to Manacle.
Me: No doll
Judy: Come on doll. I'm here with Trev
Me: Really? Are there many there?
I hadn't been to Manacle since its re-opening where they had three barmen on for about 400 people.
Judy: Yeah it's packed.
Me: Is it possible to get a drink before Tuesday?
Hi Doll it's Trev.
Trev had snatched the phone.
Trev: Doll you've got to come down and help me
Me: What do you mean?
Trev: It's Judy. I think he's been drinking petrol. He's got that look in his eyes.
We all know that look. Judy after about 12 vodkas, starts to appear as if some body has opened the top of his head and poured a jug of water in. His eyes bumble around like dead gold fish and he starts to sway as if he is on a boat.
Trev: He's had about 8 vodka and sodas in 45 mins. I can't keep up.
It seemed like an emergency, I had to go.
Me: I'll be there in five.
I didn't realise what I was wearing until I got to the leatherman on the door. A lightweight FCUK white knit with dusty blue genes and white joggers. I looked more like an aerobics instructor than a leatherman. Mr Leather didn't flinch though and let me straight into Manacle which is located in the back bar of The Clarence Hotel……and is completely without light. Apart from the bar, the rest of the area was like your local cemetery at midnight. Yes leather bars are supposed to be dark and dirty but this was more like solitary confinement. People were bumping into each other, striking up conversations with inanimate objects and were generally just lost due to the lack of visibility. I was the only person wearing white so it was easy for Trev to spot me. Otherwise, I would have had to go back to my car to get a torch.
Trev: hi doll
Judy: Colin!!!
Me: Hiya
Trev: Welcome to Mortischa's den.
Me: Yeah what's the story?
Trev: They're trying to save their Carbon footprint
Me: I think they've chopped their foot right off.
Judy: Colin I'm buying you a drink.
Judy careered off into the darkness.
Me: He'll never find us
Trev: Doll in that outfit, you're the local lighthouse. He can't miss you.
We continued to chat although it was difficult to hear over the loud music. We were feeling more and more like blind deaf mutes. Hear no evil, see no evil, and speak no evil. Mind you Trev and I were used to it……we'd spent half our lives in such an environment. We both hate the quiet.
Me: Where's Bernice?
Trev: On his way.
Me: Where is he?
Trev: On a date….someone he met at Ken's
Me: A sauna date?
Trev: Ya
Me: How 80s
The music was fantastic. Manacle always gets the best DJs; some great 80s mix house was being spun. It was the best way to get ya toes tapping….or crashing. The sound of schooners hitting the cement floor was quite frequent as people kept misplacing volumes of darkness for bar tables. And then there was Diabetic Dancer.
Some people just shouldn't be allowed to dance regardless of whether a dance hall is lit or not. Diabetic Dancer was a perfect case in point. A rather large man, Diabetic Dancer was blessed with the ambition of Madonna but sadly cursed with the movement skills of a hippopotamus. There were hands up in the air waving and legs kicking together with random widespread catatonic movements across unmapped and unlit floor space. It was Bollywood on crack. As a result not one person was spared the hulk and the sweat glands of Diabetic Dancer's 130 kilo frame. He'd collide with you like a wave; the first part of him smashing against you, as you braced yourself for the rest of him to arrive. It was very similar to being a rock on the beach …except without the sun or the antiperspirance.
Me: Do you think he's taken something?
Trev: Too much insulin?
Judy still wasn't back. Either he was lost, picked up or had forgotten. He was probably giving all three options a go. As soon as Diabetic Dancer took a rest to drink ten litres of beer, Trev decided to launch a search party for Judy.
Me: Don't leave me
Trev: What?
Me: Diabetic Dancer may mistake me for a Cornetto and eat me
Trev: In that top, more like a tub of ice cream
Me: Thanks
Trev: Wish me luck doll.
I hate not being able to smoke inside anymore. There is nothing to do when one is at a loose end. In the yee old worldy smoking days, at least when one was waiting for a friend or something to happen, one could simply light a chuffer and one could appear as if one was happily content to be on one's own. Now the only "I'm cool on my own" device is the mobile phone, which doesn't have the same cool factor attached. Continually looking at one's mobile phone is really akin to continually checking the time waiting for your pretend friend to arrive. It doesn't come across cool; it comes across desperate. Still, I was standing in the dark in a light weight white knit…..it was a little difficult to avoid desperation.
"Colin is that you?" A voice came out of the darkness.
Me: Trev?
"It's Bernice."
Bernice being black, all I could see were teeth
Bernice: Where are the lights? It's like being down a coal mine.
Me: I know
Bernice: Thank god you are wearing white.
Me: Judy went to the bar to get us drinks about three days ago. So Trev has gone to find him.
I flipped up my phone to see if it really was Bernice and not a pole. It was definitely him. We discussed décor and the importance of backlighting in such a venue…..even the pool table was in darkness. There were people playing pool in the dark. ?
Bernice seemed a little traumatised from his sauna date. The guy was a healer and was quite keen to heal Bernice again. I think Bernice was starting to regret that he was ever healed in the first place.
Bernice: I just couldn't do it.
Me: What was wrong with him.
Bernice: He was just too nerdy.
Me: He obviously worked for you at Ken's.
Bernice: Yeah I know it was hot.
Me: But now you have post-sauna-sex-regret-syndrome.
Bernice: What?
Me: Post-sauna-sex-regret-syndrome: the reason you should never date someone from a sauna.
Bernice: What do you mean?
Me: The sauna hook up never lives up to the real world. It's an isolated moment of sexual intensity that can never be replicated on the outside.
Bernice: How much have u had to drink?
Me: They are either not pretty enough, dull or missing a part of their face.
Bernice: I met G in a sauna
Me: And look how well that worked out.
Bernice: And you met D in a sauna.
Me: The most disastrous relationship of my life. Need I say more.
Judy: Colin!
Me: Here we go….back from the wild.
Judy swayed his way back through the crowd wearing half the beers he’d bought us. Trevor was bringing up the rear wearing the other half.
Judy: Who would have guessed?
When Judy gets beyond drunk, he resorts to 6 phrases:
1.Who would have guessed?
2. Apparently
3. Are you mad?
4. Hilarious
5. Woo!
6. Wee!
And he intersperses them into any conversation regardless of what is actually being said or asked. It's like a set recording. This can prove interesting, when people who haven’t experienced Judy drunk, try to participate in conversation with him.
Out of the darkness came an old nightclub colleague of mine, A. I knew A from my Brisbane days and he's always coming out of the darkness. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in daylight. He works part-time these days. He did pretty well out of property in the 90s and spends most of his time having a good time; half his luck. He’s in his mid-forties and for some reason, it is only this year that I've started to realize that he's definitely got it 'going on'. We had a moment on that dance floor at Arq a couple of months ago and I wasn't cocky enough to act on it. This time I was up for some cockiness.
Me: Hey A
A: Hey how are you? Has someone forgotten to pay the electricity bill?
Me: We're dancing in the dark just the way Bruce Springsteen taught us
Trev: Well the 80s are back in after-all
Me : A this is Trev….
I continued to introduce Bernice and Judy to A.
Judy: Hilarious!
A: Nice to meet you
Judy: Who would have guessed
Bernice: Hey mate how are you. I think we've met before….last week at phoenix?
A: Did we? Was I at Phoenix last week?
Judy: Woo!
Bernice: Yes at the dayclub
Judy: Wee!
A: That's why I can't remember
Judy: Who would have guessed
A: Everyone right for drinks?
Judy: Are you mad?
Me: Don't mind him. I'll come help you with the drinks.
Judy: Hilarious.
A: Is he alright?
Me: He's just having an alcoholic stroke….he has one every three weeks.
We left Trev and Bernice to Judy with his wooing and weeing and made our way through the valley of darkness to the light at the end of tunnel; the bar. I began to realize why perhaps the rest of the club was in darkness when I saw the state of the clientele at the bar. They weren't pretty to say the least although I shouldn't be mean, fluorescence can be such an unforgiving light. It certainly was Saturday night.
Like the Manacle opening in May, there seemed to be two bar staff on for what sounded like (obviously I couldn't see) about 300 people. I was hanging for a decent drink considering Judy was wearing most of my last one. A and I were being nicely touchy feely talking about hot air when I heard my manhunt profile screamed out over the bar. I decided I was hearing things and continued talking to A until I felt this paw on my shoulder.
"Hello neighbour!"
I looked around. It was Diabetic Dancer.
Diabetic Dancer: Sorry we didn't hook up the other night but I was really tired.
Alan looked at me with a smirk. I swallowed my tongue. What?
Me: Sorry?
Diabetic Dancer: Yeah on Wednesday night…on manhunt…we've chatted for a few weeks. I'm tiptopmate.
Me: Oh
A released all his touchiness and went to the bar leaving me to it. At first I didn't believe it. Not even the profile name rang a bell. He must have confused me with someone else. Or had I hit the turps so badly one night that I'd forgotten I'd placed an order for his cocktails?
Me : I'm sorry…I don't recall…
Diabetic Dancer: Yeah I live down near the park near your street. I'm the drug and alcohol counseller.
The drug and alcohol counseller? The one with pics of his muscle furry chest and nice stocky body? The one in his footy shorts? The one who runs 6 ks daily?
Me: Oh …Travis?
As already mentioned; Travis was huge. It was like he'd been sunk into a giant sponge cake since his manhunt pics were taken.
Diabetic Dancer: Yeah that's me. I broke my ankle earlier this year and put on a bit of weight.
I repeat, an entire sponge cake.
Me: It seems to be better now.
Diabetic Dancer: Oh…do u think I've lost weight?
Me: No I mean your ankle….you're obviously dancing ok.
Diabetic Dancer: So you don't think I've lost weight?
He was sweating for Africa and was wearing what appeared to be a seersucker tablecloth.
Me: Well this is the first time I've met you. How could I tell if you have lost weight?
A arrived back with the drinks and I wanted to drink all of them.
Diabetic Dancer: Ooo I love this song. I'm gonna dance. If you're up for a booty call later on, you've got my number.
He smacked a big slimy kiss on my lips. I winced.I felt like Doris Day Professional Virgin when she discovered that Cary Grant had booked the honeymoon suite in That Touch of Mink.
A: Looks promising
ME: Shut up. Where's my drink?
I watched Diabetic Dancer gesticulate his way back into the centre of darkness. A guy who can dance like a speed-obsessed munchkin and wear seersucker is someone worth knowing me thinks….if not purely for entertainment of the non-booty call kind. He was soon joined by the equally flamboyant moves of three other equally flamboyant figures waving their hands and legs around in the dark. Judy and Bernice dragged Diabetic Dancer into their routine and Trev placed an abandoned cowboy hat on his head. Who needs manhunt when you have friends like these. I felt A's strong forearm brush up against mine. He gave me another smirk. I smirked back. Game on. I downed my drink, took his hand and dragged him onto the dance floor.
…….you cant start a fire,
you cant start a fire without a spark
This guns for hire......
even if we're just dancing in the dark....
...aha...
C
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