Glutbusters

Friday Question

Are Bono and Elvis Costello becoming the same person?

You decide.

Thanks to my auntie Louise for this one.

A Thousand Words

This is a photo from a South African court room after the white blokes pictured were cleared of the murder of a black farmhand. They were fined $1740 for assault. They are relieved, yes. But it's the level look of suspicion from the guy in the centre that the money's on for mine. He reckons that justice hasn't been done, but there's not a damn thing he can do about it. And so it goes.

Image-ination

A triptych of photos that have tickled my fancy of late:

Mary and Frederik's son Christian on his first birthday. Finally, some famous people with a genuinely cute child. (David Boreanaz, I'm looking at you with your ugly little creature).

Tackiest. Brownlow effort. Ever. And that's saying something.

Martha Plimpton and Jennifer Ehle in rehearsals in New York for Tom Stoppard's epic The Coast of Utopia. Excuse me while I change my trousers.

Our Hearts Go Out...

You know, there are some terrible tragedies in today's world. From the genocide in Darfur, to an Iraq War death toll in the hundreds of thousands, to the systematic abuse of women in Papua New Guinea.

But spare a thought for Tara Reid, whose botched boob job sent paramours clamouring for the light switch, whose confidence plummeted so low that she couldn't even wear a bikini, and who was "devastated" when magazines rated her cosmetic surgery among the world's worst.

"This was a nightmare I lived through".

Stop Press

Good to see The Age is using new technologies for the cutting-edge delivery of news services.

Hands up who cares?

Satire My Arse

So The Chaser have got themselves another headline.

Honestly, what a rubbish prank. So they concocted a couple of names that sound like Al Qaeda and Terrorist and got Virgin to call them over the airport PA. Whoop-dee-fucking-doo.

It doesn't prove anything, doesn't show anything, doesn't reveal anything, doesn't comment on anything. It's not clever, nor is it particularly original. Basically, it is as far from satire as it gets. The extent of the gag is coming up with the names. That's it. The only difference between this and a year nine joke is that these guys have the money to book the tickets and take it a bit further.

If it had have sparked a nationwide security alert, maybe, MAYBE, it would be worth something. I love a good laugh as much as the next person, but this does little but demonstrate that airlines etc aren't as stupid as The Chaser boys would like to think (or hope), and that Chas et al are a pack of media tarts.

Keep Thumbs Intact

You may know about IsNot Magazine, a magazine printed on big pieces of paper and stuck up around town (Melbourne town, for overseas and interstate readers). It is run by, among others, Mel.

What you may not know (I didn't), is that these parties that they throw every so often are not just put on because the IsNot folks are fun-lovin' people in the Steve Rubell mould, taken to regular and wanton acts of uncontrollable bonhomie, but because they are the main means of funding the magazine.

So come along to Backstage (cnr Russell & Lt Collins Streets in Melbourne, upstairs) this Friday 18 August, and put $10 in the little jar (more if you're feeling particularly generous - though you might want to save a little for the Salvos at the G on Sunday for Melbourne v North). That will keep the wolf from the door for their next edition or so. And will placate the poster distribution people who want their money and I hear are shady and have Italian names (IF YOU GET MY DRIFT - I CAN SAY THAT BECAUSE I AM ONE MYSELF).

Here is the flyer.

The theme is "Last Night At Holiday Camp". I don't know what the hell that means. Perhaps I am not cool enough. I assure you that most there will be somewhat cooler than me. As an added bonus for Law & Order fans (there is no shame, join us), DJ D'Onofrio will be playing (he has criminal intent). If that doesn't sell it, I don't know what will.

Sticking It To The Man

It doesn't happen very often that one gets one over a major company just by complaining through their online complaints form. But to everyone out there who's ever lost music purchased from the iTunes Music Store, there may yet be hope. Check out my little war of words with Apple below the fold.

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Not At All Cool

It's not very cool to not like Big Brother. It's very easy, in fact, to be made to feel like some humourless irony-free, pro-censorship friend-of-Helen-Coonan's if you speak out against it.

But I really, really don't like Big Brother. For mine, a show that imprisons people and controls their environment to put them under unspeakable pressure so that they reveal the very worst of their personalities to entertain us, well, just feels somehow wrong.

I know it's capable of producing lovely moments. By all reports the reunion of David and his boyfriend was very moving. And having lots of people cheering the gays is certainly a wonderful thing. But I don't think that's enough to make up for what we do to these people.

I know that Gretel is a very talented host. I have in the past admired the way she is in complete control of the post-eviction interviews. And to make that much on-air time even vaguely entertaining is quite an enormous achievement. Well done to her. Still not enough.

I know that many claim some sort of academic distance - "I enjoy this not as base entertainment but as sociological study" - as if this somehow removes them from the orbit of the loudly baying, furiously texting bogans that drive ratings up. As if academic appreciation means that they are no longer complicit in the uglier aspects of the show.

It does not.

And I know the housemates are usually stupid - I don't think that makes them fair game. It has a bit of the old roman gladiator thing about it: these folks were unfortunate enough to be born as slaves, so let's make them fight in a ring for our viewing pleasure. I can't help but wonder if entertainment based around the exploitation of the less fortunate (because they're stupid) doesn't somehow make us worse as a society. Because it's basically The Running Man with fewer wisecracks.

So I'll say it once, and I'll say it loud. I don't like Big Brother. I'm glad it's over for another year. I hope it doesn't come back.

Judge me if you must.

A Lovely Story

Finally I get around to uploading the Two Of Us I mentioned in the sidebar. Viewing the big version of it on flickr should make it readable.

Enjoy. Cry.

Gutless Wonders

By now we've all seen Warnie in his nude romp with a couple of models, captured nicely by the News Of The World overnight.

Sure, it's smutty. But I have a certain grudging respect for publications that are so baldly open about their smuttiness. The first time I opened up The Sun to page three, I was frankly shocked and more than a little thrilled to see Simone from Somerset (who is studying economics and loves going dancing with her girlfriends) smiling back at me, Venutis proudly on show. "Hello there," she seemed to be saying. "You seem like a nice fella. How do you like the look of my knockers?"

But it was honest. "If you want tits, lads, here they are."

So, editorial staff at The Age, don't treat us as morons by trying to pass the Warne story off as "news". I know, you saw a brilliant yarn, complete with tits, and wanted in. But your self-righteousness wouldn't allow you to simply run the story - it's little more than a tawdry piece of tabloid entrapment and you know it. So you tried to dress it up as some sort of commentary on the vapidity of the English press.

"Another sex story has appeared in the British tabloids." (Filthy bastards - but check out the photos!)"

"Pictures in Sunday's edition of the tabloid News of the World show Warne and two 25-year-old models involved in sexual positions with a blow up toy." (Tabloid! They don't have Michelle Grattan! But phwoar! That's the biggest rubber cock we've ever seen!)

"One of the models, Coralie Eiccholtz, has known Warne for a few years." (Dirty English tart. You should be reading Ross Gittins intead. But before you do, check her norgs!)

If you want to show tits, Andrew Jaspan, just show tits. I will judge you accordingly (and probably enjoy it just a little bit). But don't treat me as an idiot by dressing it up as news. It's pretentious and condescending and insulting.

Logies Wrap-Up

Mutton dressed as trussed ham, anyone?

Enjoy it while it lasts, boys. In the words of Tim Winton: "I can't believe Mark Holden got the opportunity to be mediocre twice".

Dude, not even she believes you're straight.

"Please. Help me. He only lets me out once a year. Please!"

"I know, honey. I can't believe we're both still alive either."

"Impossibly beautiful? Me? Noooo."

It's actually not possible for a human being to be any more wholesome.

"Excuse me, I think there are two bald men imprisoned in your frock."

AAAAAHH!! Who the HELL keeps inviting her?

10 Points For Effort

It's not at all original for one to write about spam they have received from Constance R Platitudes or whoever. Normally these fabulously-named types merely provide a list of drugs (what the hell is Cialis, by the way?) or software. No flair, no imagination. No panache.

But when you receive this...

...how can you resist?

That's right. It's the Ninja Turtles' arch-nemesis Shredder giving it to white-socked Channel 6 reporter April O'Neil. With the mask on. Kinky bastard.

Where's The Beef?

The meat, as they say, is in the subtext.

Michael Leunig is angry that his work has been appropriated and entered in a competition to find the best Holocaust cartoons. He never intended for his work to be used in this way. How that is different to Leunig juxtaposing (someone else's) 50s-style photographs of blissfully happy couples with blank speech and thought balloons to comment on the emptiness of contemporary existence, I'm not sure. I can only imagine his frustration that once his work is published he is unable to dictate EXACTLY HOW IT MUST BE READ.

Still, he's upset. So upset that he wrote perhaps one of the most self-indulgent and condescending op-ed pieces I've read in a while. Modestly entitled "Amid the pain, God puts his hand on my shoulder". God is with him, apparently, as ibises flutter in gum trees and kettles boil in rural homesteads. How earthy. Yet spiritual. Us city folk with empty lives have no idea what we're missing out on. (ie Enlightenment you latte-sipping imbecile).

But the kicker was Michael Gawenda's slapdown piece today, where he has a crack at Leunig for playing the victim and neglecting to condem the "racist exercise" that is the cartoon competition and, amidst other things, suggests that Leunig, as the highest-paid cartoonist (or even journalist) in the country, should pretty much just get over it.

There's a fair bit of distaste bubbling away between the lines of Gawenda's piece. Dropping in the fact that Leunig is extraordinarily well-paid is a particularly dirty trick. It plants in the public mind the idea that Leunig gets paid an obscene amount of money, thus shouldn't whinge so much. And suggests that maybe Gawenda's not all that keen on Leunig? Or has clashed with him in the past? Or was bent over by him in contract negotiations?

I await Leunig's response. I love a media bitch-fight.

Subbies Of The World Unite

Headline of the week (from The Age):

I'll take Hilary Duff, please. Sassy little tart.

Come On Guys, Please

I tell you, amateur theatre is a tough gig. People tend to think of talentless hacks poncing around in an interpretive dance-type arrangement, or lots of nudity (not the good kind), or turgid "explorations of love and loss". Yawn.

In reality, we work our tits off to give you a professional show on a shoestring budget. Sometimes we succeed. Every time one of us does, it's another step towards showing the public that amateur theatre has a shitload to offer.

But every time someone goes with a promo shot like this:

It's about FIFTY STEPS BACK!!

Could you possibly look any more like tossers? Could your production of "Rent" - about AIDS and homophobia and DYING FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!! - appear any less "edgy"(TM)? Was the blue Artful Dodger cap a good idea in hindsight? Is that a serious facial expression from the guy on the far right, or is he just taking the piss?

I'm sure you do good work, Stella Entertainment. But please, spare a thought for the rest of us down here in the trenches.

Strike Two

And The Age has done it again. After flogging off its front and back pages to Richard Branson on Thursday, Friday brought this horrendously insensitive juxtaposition of article and ad:

"The bad news, mate, is that they're going to hang you. But we saved a packet on the flight over here!"

(Thanks to Sarah for the heads-up and the image).

Don't Believe A Word Of It

The Age website today would have you believe that this was the front page of the print edition:

That is, in fact, a lie.

The front page of the print edition was part of a four page wraparound ad for the new frequent flyer program of that airline owned by that swine who has made billions of pounds sterling convincing the punters he's on their side while skinning them for profits.

I know newspapers rely on ads to turn a buck, but come on...

Get Your Rants On

There are few publications, print or otherwise, that I loathe as much as MX. The sight of hundreds of people gleefully picking up their copy ("Awesome, a free newspaper, how generous. Now, what shall I consume next?") for their train/tram ride home makes me want to somehow obtain a job lot of cheap, readable paperbacks (I don't know, Dickens or Tim Winton or something that rollicks along - nothing too heavy) and stand by the little MX dispensers saying "no, don't take that, take this. It'll respect you in the morning". Unfortunately the lure of a double page spread on Lindsay Lohan's tits is too much to resist for most (including, sadly, me).

But there's plenty of shit out there (I got a free subscription to The Bulletin - yawn) why spit such vitriol at MX?

Because it is shamelessly a dumbed-down version of the Herald-Sun. Let me say that again, it derives its content from a newspaper that already appeals to the worst elements of human nature with techniques of generalisation, jingoism and straight-out selfishness, but DUMBED DOWN. And it doesn't even have the (mostly shonky but occasionally bold) journalistic ethos of the Hun.

Because it demonstrates our willingness to consume what is little more than advertising, just because it's free.

Because it is able to blithely report, say, the death of 10,000 (admittedly brown) people in a landslide in India, or another 3,000,000 Africans infected with AIDS, in a sidebar entitled DOOM AND GLOOM.

Because over the page from Doom and Gloom is BORING BUT IMPORTANT, a handy little sidebar precis of such sleep-inducing events as the election of a new Bulgarian Prime Minister, or a coup in Latin America. A tacet perpetuation of the idea that, sure, things are going on around the world, but you don't really need to worry about it as long as you have A NEW TV (see full-page Megamart ad, opposite).

Because it has the nerve to describe itself as "concise, upbeat, intelligent and sexy". Read: "able to be read on the train while texting and eavesdropping on the conversation across the way, no bad news (because there isn't any, really, when you think about it), covering Europe in a paragraph, and heaps of tittie. (Celebrity tittie if you're lucky)."

And because we seem to love it.

A Rhyme For Every Occasion

I love poetry. Seriously. Love the stuff. Pulled a pint for Seamus Heaney in Dublin (then he nicked a glass, but that's another story). But I've always had an issue with the whole poetry thing. 'Cause it just sits there, doesn't it? In books, or that little corner in The Weekend Australian. It never does anything. I guess what I'm trying to say, is that poetry is nice and all, but it's ultimately useless.

Until now.

In the course of research for my day job (don't ask), I stumbled across i-do.com.au, "Australia's leading wedding website". And if that wasn't inspiration enough, through it I encountered a poet not only in touch with the magic of the English language, but its until-now-untapped utilitarianism in the context of arranging a wedding.

I give you:

Alison Styles of "Styles of Writing" (clever!).

Let's have a look at some of Alison's work.

We all love wedding food. But some of us have dietary restrictions that preclude us from enjoying certain culinary delights. For example, you've invited your colleague Mohammed to your special day but no-one told you that he was a Muslim. And even if they did - halal? Faux pas! Fortunately, Alison is on hand with a handy little stanza:

Taste in food can vary.
We'd like to feed you well...
so if you have a special need,
send a note and tell!

Phew.

You know the trials of planning a big do. Who to invite? Or, more pressing, who to exclude? The last thing you want are those cretins who you wouldn't want within a mile of your party finding out about it. After all, cretins have feelings too. But how to tell the lucky invitees that there is to be a cone of silence over party discussions? Alison has the answer:

Reception will be intimate.
Not many will attend -
So please don't speak of being there
as others - may offend!

What a woman. She even has a verse on hand for getting rid of the kids:

Bring children to our wedding -
We'd love them on the scene!
Reception time however
is an adult only theme.

Also handy if one plans excessive drug use, nudity, or wife-swapping for the after-dark hours.

But what's really great about Alison is that, being a poet for the ages, she knows when to break the rules. You will have noted her slavish devotion to the meter. It is, you could say, her trademark. And what lengths she will go to to preserve the structure of her work, yet honour her muse. Running a little over in the following request to keep gifts modest, she will not dishonour her craft with a slack rhyme or an inferior phrase. No, she thinks outside the poetic box and DOES AWAY WITH ALL PRONOUNS, DIRECT OR OTHERWISE!

The day we've planned is loving,
though casual theme have sought -
If gift must bring - keep simple...
whether made, or whether bought.

Brilliant!

Your slack moll soon-to-be-ex-best-friend dragging her feet on her bridesmaid's dress?

As best friend - you I want.
Don't meet this with a frown.
I've sent you samples - helpful friends -
to groom a bridesmaid gown...
This wedding day will be here soon -
Don't bring my smile down.

Or are you an enormous tight-arse who would prefer your guests to pay their own way on your magical day?

Gifts are simply not a-fair
as for our wedding day -
we ask instead you post a-fare...
and this, for cruise, will stow away!

(The reception's on a cruise, get it? Thus the nautical theme. Note also the cunning rhyme of "fair" with its homonym "fare". Note also that the amount requested was $12. Twelve. Dollars.)

And finally, the curly area of presents (NB Can be rhymed artfully with "presence" and worked into a thankyou note).

What to do if you haven't yet established the marital home, and storage is at a premium? Why, ask your guests to give you gift vouchers! But how to do it delicately?

Our current home is temporary.
We're needing all our space...
Loving now the present thought
of vouchers Myer/Grace!

Why didn't I think of that? Or, sick and tired of receiving the same old whitegoods and crockery from the same old bridal registries? Solution: cash. Initiate a "Money Tree" (yeah, doesn't sound quite so crass like that, does it?). Remove any subjectivity and value your friends based on a simple cash figure. Here's my favourite (and there are many, many more - it seems this is a raging issue in bridal circles).

Love the joy of choosing gifts?
Wrap the chosen captive?
If thoughts elude in this regard
... money is attractive!

Yes. Yes, it is.

So. Poets. Indeed, anyone out there who smiths the word to make a living. Think long and hard about what you're doing. Because no longer is it enough to merely arrange your words so they sound nice and leave them to rot on the pages of some "book". No, Alison's raised the bar for all of you. Now, like the architecture of the etymological world, your words must do something. Because if they don't, what good are they?

How Happy Am I?

Answer: Pretty fucken stoked.

I lived in a hole for 47 days with a bag on my head thinking that I was only moments away from being shot / tortured / beheaded by those arseholes. I seriously thought I was going to die there. Honest. I thought that I would never see my family and friends ever again. Check me out. If I'm not the most miserable motherfucker you've very seen, then you must have seen the Tom Cruise Oprah special.

Yeah, you got it. Live with THAT for 47 days and see how hunky-dory you're feeling.

And now look at me! I'm back, baby! I am almost certainly mentally unstable, but damn it, all I want to do is knock back a glass of red or two, stick it to the wife...

(hot bird, eh?) ...then get down and see the Catters!

Up the pussies!

Yeeaaaaahh! How good is this! I'd like to thank everyone in the Australian government. Mr Howard, you're a brick. AD, man, you're my home-boy. All of you, you army dudes, wherever you're from, you did a bang-up job. I love you, Australia. For you guys to work so hard to get me home... wow! And all for a little guy who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But this is the Australia I love, you know? The Australia that stands up for what's right and'll bend over backwards to help a fellow digger.

You guys rock!

Confused about what you're doing for this guy, though.

Cheers,
Doug

Everybody's In The House

At the pub the other night, the fearless captain of my hard-as-nails indoor soccer team raised a very pertinent question: "did all those families in those 80s American sitcoms have two-storey houses?"

Damn it, I was intrigued, so I did a little research and discovered that his suspicions were only too well-founded. Indeed, all those families in those 80s sitcoms had two-storey houses.

wtf? Was there some imperative of early 80s American urban planning that I missed? A government directive that all houses should be built large enough to accommodate a hilarious mix of uncles, aunts, grandmothers and irritating neighbours, yet require only one or two sets to be adequately represented dramatically? Apparently so.

Think about it. Full House (with the theme that goes: everywhere you look (backing vocals: everywhere you look), there's a heart (there's a heart), a hand to hold on to). Huge house. Ground floor: enormous lounge, big open plan kitchen. First floor: bedrooms for the girls (two - from what I remember, DJ and Stephanie shared, and Michelle had her nursery), and obviously one for good-old Danny Tanner. Attic: enough room for Uncle Jesse (last seen playing bongos in the Beach Boys' "Kokomo" video) his hot wife Becky, and a rad blue neon kind of wall decoration. And basement: Uncle Joey's teenage-boy's-wet-dream room, with comic posters and maybe even a pinball machine (but free! You don't have to put coins in it or anything!) (Out of interest, did you know that Dave Coulier, who played Uncle Joey, is reportedly the target of Alanis Morissette's number one smash "You Oughta Know"?)

Growing Pains (Show me that smile again (oh, show me that smile), don't waste another minute on your crying): house big enough to accommodate the kids, Dr Seaver's obviously extremely lucrative psychiatry practice (yet not so successful that it required him to actually WORK during the day), and that room over the garage that Mike moved into in later series.

Perfect Strangers (Standing tall, on the wings of my dreams). For a burgeoning photojournalist, Cousin Larry sure had a sweet pad.

Family Ties (What would we do, baby, without us? Sha-la-la-laaaaa. And that theme seriously cooks along - check the funky guitar line). Cavernous interior. Dozens of rooms. (And well and good, because judging by the glint in Elyse's eye in that second photo, Steve had his work cut out for him in the bedroom).

Family Matters (It's a rare condition, in this day and age, to read any good news, on the newspaper page): huge family, huge Dad, huge house. Interesting that Jaleel White didn't go onto bigger and better things.

Charles in Charge (Charles in charge, of our days, and our nights): didn't it have like a mezzanine arrangement? Some sort of raised walkway over the living room?

The Golden Girls (Thankyou for being a friend): I hope to GOD they had a bedroom each. (Except Blanche. She was kind of sexy. I could see her hooking up from time to time with one of the other ladies. Just when they were lonely and a bit drunk and she needed a back rub and gee, is it hot in here?)

And last but certainly not least, The Cosby Show (no lyrics, just a seriously funky calypso/latin theme with wacky Bill and the gang dancing in garishly-coloured knit sweaters). A monster of a house, where you actually went DOWNSTAIRS upon entering the front door.

So yeah. In conclusion: big houses. More interesting conclusion: if you want to be a successful actor, don't star in an 80s sitcom. But a heaps more interesting conclusion than both of those: cool theme songs. Someone kicking around LA in the 80s had a gift for catchy melodies and memorable yet wholesome lyrics. Check 'em out.

Ways To Lose Your Job: #1

When I see stuff like this, it makes me wish I was 14 again.

That's Jessica Biel from TV's 7th Heaven. And if we just ignore the fact that she's SITTING IN A BASIN, we can appreciate the seriously twisted sense of logic that dictated to Jessica that getting her tits out in a men's magazine was sufficiently aberrant to 7th Heaven's super-nice image that the show would release her from her contract, freeing her up to pursue a glittering film career with BFI Top 100 films like Summer Catch with Freddie Prinze Jr. Character name: Tenley Parrish. Make of that what you will.

I always wondered about that show, anyway. I could never quite put my finger on it, but they were all so freakin' kind and religious that I figured some seriously sordid shit must have gone on behind closed doors. Like maybe the Mum liked getting it up the arse from the Rev, or those nasty-looking brothers had a penchant for swapsies a la the St Kilda Football club.

The point is, though, as a young lad you spend your life panting at hot chicks on the telly, hoping that one day, you know, if you play your cards right, and you're both stuck in a lift, and it's REALLY hot in there, and you shoot her that killer look, you might get to see her boobs. Well, don't lose faith kids, cause dreams really do come true.

Ugly On The Inside

I, along with others, have made no secret of my disdain for Lawrence Money and Suzanne Carbone's daily Diary yawn-fest in The Age. No less worthy of disdain is Mik Grigg's Spy2 page in the Sunday version, a roundup (with photos) of the dazzling premiers and glittering openings graced with the presence of Melbourne's toothiest young post-private-schoolers. Why The Age thinks anyone actually gives a shit about the champagne-soaked exploits of pastels like Paige, Ellie, Hollie and Annabelle ("no, it's with two Ls and an E. Omigod!"), I have no idea. Frankly, I could care less.

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