Dear Catastrophe Universe

Gee, being one of the longterm unemployed sure is a giggle.

2009-08-23T21:30:00.000-07:00

So today is just like every other day I've had for the past few months. At first I start out all optimistic and dreamy about my future and then whomp, there goes the day and I've applied for another 15 jobs and it all seems too bleak, too bleak. It's only 2:30 as I start to write this but that's not the issue, it's that I'm completely and totally unmotivated to do anything that I should want to. It's a strange thing, because I've become addicted to all of the modern technological amenities that make a full life easier, without actually having a full life.

Before I just used to cruise along with my friends and find things to do with my life based on the incessant call of my mobile. Then, tragically, fiscal responsibility and the inability to keep up with it all. So now I spend the day looking at photos of people who I wish I was, rather than actually taking steps to achieve anything at all. You have to wonder what's making me so damn unhappy. The worst thing is that I can't even afford to see my GP to get a referral to a new psych. Trouble.

I weigh 90 kilos now, which is something I'm thoroughly miserable about. I think it's a new low for modern times.

And when I strip away all of the layers of impossibility it all comes down to a single, shiny, pointy brass tack. I want to make people happy with what I do, and I want to make me happy, I just seem to be at a bit of a low ebb in terms of winning that race.

A Quiet Resurrection (Of Sorts)

2009-08-16T07:01:00.000-07:00

It's a strange thing. That when I started my relationship, I stopped writing. I think that I must have felt as though I was cheating on him with my journal. Now, of course, I know better. I've learnt that a mutinous thought is just that; a thought, and that we must move on regardless. And writing was the thing that reminded me of the pace. I could look back and see how much had been, how much I'd missed, and what was waiting to be grabbed.

I think I've slipped into a world which lacks a temporal framework. Since I saw you last, I've quit a 'good' graduate job (which was, in fact, very good for other people and I wish them all the best) to see what's going on in my crazy noggin. It turns out I wasn't very well. And it also turns out that my ugly habit of attempting to please everyone at once reared its form just in time for me to forget myself. So here we are, at the very start. Trying to remember. And then I think I might try to get myself some structure, and write something sustained. A long-term aspiration which has been in the long-term too-hard-basket for too long, methinks. So nothing crazy, just baby steps. And a reminder of all of the things that have happened since I lost my creative mojo.

- The Americans have a black President
- The Iranians have exactly the same guy
- We have a man with a tongue like a lizard as our Prime Minister
- Leigh Sales has mostly replaced Tony Jones as host of Lateline (critical importance)
- My dog died, and my mother overcomphensated by getting me two Collies.

Let's see how we go, then.

Creative Writing Exercises

2007-07-22T18:54:00.000-07:00

These are all from semester one this year, from the creative writing class I dropped (because I thought it was trite and uninteresting. Yes, I am exactly that pretentious). None of the titles are mine (though I invented a lot of the subtitles), they came from the text book. I had to write the responses. And I did my very best. I hope you like them. If you don't, then that's swell too.

5/3/07 Response to a painting
She leant and grasped at the place where no child would scream, and the drought was inside her, though the roof of the world had split and spilled around her. Cracked earth in her belly contracted and swelled with a low, dull ache. Her mouth closed against the tempest, she turns her back to it and gulps below the blackness of cloud.

He sat smothered by a tyranny of water. The holes in the river whispered with open mouths of sanctuary. An offer of stillness. He opened his arms and held the rain.

What was breaking had broken. All lost. They kept on.

Loving Hitler
A symphony for Eva Braun definitely not composed by Wagner

Oh Eva
Will you ever
Notice Me?

I would do
Anything
for your pleasure.

I will give you
coloured jewels
or a country
maybe Poland

Oh Eva
Will you Ever
Notice me?

I would annex
I would solve
who needs friends
when you have genocides like there?
and you
I would have you
Oh, Eva.

Woman to Man
if you can call us those

Where are you, pretty thing
your head in bowls of Roses
your presence so slight
I fear you'll float away

Talk of tying down
could only push you further
from the ground
from my arms
into wispy clouds of vague

Your parallel a shadow
a quiet nighttime walk
with you and your ghosts
a stroll with memory
cooled by time

You asked if you could hold me
you didn't say how long.

A Child's Essay about the Sea
The sea is vast. Vast means almost endless, I think, and endless is the biggest kind of big there is. Bigger than huger than giant. That's the sea. I walked into it once, the almost endless sea. A strange thing happened, thought, the water lapped at my ankled like a tongue, and my feet began to sink. I stared out at the sea for a very long time, and I thought of what would happen if I stayed. I wondered if the sea was trying to swallow me because it was lonely. It wants us all. It wants us all inside it, I should think.

I thought of it a little. I thought of joining the sea. Of sunken ships and giant squid and smiling sharks. So then I believed that there may be no room for me there, and that it may be trying to trick me. The sea is as full as it is empty, and it is vast.

The End

So that's them.

And it made me think that I want a lover with a soul like the bottom of the ocean. Cool, and dark and still. And occasionally visited by James Cameron.

Any writer who doesn't give big ups to Baz Luhrmann and Craig Pearce can bite me. Hard.

2007-06-22T04:41:00.000-07:00

So I just rewatched Moulin Rouge for about the millionth time just now with my mum. She'd never really seen it the whole way through but I think she liked it. The main thing I want to share is that I watched it with fresh eyes, because it's been a while since I came upon something I was once so obsessed with and seen it completely anew. Essentially, when you break it down, the whole thing is pure, unambiguous, innuendo-packed pantomime. And quite a good one.

But then, it's a world not only of heightened reality, but also of emotion. So when, at the conclusion, he brings it crashing back to realism, that's what shatters you. THAT's the thing. And it's the contrast that catches you unawares.

The more you watch the more you learn.

Currently working on an idea about a hyperreal sitcom.

Also, am applying for honours. Don't expect to get it, but why the fuck not.

So that's that. Hope you're well.

Radio. Radio. And somebody get Stephen Curry's Logie engraved.

2007-06-06T06:01:00.000-07:00

Hello, newsfans. The blog's back. With a stronger, more professional focus on media, entertainment and the arts. Because that's the gig I'm going for in general. You know. I've got to cultivate a 'personality'. Which is all bullshit anyway, because Fifi Box still manages to cut a cheque every week. Horsey fool.

So. Here's the roundup.

The King

Was actually quite good. Four stars.

Culinary Discoveries

Tomatoes don't count as any form of points on Weight Watchers. Jackpot!

Radioooo!
I might be doing Wednesday overdrive on 2SER. Ooooh. My own show! Or the Fourth Estate. Which is paid. Which now means I have to cobble together a Media CV. Gagh! No experience!!!

That is all.

A very fucking average Friday

2007-04-19T18:00:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I've stopped importing the feed from this blog to facebook, so there'll be about two people reading. For releasing my intergalactic wrath upon you, I apologise.

I'm so incredibly tired of being gullible, trusting and soft. I know that by next week I will have gone back to embracing my naîviety, and being the all-singing, all-dancing child of peace and hope and artistic justice that you don't know-and-love, but sometimes it's just like you get home and all there is left under you, between your bottom and the great big fucking hole in the earth beneath us is a very thin net of steel wool, and you're like a baby on a bassinet above the chasm. You've got to realise that the fibres are quietly snapping with every single bounce.

I'm tired of living alone and being alone and being so blasé about it to everyone like it doesn't matter at all. Yes, the freedom, yes, the city, yes, my friends. But there's never anyone waiting to tell me that everything won't be okay, but that they'll be there regardless. And no, I don't mean that I hate being single. I don't care about not having sex or intimacy or any of that, it's immaterial when you're standing in the living room on your own and there's no-one to talk to or touch or even just be silent with.

I'm tired of investing and believing and having ideas and notions and of creating creating creating and not a single person understanding. It's like my mind is formatted to betamax. Every word I write is Esperanto. And I feel stupid, all the time, because when I speak, everyone just looks confused. Am I really in abstract?

And I'm tired of making plans, and knowing that this degree is in essence one big plan, and of knowing that I having not one iota of control over any of it. I hate not having faith in anything, not humanity, not God, not the Pope, not fashion, not love, not movies, not power, not structure, not beauty, not function, not even words. And I resent my inability to peel myself from this self-indulgent rabble and move on because once upon a time it wasn't about being happy it was about surviving and that's how you came to be happy, by not being killed in a war or catching the pox.

and most of all I'm tired of screaming into the internet, like it's a universe in a brown paper bag and hoping that somebody hears.

A really normal Monday.

2007-04-16T05:48:00.000-07:00

So yeah. I hate bloggers who blog about their cat and what they ate for breakfast last Friday, even though I really am that person, sans cat. So I'll keep it not only abridged, but also aConcorded or aspeedoflighted.

I've started a new LJ for creative writing but I'm having and y'all can bugger off if you think I'm giving you the URL because you'll pick on me.

I went to the gym today. I will also go tomorrow. I practised for radio. That was pretty rad. Then I had a production meeting, plucked Aaron's eyebrows and made a stir-fry. I couldn't finish the rice so it's in the fridge.

It makes me really sad that I look nothing like my grandmother.

I had a nightmare the other night that there was someone making earthquakes. They were starting them at uni and it shook my house. I was up against a wall, bracing myself and sitting on the floor with my feet on the opposite wall. I think I was in a kitchen, possibly not my own. The rose in a jar that my mother gave my grandmother, in the dream, shattered. But I didn't see it happen. I just walked into my bedroom, and it was open on the floor. The rose and all the other flowers and foliage had browned, and lay on the glass, which was glittering, a little sinister, a little sad.

Then, like in all the best stories, Alice wakes up.

Cab-sav wankery and my 160th post.

2007-04-15T01:00:00.000-07:00

There are probably only four things I will never fall out of love with, as far as my eyes can see. One, is the memory of my grandmother, because I think everyone is that way, if they have a memory like mine. The second is that transcendent moment in a film where everything you ever thought does a complete 180. The third is my lover, Sydney. He's arrogant about his good looks, superficial, and with arms and eyes open, unabashedly self-centred. But I still look at him and feel the hunger, even now.

I'll leave him like every other lover leaves, the game unfinished. But I'll wait for the booty call, and never, ever delete his number. Because I know it and so do you. He's worth coming back to. I mean, it's still nothing on Newcastle, but once you get past her ocean lights, what is there inside? Yes, warm, beautiful people. But not a lot of hustle. And not nearly enough spectacle.

The fourth is, of course, like all good endings, a secret til the end. And not even the author knows it, until the audience tells her what it was all along. In this way, my life is utter pantomime.

I went to Josh's for Pizza and Movies tonight, as per usual it didn't get past the kitchen. I love his housemate Clare because she's completely unafraid. Conversationally, there are no borders and no ceiling. I heard the best story EVER about Harvey Keitel's sexual preferences. In the spirit of this openness, I'm starting my little exposé. This is mainly because we had the most fascinating conversation about disclosure, my argument, as it developed, is that our generation has gained a certain modicum of openness, but lost manners. Knowing that the bus-driver rarely says 'you're welcome' anymore, here are a few tidbits for the powder room. Some are history, some are present, others are gifts.

Those of you who know me well will know that I've never met my father, and never knew why I didn't have one. I discovered last week that it turns out he cheated on her. A lot. So she left. You learn something new every day.

After my aunt, her third and youngest, my grandmother had to swallow a bottle of gin and a bottle of pills twice. They couldn't afford the children.

If anything this only fills me with more admiration of the strength, composure and elegance of the women in my family.

I'm no longer averse to the idea of being someone's mother.

I'm no longer averse to being called a capital 'F' Feminist.

I'm not afraid of my destiny, ill-defined and shambolic as it currently seems.

I know my vocab's too big. And I'm not going to work on that. Because, well, stuff you if you don't like it. I'm not compromising myself for anyone. Not this week.

Sleep well, dream even better.
xox

oh, rubbish. rubbish rubbish rubbish

2007-04-07T01:02:00.000-07:00

Garhghasdgfhsdfgjhgsdfsdfs!

It is supposed to be semester break and I have to write a radio script, a film script, practise for my vocal studies assessment. My head's going to explode. At this rate I'll never make it to the zoo.

all that's getting me through it is the knowledge that one day I might not live below the poverty line.

I like it when people are playing the piano and they fumble. It makes it real.

Am I the only one who thinks that "Don't Stand So Close To Me" sounds like a great way to spend Friday night?

2007-03-28T06:11:00.000-07:00

Okay, so here's a rare thing. Probably a thing that will never happen again, because, let's face it, I think in some ways we need to know as little as possible about our friends.

I have a teacher fetish. A pretty specific one, as well. English teachers, mainly. A lot of it stems from being utterly in love with (although obviously not in the sexual way) my year 8 English Teacher. He was so great. So now I'm listening to The Police and thinking I should put my hair in pigtails, tie a tie, pull up my socks above my knees and unbutton my top button. Because that's what bad girls do.

Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to drench myself in Vanilla Oil and read something Russian. Maybe Nabokov.

Also, I was on the internets today in the box for www.countdowntothechaser.com.au. It was pretty rad.

xox

A potpourri of life's confetti

2007-03-25T00:26:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I have several things to say. So I'm going to say them all, and make a bit of a collage for you all.

Strap in, bitch.

And no, there aren't any pictures.

Just long, eloquent tracts of text. So suffer.

Happy election night, buccaneers! So, the notorious IMR is bringing sexy back, and poor little P-Deb was left to claim the seat the Nats picked up for his own. It's a pity, he was a nice guy. I wasn't about to vote for Vic Tagg, though. I voted Democrat. And I put the ~~Nazis~~ Australians Against Further Immigration (Handy, emo abbreviation of AFI) last. Last last last. How did so many exclusionist fucktards get on the ticket anyway?!? And Fred Nile second-last, because there's nothing wrong with being a Christian and there's nothing wrong with being the two. I just really don't think you should mix the two, evarrrr.

I voted below the line for Patrice Newell, Dawn Fraser, and put one in for the Horseriding party and some girl called Jacqueline X in the Socialist Alliance, who I suspect is no relation of Malcolm and has no affiliation with Black Pride, but whose creative name-changing I admired. 42, I numbered I think. Which Douglas Adams would have admired immensely.

I've downloaded all the episodes of Studio 60 I can, and have caught up with America. For this reason, I am sad.

As some of you know, I'm probably a Celiac (to be confirmed by TummyCam™), so I can't have wheat anymore. Combined with the lactose intolerance and the anaemia, I am now limited to a diet of red meat, spinach and water. Subsequently, I have become the most boring person alive. Further to this, I am suicidal, because my favourite food group (dairy) my favourite grain (wheat) and my favourite meal (macaroni cheese) are all dead to me.

I've applied to do volunteer media work for APEC this year. They're going to do an ASIO check. I hope the impassioned (angry) letter I sent to the Prime Minister when I was 16 about pulling down the MCA doesn't count as sedition.

I'm going to V festival. YAY.

I've got a gym assessment on Monday. I'm going to be quantified and literally measured and then judged by a complete stranger, who will proceed to put me on a fitness regime of their choosing. Downside: humiliation. Upside: The Good Ship Size 10 will put down the gangplank and the captain (probably Megan Gale) will graciously invite me onboard. "Come, Rhiannon. The Slamming Hotties are congregating on the quarterdeck. Please, join them and be fawned over by salivating crowds (well, more than three people).

That and I'll be healthy and have more energy and control over my life.

I dropped creative writing, because the course was total bollocks and a waste of money. Their idea of analysis is calling me a Nazi because I wrote a black satire about Hitler and Eva Braun.

My lovely landlady has cancer, and has to sell my house. So I'm 30 seconds from homeless and will have to move, mid-semester.

Now I've got questions for the universe and you, persistent reader...

Did you notice that no one falls in love anymore?
Am I going to be completely unemployable when I finish my degree?
Is there something so wrong about staying in one place?
Are 30 Seconds to Mars the most overblown, pretentious emoFucks™ ever?

Now, to watch the West Wing. Damn you for pushing the time back, GingerNut!

Okay. So I had one picture. But look at him, the big smugmug.

Studio 60 is Crack for Writers.

2007-03-14T14:53:00.000-07:00

Oh, I am undone.

You see, as some of you may know I am a pathological West Wing fanatic, and I used to tout it as (alongside my kitsch affection for Doctor Who) "ZOMG BEST SHOW EVARRRRR". Things change. People change. West Wing finished and I was left, eyes cloudy and lip drooping like a wilted flower, thinking "What on EARTH will Bradley Whitford do now?!?"

(No, I can't understand the attraction either. I think it might be the walk. I've aquired an obsession for a certain gait. More on that story later.)

I present to you, the new King of Hearts. Televisually.

Witty. Punchy. Tense. Beautifully felt. Unafraid. A Message, without being messagey. Everything I've ever wanted, but in a TV show. Oh, and it's got strong, smart women in it. And he made a joke in the first or second ep. about bloggers being in their pyjamas critiquing the show, which is exactly what I'm doing RIGHT NOW. For your foresight, Aaron Sorkin, ten points.

It's been bought by Channel Nine, presumably for the Winter lineup, but they've TBA'd any screening announcements, partly because they're motherfuckers and partly because they're total motherfuckers. They'll keep pushing the slot back until it's screening well out of Prime Time, until it's in 3am or whatever the West Wing was in until the ABC saved it. I'd love to see it at aunty, but I don't see it as being a buy they can take any time soon.

Then how, may you ask, did I get it? EEGADS! SHE TORRENTS! It's taking away my life and my bandwith. And it's taking all my patience just to get it. I'm only up to Episode 6, but my God it's good. So so so so good. So like any good thing I'll wait until I've caught up with America. Then I'll have a nervous breakdown.

It's already circling in the rumour mills that Sorkin's cruising for a bruising by being this smart in Primetime, but at least someone's keeping the dream alive, ie, that it IS possible to have good writing, great production and beautiful cinematography in television. Please, NBC, don't axe it. It's too good. And think about how incredibly massive the worldwide DVD sales are going to be when I buy copies for literally every person I know for their next gift.

Oh, and by the way....Matthew Perry is AWESOME in it. He's actually a REALLY GOOD actor. Hence the capitalisations. Eegads. Whitford's impeccable as always, Sarah Paulson a surprise, even after her excellent turn in Down with Love. This is Champagne television. Now I'm going to get out of my Jim-jams and change the world, if you'll excuse me.

Peace out.

21, I guess.

2007-03-08T16:43:00.000-08:00

I'm of age. No discernable difference. Not any hotter. Not any uglier, hopefully. Lots of wonderful presents. I think I've lost my writing mojo. Tragedy indeed. I suppose it just seems that chronicling my life in the desperate, clinging hope that I'll say something revelatory or transcendent is a bit superficial and tacky when you realise that I'm just another middle-class-white-girl-schmuck. And I'm not saying it to be down on myself. I love my life. I love my friends and family and all I've achieved and the fact that I've somehow been out of home for over 2 years and not had any kind of mental spaz attack. I'm proud that I'm emotionally healthy and that through love and thought there's healing. It's just hard to think that we are 'where it's at' when there are people who can't eat, people who can't walk out of their door or roll over in their bed at night without thinking 'is tonight the night, is today the day the bomb will drop? Will this be the date on my tombstone, will I even get one?' How can we be the epicentre of an earthquake which trembles half a world away? How can all of this be out of our hands? And is it that everyone I know doesn't think about all the other problems, or is it that they do care and can't bear to think about it for fear of their own response? Are they afraid that they will sit down at their computer and it will all spill out around them like a wasted decade, slowing to an ebb of guilt and ill tempered conscience? Or maybe they've all just got a sense of perspective, and I'm absolutely, bat-shit crazy-nuts.

Happy Birthday, Rhiannon

update.

2007-03-01T05:35:00.000-08:00

I'm still alive. Just so you know. Tired. Tell you later.

The OC was a really good show, and I'll miss it very much.

2007-02-23T04:56:00.000-08:00

I am, on this balm-dipped Summer night, what Sexual Harassment Panda would call... A sad panda. And no. I can't believe that he has his own Wikipedia entry, either.

I knew the end of the O.C. was coming. Really, I did. I was prepped. Actually was terribly unprepared, had no tissues, no snacks, no emotional maturity. Any of the above would have been helpful. But I didn't, so of course I cried during the montage. So goodbye Ryan, you were such an awesome character after Marissa died, and I really enjoyed the bit where Taylor ripped your shirt off, because she reminds me of me and I could never do that. Actually that's a lie. I totally would. And that joke you made about Death Cab was pithy and sharp. I love you.

(Just as a side note to those of you who aren't in my 'loop' per se, I've been unconcious the past two weeks with sinusitis and tonsilitis at the same time. Hence the absence. Also, hence why tissues should have been a priority, but were thrown to the wayside like a promise)

Now, to stop becoming attached to fictional characters.

Oh, I'm going to write a big fuck-off rant about how much I hate emos. I know it's been done a million times by a million people, probably more articulate and intelligent, but you know, I'm the voice of the revolution.

On this day in History, That is to say, Feburary the 14th.

2007-02-13T17:55:00.000-08:00

Events!
1843 - The event that inspired the song Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite! is held.
1876 - Alexander Graham Bell applies for a patent for the telephone,as does Elisha Gray.
1895 - First performance of Oscar Wilde's last play The Importance of Being Earnest at the St James's Theatre in London).
1945 - On the second day of the Bombing of Dresden in World War II the British Royal Air Force and the United States Army Air Forces begin fire-bombing Dresden, the capital of the German state of Saxony.
1966 - Australian currency is decimalised.
1981 - Stardust Disaster. A fire in a Dublin nightclub kills 48 people
1996 - China launches a Long March 3 rocket, carrying a Intelsat 708 satellite, that ended in tragedy: The rocket flew off course 3 seconds after liftoff and crashed into the nearest rural village. A number of people are killed. It is later discovered that a gust of wind caused the incident.

Birthdays!
1942 - Michael Bloomberg, Mayor of New York City
1970 - Simon Pegg, British comedian and actor
1972 - Rob Thomas, American musician

Deaths!
1400 - King Richard II of England (murdered) (b. 1367)
1523 - Pope Adrian VI
1737 - Charles Talbot, 1st Baron Talbot of Hensol, Lord Chancellor of Great Britain (b. 1685)
1975 - P. G. Wodehouse, English writer (b. 1881)
2006 - Lynden David Hall, British singer (b.1974)

And nothing else of significance happened. Nothing at all.

An Open Letter to my Dear Friends

2007-02-08T18:37:00.000-08:00

You know how you love me? You know how I'm like the little sister that you never had but actually do have but never talk to?

Well, I'm turning 21 soon. And the person who buys me this can have me as their plaything, sexual or otherwise, for like, let's say...a day.

I also really like the astronaut, and "Feelings are Boring. Kissing is Awesome.". You can get me the three pack, if you're feeling generous.

Yours etc,

Your loving friend, Rhiannon

In other news....

I realised when I got home today from the Pathologists office that I had crusted Macaroni and Cheese sauce on my T-shirt, subsequently, she now probably thinks that I have snotted on myself. Gross. Poor woman.

Today's DVD viewing is Closer, my favourite writing movie. I don't care if it's insanely unrealistic, they say lots of witty pretty things, things that I wish I could spread on toast and eat for breakfast. That and Clive Owen and Natalie Portman are perfect. Examples:

Anna: We do everything that people who have sex do!
Larry: Do you enjoy sucking him off?
Anna: Yes!
Larry: You like his cock?
Anna: I love it!
Larry: You like him coming in your face?
Anna: Yes!
Larry: What does it taste like?
Anna: It tastes like you but sweeter!
Larry: That's the spirit. Thank you. Thank you for your honesty. Now fuck off and die.

Larry: Alice, tell me something that's true.
Alice: Lying's the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off - but it's better if you do.

Larry: I know who you are. I love you. I love everything about you that hurts.

So many lies. So many beautiful lies. Patrick Marber can be the father of my children any old day.

So Fascism's pretty bad, hey? (Franco is the new black, is the new holocaust)

2007-02-08T05:20:00.002-08:00

Tonight I saw Pan's Labyrynthththth Or however you spell it. It was great. It's going to win Oscars because it is about fascists, who are bad. Bad bad bad. And revolutionaries who are good. And fairies who are even better! Wheeeeeeee!!!!!

I would have cried, but for some reason I didn't. I don't know why. The thing that makes me cry sometimes and not cry other times was obviously missing. But it was still nice. Apart from, you know. The blood-curdling violence.

I realise that I have the intellectual capacity of a five year old at this moment, and I apologise for this review.

I'm going to watch the Colbert Report, then maybe I'll pass out on the couch. Awesome.

I love you all xox

Thursday's Ambitions

2007-02-07T17:30:00.000-08:00

Today I will do the following things.

Get over nausea and eat something.

Clean my goddamn room.

Start "egocentrism" for Foursome. Be funny.

Write a play to win the Griffin Prize

Visit the Pathologists office

Ring the doctor

Book ticket to Dubbo

Book theatre tickets for Friday.

Try not to think about the ocean, and how much I miss it.

NOT fall asleep on the couch watching West Wing.

HAHAHA ESKIMO JOE YOU THINK YOU'RE SO ROCK'N'ROLL BUT YOU'RE BEING PLAYED ON MUSIC MAX AT LUNCHTIME.

2007-02-06T18:49:00.000-08:00

On a WEDNESDAY.

Five movies already? I may be a film student yet.

2007-02-06T17:58:00.000-08:00

Movie Five for the year, Stranger than Fiction. Actually, really bloody good.

Great cast, well acted, entertaining, engaging on a number of levels, asked a few metaphysical questions without being preachy or forcing itself upon an unwilling audience. An onion of a film, you had to peel away the layers for yourself. Beautifully written, great production design. Which really, is how it should be. Isn't that the kind of movie we want to keep alive?

Emma Thompson has my heart. She was me, but successful, a chain-smoker, and older. And do you know what the best part is? Every single actor was an accessible, unique person. No stars of note, no starlets cluttering up the panavision. Just character, rich, delicious character, drizzled on the narrative like ribbons of treacle. It had a heart, with an irregular heartbeat. Marc Foster's direction was careful. And tender, come to that.

I think it's interesting that this year I've already seen two films about stories and story-making. The Fountain was slightly more evocative, but then, it was also completely different, conceptually. I actually think that the light touch in Fiction was what made it so compelling. It's weird, because they always tell you that the first rule of screenwriting is "Don't write about writing". It's nice to see some sneaking through. "But I swear, Mr. Weinstein, it's about the FOUNTAIN of YOUTH!". I sat through the whole thing without analysing it with my head, which is something I did all the way through Marie Antoinette and Aztecs: The Musical!.

My friends talk about the worth of this film (actually, Josh, when you read this, please consider your defense of Apocalamo, ie, that it was entertainment. Hypocrite!) Now, when I think about film criticism I just smile. Because making movies should be just as much about looking out as it is about standing inside, against a wall, and staring at your navel. Because it's not just what it is, it's what it does. I think that's why I suck at getting picked to direct at uni, because I like the idea of movies as conversation, as your way of talking to someone about what you think, without getting hung up on how good the rotoscoping is. The best movies talk to you. The best of all feel like you can talk back.

To Pathology, and infamy!

Things to do on February 6, 2007

2007-02-05T15:29:00.000-08:00

Burn the St. Valentines day supplement from the Sunday Herald. Find other such supplements and prepare the same fate.

Tell yourself that it's all money-making scheme, designed to inflict pain on the innocent, as described by Kaufman.

Since when did we put the 'St.' back, anyway?

Apply for Campus loan to get you through this year

Give more bloody blood.

Stare at puppies and kittens in pet-shop with wistful, slightly misty look on face.

Remember terrifying, scarring dream you had about pets being cryogenically frozen until needed for sale.

Cry.

Come home, tell yourself you're going to clean.

Wind up watching Tin-Tin reruns, again.

Refill fountain pen, result, more lyrical diary entries.

Cry.

Also must ring Lu, see if she's up for Thursday or Friday or anyday.

Get insanely long bus to Rozelle, see Stranger than fiction with Josh and Jess.

Intellectualise a Will Ferrell movie

Possibly drink some red wine. Or give up on life. Whichever!

Too Good for TV, Waiting for Godard.

2007-02-05T05:12:00.000-08:00

Rhiannon's angry.

So angry, that she's abandonned the first person. Gracious. On the plus side, she combined two cultural allusions in one title. Now THAT is economy of language.

Who is she angry at? Her own kind. And do you know what friends do? Real friends tell their friends when they're wrong. And I know I've been cocky lately, that I've asserted myself a little more than usual. I've lacked tweeness. But fuck you all. I'm tired of you turning your nose up at Television. Because that's where you'll end up, if you're LUCKY. Yes, you look at the screen and all of the lights and colours confuse you. Boo hoo. Well, strap yourselves in. And yes, I know I started speaking in the first person again, but it's my bloggy and I'l type if I want to.

In case you haven't tuned into the argument yet, I'm tired of film students who think they're above Television. So here's my defense of the Idiot Box, from a self confessed, certified idiot.

Television raised you. Don't bite the hand that feeds you. As if you didn't watch enough Captain Planet to, poignantly enough, through sheer hours of electrical consumption, take out an acre of Amazonian rainforest. And you know your comic timing comes from Tin-Tin and Batfink. Well, that and John from Play School dressing in drag. Every week, pretty much. It also explains your sexual confusion and penchant for silk, if you think about it.

Some of the best writing is in Television. Examples. Changi, Marking Time, Love My Way, Arrested Development, The Colbert Report. Early Simpsons. Later South Park. Frontline. Teachers. This Life. The people who write in television have to sustain believable characters because otherwise, they'll be fired. Angels in America (granted, originally theatre, but beautifully adapted for the small screen.) Doctor Who. Seachange. The West Wing. Sharp, intellectual drama, crazy random sci-fi. Uncompromising. There are shows with stance, with weight. They are unafraid. Casanova's TV version shat all over the film version released in the same year. Scrubs, even. Adult Swim. I could go on, and probably will one day.

People in TV get shit done. Look at their rate of production. They're out doing this every day. And hell, a really good episode of neighbours has probably effected me on a deeper emotional level than half of the crap we turn out at uni, which usually has no emotional core and always gets picked because it's clever or fits the idea of what they think we as 'students' should be producing.

Twin Peaks. Ha. I win, based on that point alone.

I am so tired of the slackjawed, arthouse mentality that is so prevalent in Australian film. What was Australia's highest grossing local film last year? You might be surprised to hear that it wasn't Hunt Angels. It was Kenny, a movie about a man who services toilets. How gauche! Why was it a success? Because it was made. Fast. No one sat on their heiny for three years carefully deliberating, then won 5 AFIs as a pat on the back for being in debt to their financiers. I'm not saying I liked Kenny. I'm not even going to lie and say I watched it, but, the point is that someone did, and the producers did okay at the end of the day because they didn't arse around wondering about the precise shade of blue of the sky.

I'm not going to lie about TV and say that it's AWESUM ROXRS 24-7, but come on, for every Wings of Desire there are five American Pies and a You, Me, and Dupree. Much in the same way, for every Angels in America there's Hotdogs' Uplate Gameshow and pretty much every reality show ever.

So nyer. I hope you all end up on the dole, and die without anyone (except maybe your mum, and Jesus) knowing that you're like, so like, like, heaps like deeper than Michel Gondry. Go listen to an obscure jazz record and get high, you derivative hack.

Also, I wrote to Lily Allen through her Myspace. Which is something I've never done before. So hah! Go me.

Subject: I think that Jet is a shit band.

Dear-person-who-manages-Lily's-Myspace. Also Lily.

I hate Jet. So do you, apparently. I'm from Sydney, where you recently played the Big Day Out. I heard about your scuffle with Chris from Jet, and you further inspired me to make a documentary entitled "I think that Jet is a really shit band". And I just wanted to thank you for said inspiration.

Obviously you probably won't be in Australia again in the first half of this year, or else I'd ask you to participate, but if you know of anyone who has footage from the BDO in question or are willing to do a phone interview, I'd be honoured.

Cheers,
Rhiannon

There were a LOT of Italics in this post. Apologies. And I was really angry. I'm sorry. Stranger than Fiction tomorrow night. Woot tang!

Tips for a Saturday Night, And the Mona Lisa.

2007-02-03T15:36:00.000-08:00

Okay, so if you've just had a lot of blood taken you might NOT want to do the following:

- Drink two huge glasses of Shiraz, then feel inspired to dance insanely in your living room, holding hand-weights. To popindie.

your muscles will hurt like a motherfucker, and then they will atrophy. Don't do it, it's stupid

Also, don't let yourself believe that the alcohol in your system will counteract your inability to metabolise milk. Red wine is not the cure for lactose intolerance, and I don't care if the biscuits NEED to be eaten. Idiot.

So anyway, as you all know I'm a wanker and I like art and things, so further to that I'd like to tell you a story. There's no factual accuracy, and I'm not going to check anything because I think that it ruins it. It has truthiness, which is so much better.

This is Mona. You might have heard of her. I do believe Craig McLachlan (no relation to Sarah) wrote a song about her. Har har.

Travis is a friend of my friend Tim, and he came up to stay for the Australia day week. He's five kinds of awesome. And he told me, one night, the story of Mona Lisa. I had just told him that I like the art that everyone else thinks is a mistake, or practise, like Gustav Kilmt's sketches or the paintings Monet did as he was going blind. He then told me that it was like the Mona Lisa, and why it's so famous. Da Vinci used to cart this canvas around, of an unremarkable woman, boasting that it was his best work, and that he could never better it. And he wouldn't tell anyone why, and nobody could figure it out. And the enigma is what made it so incredible. So now people stare at it, at the Louvre, wondering, trying to imagine what on earth he was on about. So, the proposition is, if we couldn't figure it out then, and we still can't, then who are we to think we're so advanced? And if the work which is best is what you're most proud of, then what's the rest?

And naturally, I thought that the story was very beautiful, so the next night I was in the car with a friend from uni, who I was close to, and I asked him... "Do you know why The Mona Lisa is so important?"

"Because. It's a portrait in a landscape"
"No, but-"
"It's the first portrait in a landscape. The two had never been combined."

That is the difference between us and them. If I ever start quantifying my life, I want you to shoot me.

At the mercy of Hermes

2007-02-03T03:17:00.000-08:00

Time to talk about medicine!

So yeah. My bloodwork is back, and there's no discernable change in my iron levels, and my haemoglobin has dropped, in comparison to 18 months ago when I was first diagnosed with iron deficiency/borderline anaemia. There was supposed to be a massive change due to diet alteration and supplements I was taking. Now I'm not going to bitch and moan, because it's common enough in my demographic and it's not like I've got cancer (maybe then I'd be famous like Delta), but I'm going to give you the rundown. Because apparently they want to know what's 'wrong'. Peh.

Friday. Tests. Tests. $325 dollar specialist. More tests.
Saturday. More tests. More blood. Can't eat beef or lamb for a week.

But thankfully I have Shiraz, and the telephonic company of Lucy, and the polyphonic company of the Red Riders.

I saw the Pursuit of Happyness. I was indifferent towards its shmaltz and gimmickry. Solid performances. Average film. Kind of wish that I had just sat in my apartment with the toxic gas that was supposed to poison our roaches, but failed.

That's FOUR movies this year. I even paid for two of them. ZOMG! I may make a film student yet.

Fuck this, I'm going to watch the West Wing.

Oh, Bill Gates, you filthy little plagiarist.

2007-02-01T13:12:00.000-08:00

They'd better not run Windows Vista through turnitin, or he's failing college.

After test-driving the new Windows OS, the BBC World tech programme, Click, the presenter observed "serious echoes to the Mac".

O RLY?!?!?!?!?!

SERIOUS ECHOES?!?!?!??!?!

Sorry, but as a Mac user I fully reserve the right to get all self-righteous. At least on a superficial level (because I know nothing about coding, nor do I pretend to) Windows Vista takes say...oooh, ALL the cool things from OSX.

Their 'sidebar' with 'gadgets' are just widgets, only you can you know, make the clock look like a daisy. zomg. Revolution. Oh, and the 'Post it' gadget? Hands up for Brooklyn if you knew that Mac's 'Stickies', its non-perishable post-it programme is in Version 5.1.0. Oh yeah, and the oh-so-unique search boxes integrated into windows have also been around since early OSX Versions.

I'm sure Steve Jobs, megalomaniac as he is, is chuckling quietly to himself, because let's face it. Bill's not going to find another iPod any time soon.

In other news, Lu and I went to Dead Caesar last night. It was bloody good. I had a really fun heapsmad time. Might go again next week.

Further notes for the week/weekend ahead....

- Specialist, tests, anaemia worse, blah blah blah
- Enrolled in classes, Vocal studies yay Screen Prod blegh bureaucracy ahoi
- har har we killed theworld. Thanks mum and dad.
- TWO Characters dying in the last Harry Potter book? JKR, you heartless bitch. I say that with love and respect.
- Am chubby, hungry, manhating maneater.
- Also have roaches. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Happy Friday.

Sofia Coppola can't write for love, money, or anything else that her dad pays for.

2007-01-30T05:09:00.000-08:00

I just saw Travesty:The Musical!, aka Marie Antoinette.

The little female auteur inside me either died, or became very very angry. On the plus side, I tasted the first White Chocolate Gelato that actually tastes like White Chocolate. That was a bit revolutionary.

Okay, so unlike Apocalypto, my beef with Ms. Coppola isn't historical, or about her being insane, it was just...a bit lame. I don't even really have beef with her per se, I'd say it's more like one of those hotdogs made of tofu. That, my friends, is the food of indifference. Here are the things about this film that get me all tepid-blooded about the last French Queen's biopic:

I resent that it was advertised like some kind of indie-whoring, Cameron Crowesque adventure into pre-revolutionary France. Look at the Poster!! It uses Italics! Italics=Superfun. Always. In the end, however it was what I imagine bad sex to be like, because I made it about two thirds in, and "Oops, I'm so so so so sorry, I'm afraid the Strokes just played". It was almost apologetic about its use of contemporary music, and a few of the choices were very obviously timed. There was one nice bit with some Mogwai-sounding piano, but beyond that, I felt aurally cheated.

The whole thing looked like a really long Youth Group video. I half expected some grainy footage of skateboarders, wheeling around the formal forecourt of Versailles. Not to diss the cinematography, there were bucketloads of nice shots, but they were used to poor effect.

Kirsten Dunst was meek and apologetic. Granted, she was quite beautiful for about a third of it. That said, Rose Byrne actually has some, you know. Charisma. Stole every seen she was in. Loved her being the half-cut aristo with a filthy mouth but great hair.

Yes, your sets were lavish. I get it.. Well done. You don't have to show us all the time. There's a difference between being meditative and being the How-To Channel. I half expected Martha Stewart to pop out when they were fondling fabric, if only to tell them how to make it into a great cushion. "Create this authentic pink biscuit mound! Stay tuned after the break to find out how! Also, some more detail shots of custard!" Maybe she was still in the Bastille for insider trading of, I don't know, Lemon Curd.

No emotional core. Felt no compassion for any of the characters, except the guy who played Louis, and, you know, Steve Coogan, who I felt sorry for. Poor Alan. Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan Alan ALAN!

There's probably a lot more that I was slightly indifferent towards, but, you know. I'm far too indifferent about them to give them the satisfaction or validation of a mention. No wonder Nic Cage changed his name.

So far this year: One enraging film (Aztecs!:The Musical) One awesome film (The Fountain), and one faked orgasm (Oh, I'm so sorry, I'm afraid I'm Kirstin Dunst).

Onwards and upwards, to Pan's Labyrinth, the Dendy, and all the Pretense I ever dreamed of.

Something wonderful has just happened.

2007-01-29T01:48:00.000-08:00

The Colbert Report is coming to The Comedy Channel. After about 5 emails and constant pestering, I finally have the only thing I ever really wanted. Stephen Colbert in my living room. Yay! I can honestly say that this has been the best month in a few months. And do you know why? Because he brings the liberty.

This week it's the Rhiannon show on 2SER, tune in at 9am Wednesday to 107.3FM to hear me embarass myself in front of the three people that listen.

And I'm totally going to get hot this year. I can feel it.

Any number of pithy, dry remarks about my otherwise colourless existence.

2007-01-26T07:27:00.000-08:00

A few things to get you up to date since my somewhat heated outburst critiquing the arthouse film formerly known as Apocalypto:

I still think that Mel Gibson is fucking crazy. And possibly also Saddam Hussein. So arguably, there is an upside to execution, if it means that he stops making movies, the nut.

I really, really wish I went to the big day out. I hate me. I love Muse. I hate me.

Augie March got number one in the hottest 100? WTF? I mean, I really like Augie March, I was just insanely surprised. Finally, I own a Hottest 100 winner album a good 9 months before it wins. Yay me.

There's a ton more to divulge. I'll to it tomorrow, because it's 2:54am and I'm fucked.

I need a new blog title, and Apocalypto really sucked.

2007-01-16T04:43:00.000-08:00

Good Evening, Newsfans.

Here's the thing. I've been neglecting you. So it's time for a substantial blog entry to satiate your thirst for pretension and mutual masturbation, consisting primarily of PG-rated psuedo-academic discussion in an alfresco setting. So, pick up your cocktail and get ready to take a nice long sip.

Apocalypto was a fucking disgrace.

Quoth the Gibson: "The precursors to a civilization that’s going under are the same, time and time again... "

....

...

..

No, they're not. I realised today why I hated this film, and everyone else I saw the film with adored it. It's the five units of history that I can't stamp out of me. If I could look at it and say "yeah. All film has a certain mythology of its own, which is constructed with the intent of making an expressive point, it can always be justified" then that would be fine. But sometimes, it's just lying.

So what, you painted human sacrifices the same shade of blue as the Mayans. So did The Blue Man Group. Plus, you already did it in Braveheart.

Truth be told I originally thought that this film was based more in the Aztec culture, but it turns out that the whole thing is a mish-mash of Mesoamerican societies.

I'll be the first person to say that I don't mind history being used on film and other cultural forms to teach us things about ourselves. Morris Gleitzman's Two Weeks with the Queen taught me more about the AIDs epidemic than any mourner with a quilting needle ever could. And Forrest Gump was a charming collage of the second half of the century I was born in. What I resent about Apocalypto is the bastardisation of history and culture to provide a framework for a parable.

(Just as a side note...God, I should make Two Weeks with the Queen into a movie. They could show it on the ABC. I'd be a star.)

So here are the emotions I felt during Apocalypto, and the things about it that really pissed me off. Here be Spoilers. And sorry Josh. I can't be polite.

One. They All Die. I don't really mind, except it didn't happen. Ever.

Two. Emotions. It was moralising, patronising, long-winded, and pretty much just an insult to intelligence everywhere. I haven't seen a better snuff film, granted, but I've never seen a snuff film. The 'honest' depiction of violence wasn't funny or poignant or impactful in any way, with the exception of the protagonist's father's death. That was beautifully done. The innumerable plagues, and the implication that smallpox was the retribution of some greater power upon the Mayan people (when it didn't arrive until the Spaniards brought it with them, later in the same movie) came across as preachy. Let my people go.

And what the hell was the indulged, fat prince pulling on the skirts of the Queen supposed to represent? I mean, I'm really not that goddamn stupid. Yes, that's right, his pudgy little face is menacing. That's right, he's the future of a doomed people. And the depiction of ritual sacrifice was ridiculous, because there's no evidence of the Mayans being that bloodthirsty. The Apocalypto 'priests' don't treat the sacrifice as significant or religious, it's just meat. They slice 'em open, then they throw them down the stairs. In most Mesoamerican cultures (particularly the Aztecs) there are few records of sacrifice, and of what there is, other bodily organs were shared amongst warriors or other leaders. They didn't throw heads down to be caught in nets like a bloodsport. It's like making an adaptation of Ancient Celtic societies, who sacrificed all sorts of things, including Virgins, and depicting them sexually violating the corpses. Yes, you should take a bit of creative licence to make things interesting, but there comes a time when it's just making shit up.

And, of course, the fact that he's trying to make some kind of sweeping, generalised connection to the disintegration of modern society, and even comparing it to Iraq.

Sure, we're all Godless heathens, and atheists are no better than diseased, starving, heartless pagans. It was was insult icing on the lame cake. I don't need you to tell me that war is futile. And I really don't think that the blood lust is telling audiences that, either. People were laughing. And you had to know that they will continue to do so.

When you're a director, just like a musician or a writer, your influences, attitudes and beliefs permeate your work. If this is true of Mel Gibson, then South Park was right. You're fucking insane, man. Go play banjo.

“The problem is when you misrepresent (a subject to) somebody, they don't always seek out the correct version of things...They're going to accept that as reality. So why would they go search out what it really is?”

And I have an inkling that very few people will.

Another one bites the hypothetical interweb dust...

2007-01-11T05:06:00.000-08:00

You may have noticed that my boomspeed account, handy provider of miscellaneous bandwith, has finally carked it and as a result I am without profile photo. Bollocks. Any suggestions for a new photo? Requests? And it's midnight AND I'm starving AND I can't eat anything because the boys have eaten everything because THEY SUCK!

Gaarrrrrrrgh.

Anyway, as promised; Make pudding in your mouth.

Take powdered pudding, add to mouth. Add milk. Swish. Swallow. Repeat.

Next time...Make love in your mouth!

Things you should do in January: Mix A Drink in Your Mouth!

2007-01-09T06:56:00.000-08:00

Number One:

Gin and Tonic.

Directions: Swig from Gin bottle. Swig from Tonic. Swish a little. Repeat. Adjust ratio of Gin:Tonic according to desperation and amount of human kindness in the fridge.

Alternately, the slow burn. Swig Gin, hold it in your mouth until it hurts and you can't feel anything anymore, swallow, chase with quinine-based mixer. Travel the subcontinent without fear of malaria or sobriety.

Repeat. Repeat Repeat Repeat.

Stay tuned for lesson two: Make pudding in your mouth!

OMG NOAH WYLIE PLAYING STEVE JOBS!!!!

2007-01-07T06:24:00.000-08:00

I know I'm flooding you with YouTube, but come the fuck on. As if this isn't the most awesome thing you've ever seen!

I think I'll have to step in front of one of those iPod buses tomorrow, because I can now die happy.

Obligatory YouTube Pornography and a few remarks about 2007.

2007-01-07T05:12:00.000-08:00

My sheets aren't dry yet and I can't go to bed. I bought the Mountain Goats and Sarah Blasko today. Always breathy.

I've made a lot of mistakes, but probably not as many as Paris Hilton.

I'm writing a book. It's about the exodus of country children. Just to get the land out of the way before I walk into the ocean.

"You know what's wrong with you, Miss Whoever-you-are? You're chicken, you've got no guts. You're afraid to stick out your chin and say...

2007-01-02T05:45:00.000-08:00

okay, life's a fact."

And, you know what?

No more secrets. No more withholding. Time for my Watergate, Waterloo, Watercloset, Waterever. I don't need a secret diary to make myself any realer than real (if realer's even a word). So go on, do your worst. Read what I write down on post-its and scraps of paper when I'm thinking about everything that is and isn't a part of my universe. My shadow moments. My slips. It's time to stick out my chin and stop being all mysterious about the weave of the cloth of my character. Keeping things enclosed implies that there's something to hide, and I can't say I have any reason to hide. Hiding implies interest and I can't honestly say that I believe that anyone reads this online shrine to navel-gazing anymore.

It's time for something a bit more serious.

Surprisingly, it's not all that angsty. Just cowardly. So what do you think of me, unedited, incorrect, and incoherant? Try and guess which one is you. Be wrong. More terrifyingly, be right.

Because resolutions belong to Bridget Jones and the United Nations, all I can wish for in 2007 is a better year than 2006. A year in which I am more articulate, stronger, and less of a fool, who takes less rides at the liberty of others. A better friend. A better daughter. A good girl. And I'm going to stay single. And free. Bam.

I still don't have that minty-fresh New Year feeling I usually get. Not enough is over. Lame.

So this is the New Year, and I don't feel any different.

2007-01-02T05:36:00.000-08:00

But I'm addicted to The West Wing and apparently, I'm Spiderman.

Your results:You are Spider-Man

Spider-Man		95%
Wonder Woman		80%
Superman		70%
Green Lantern		70%
Batman		65%
Robin		65%
Hulk		65%
Supergirl		60%
The Flash		60%
Catwoman		55%
Iron Man		55%

You are intelligent, witty, a bit geeky and have great power and responsibility.

Click here to take the Superhero Personality Quiz

Have my children, Ted Hitler.

2006-12-19T23:31:00.000-08:00

About the pluvver

2006-12-14T05:01:00.000-08:00

I was walking back to W6A, the furthest building for me at uni this afternoon (because I'd forgotten my glasses), and the heat was opressive, and I was angry at the world, and a pluvver with legs far greater than its intellect was sauntering across the grass. And I know what you're thinking, that pluvvers don't saunter, but this guy was clearly enjoying the weather and despite his waxy yellow mask-face, he was very smug about it, thank you very much. Not looking for anything to eat or drink, just killing some time between whatever the hell it is pluvvers do. Skiing, for all I know.

So I muttered to it, under my breath of course,

But you're just a pluvver.

But then I thought, what if it heard me? What if pluvvers can understand english, and this particular one can make it right through my accent and my slurring lilt to understand me, and be hurt? Then I thought about what I said and muttered a weak "I'm sorry", because let's face it, I'm kind of nuts like that.

Then I got my glasses, and walked home.

After all, I'm just a pluvver.

my god.

2006-12-07T05:09:00.000-08:00

I just realised that I stopped being honest about 6 months ago. Mostly because it's easier.

Well. That sucks hard. Criminally so.

I need Help, ala The Beatles.

2006-12-06T05:27:00.000-08:00

I have a reaaaaaally fucked up dream I need some help with. Like, even more screwed than the one I had where I was friends with Russell Crowe. So here it is.

I went to see someone somewhere, in a big centre for something vague. Seemed a little like a museum, but that's all still blurry. And this big green snake comes out of the wall. I'm terrified so I look away or cover my eyes or scream or something, and when I open my eyes there's a happy golden retriever. I sigh with reliece but then I realise that the snake is inside the golden retriever, and it's being eaten from the inside out. So I pick it up because in dreamlogic I thought I could help, but it was just this floppy skin with the snake inside it, and I'm trying to keep it incased and dispose of it, but then the golden retriever skin turned into a blue open weave cotton blanket that used to be on my mother double bed when I was little.

So the snake was in the blanket and I was trying to keep it in there, but somehow the dream snapped ahead to me being in the front passenger seat with a random boy I didn't know to get rid of the snake, then somehow the snak got inside a boy who was driving and it tried to come out of both of his hands at the same time, and the ends of his hands were open like the mouths on a hungry hungry hippo, and he was in horrible pain. Then I woke up for a second and went back to sleep, where my Screen tutors had knives and tried to cut my arms open with short knives. my skin was the colour of cold milk and I could feel the blades.

Explain THAT.

And no, you can't meet my dealer.

Alec Morgan's Screenwriting Ethos in Italics (plus mine)

2006-12-04T04:12:00.000-08:00

Tell people that screenwriting is a transformative art, then when they ask you if you're going to cure cancer with your transformative art, tell them that a child may see your film, and they might have grown up to be the person that cures cancer, but now they want to be an actor instead. We make the world a better place.

And I'm not cynical.

There's only 12% left on my battery, so I'd better make this quick.

2006-12-03T20:57:00.000-08:00

Have you ever tried posting standing up? It's refreshing.

So K-Rudd won the Labor leadership, my grandpa got his cateracts out and I made it to the comments section of Crikey:

Rhiannon writes: Yes, there was "no excuse" given for Milne's behaviour. Except the booze, and the pills, and the disgusting (though hilarious) lack of manners. I doubt they have rehab for apportioning blame at this level. This "apology" says a lot about Milne's work; which presumably isn't his fault either. At least we now know what he's on.

Taking up boxercise twice a week, avoiding all negative energy and eating a load of fruit. That's the agenda. Need a Credit average to transfer to Screen Prod as my degree instead of it just being my major. Need to find a house. Still catching up on a Semester of lost slumber. Loving it. Finally made a High Disctinction for Screen. Zing. Three more and I'll keep the 3.00 Grade Point Average.

Pat Benetar is my Homegirl.

Did I mention that you're my hero?

Imogen Heaps Good.

2006-11-27T19:52:00.000-08:00

If you get it, you get it.

My mum's house. Kanwal. Raw heat. The desire to go asleep for a very long time, and wake up old or young or something other than a combination of both fighting with each other.

Now I know why people have an inner child. It's easier to keep them partitioned.

truancy in the time of chicken flu.

2006-11-26T14:30:00.000-08:00

Tell me which book my post title is mocking, and I'll send you a postal order for fifty cents.

As always, it's been a while. I'm a lazy, lazy motherfucker. And now my mum's read my blog so I'll have to stop saying motherfucker. God damn!

I'm posting from Aaron's computer, the iPorn, because I foolishly left my beloved elephant-graveyard Powerbook at my mum's house until tonight. I'm beginning to think I'm too attached to it because I'm getting a nasty case of Phantom limbs every time I think of my hard drive. But I've finished uni for the year, so screw you all.

Now all that stretches ahead of me is three months of empty and the prospect of moving to Dundas. Just don't ask.

McMansion. Miniature poodle. Nigella Lawson Cookbook. Gun. Barrell. In. Mouth.

What have you guys been up to?

Thirty Secrets About Me, Adapted from Myspace because Blogger ROXR.

2006-11-10T23:28:00.000-08:00

1.What does your Blogger Name Mean?
Little Miss Splatterbox refers to my inability to be coherent, relevant, or reserved.

2. Elaborate on your default photo:
An intensely photoshopped lie. Taken by me, edited by me, believed by no one.

3.What does your headline mean?
It's a quote from my friend Erin, who said that what comes out of my mouth is like a Poet and a Sailor having a knifefight, or something of that ilk.

4. What is your current relationship status?
Oh God. Obviously it's now 29 secrets, because I've been single forever, it's common knowledge, and I will continue to be so.

5. Honestly, does your crush like you back?
If David Tennant were to lay eyes upon me, I'm sure he would leave Sophia Myles in an instant.

6. What is your current mood?
Pretty good. Worried that I won't get this job and will subsequently sink steadily into debt, but, you know.

7. What do you love most?
Sleeping

8. What makes you most happy?
My friends.

9. What's your middle name?
I've got two, and they're Merle & Winifred.

10. If you could go back in time, and change something, what would you change?
"Don't you know anything, Lelaina? Sex is the quickest way to ruin a friendship". And that's all I have to say about that.

11. If you MUST be an animal for ONE day- what would you be?
I'd be another Angel Fish in the tank with my solitary Angel Fish, so that he or she wouldn't be so alone anymore.

12. Ever have a near death experience?
Several, young dumb stupid things in cars.

13. Name one thing you do a lot?
Eat

14. What's the name of the song that's stuck in your head right now?
Apple of the Eye - Something with Numbers

15. Who did you copy and paste this from?
A random on Myspace.

16. Name someone with the same b-day as you?
The Shaq Attack.

18. Have you ever sang in front of a large audience?
Several times in choir.

19. What is your favorite thing to do when your mad?
Shoot things on GTA or the 360 equivalent, Saints Row.

20. What's the first thing you notice about the OPPOSITE sex?
I'm a superficial lady with keen eyes. Where to start? Face and Hair, I think.

21. Are you a member of FriendWise.com?
No, but it sounds lame.

22. Do you sleep with a stuffed animal?
Not anymore. I still have them knocking around my room but they're too small so I tend to go for pillows.

23. Ever had a drunken night?
Ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. hah. haha. ha.

25. Do you still watch kiddy movies or TV shows?
Pocahontas, Beauty and the Beast and The Little Mermaid sit quite high in my top ten.

26. Whats your fantasy?
An apartment that contains something and someone other than a fishtank and my cousin. In the city. With a couch. I still don't have a freakin couch.

27. Honestly do you love yourself?
Certain things. Others I'm not so fond of.

28. Name something funny that happened to you.
When I woke up on my living room floor next to a duck crossing sign.

29. Can you speak another language?
I used to be able to speak fractured Japanese and French, but can't do either.

30. What's your favorite smell?
Morning After Skin. Preferably not mine. Also Vanilla.

A time for new things

2006-11-09T06:25:00.000-08:00

It's time for new, ya'll.

First up, as a special treat for my regulars, I've got a new profile picture. If you blur me enough my facial features disappear and I'm almost passable. Yay for photoshop and a wasted year of hecs, funneled into a design course I'll never finish. So catch the full size here and burn your eyes. Self deprecating humour may be the second lowest form, but it doesn't rate all that badly in the truthiness stakes.

Secondly, the power in the reps in the American mid-term has gone to the demos. Well done. Then again, it was a test that those wacky republicans were always going to flunk. Just goes to show what happens when people are pushed too far. Take their nephews, they'll bear it, take their son, they'll burn you.

Also, I've got an interview at JB-hifi on Monday. Any interview tips are greatly appreciated. And I've iTuned some new popindie. Starky aren't bad. And, you know what Australia? While we're being honest with each other, I'd just like to put something out there.

Not 'Forever Young', which, literally drove me to tears at conception day (go on Josh, vouch for me), but you know, when they're actually writing their own songs. Skeleton Jar isn't a bad LP. It's just the "omghi2u 70s sk8rs r teh kewlest" mentality that shits me.

Now I'm going to rest, and think about what I've done and how I can stop being a drain on society. Meanwhile, here comes Christmas. Fuckers.

One day alarms won't just be sonic

2006-10-21T04:54:00.000-07:00

It's 9:47pm on a Saturday and I'm sitting on my heiny (which is mysteriously sore, and it's not for a fun reason, because I can remember that much of last night) and I'm listening to alternating Panic at the Disco and Scissor Sisters.

I am a cultural vacuum. Hi.

Last night's social activities included a bottle of red, me spurting spazzy pfaff at poor unsuspecting Daz during its consumption, and carrying an unconscious (but still adorable) Lucy back to the boy-house to crash. I missed the Red Riders DJ set, but made up for it by buying their album (Replica Replica) today. It rocks my argyles. Actually, hang on, I've just got to do something.

ZOMGITZSOGOODLEIKROLLERSKATESORPIE!~!!!!@#HYPERKEWL!!!!!!!

Ahhhh. I'm sorry, it's just that my life is a series of overlapping addictions, tiny, small and large, and baby likes to rock and roll. I'm so indie it hurts (apparently it's supposed to, from your eyelashes to your black tangled heart.) And it does. Just enough.

Can I redeem myself by spinning some Muse, or does their new stuff wreak of Stadium Rock Plagiarism? Eh. Matt Bellamy is dreamy, regardless.

In other news, I'm drinking lots of water and the moment and feeling the effects. Within a couple of weeks I'll look like...erm...something hydrated. Yah.

Anywho. Nighternight!

In which the author betrays Google, and gives Rupert Murdoch a big ol' hand job.

2006-10-19T08:02:00.001-07:00

Yeah, so I got a MySpace.

WHORE!! WHORE WHORE WHORE!!

I hate myself just that little bit more.

In other news, I just finished the first sketch of the storyboard I need to film tomorrow. Yeah, it's 2:48AM and yeah, I'm being picked up at 6:30. But the fact remains. I go to a lot of cool parties. So it doesn't matter that I've sold my soul at the crossroads and for the ability to create, then pawned my dignity and bought Italian Roast Coffee with the proceeds.

Oh, by the way, just for those of you who are following my academic progress, I've finally recieved a distinction in my so-called degree, in Screenwriting for a Script analysis which was composed whilst on the piss after commuting to and from my mum's place in Wyong for a week. Most people did something French, or Kaufman, or both. I was originally going to do Dodgeball, but then I decided that it was a little slack-jawed and low brow, so I did Shrek 2 instead. And they fucking loved it. Hahahahahahahahahahhaahahah. Here's my closing paragraph:

"Shrek 2 is a thoughtful exploration of contemporary social issues, and this is firmly reinforced through the writer's construction of ideological polarites, antagonists, and their opposition to the traditions of genre and the beliefs of the main character."

That sentence is so retarded it was offered a safe Liberal seat on the spot. Sometimes I think that they don't read these things.

all in the name of progress

2006-10-09T06:31:00.000-07:00

It's so reassuring when you read other blogs and realise that they're at the exact same place you were four years ago. It's arrogant and presumptuous, but helps me sleep. Along with the downers.

Call me Judy, Judy, Judy.

(If you understand both of those references, and post them in the comments section, you win a secret prize {and for once it's not just my heart}).

At least this blog is streets ahead of my old livejournal, both in the synthesis and wording of the angst. See, when you're 16, it's all about the pain inside. Now I can write that off as existential funk and blame the world for the rest of my problems.

Well, it worked for America.

Oooh ZING! She's political!

He doesn't look a thing like Jesus...

2006-10-09T05:15:00.000-07:00

But frankly, would you want him to? Then again, Christ was a carpenter AND a prophet, and usually tradies are quite ripped. Hello ladies. Even though I'm listening to the Killers in both ears, I can still see Denton making Joanne Lees cry out of the corner of my right eye. That's the money shot. Look at her eyes, shining like crystal-bathed freedom. The ratings will be quite ca-ching tonight. Bastard.

So, Adam Spencer guest lectured for Advanced Radio today. That was surprisingly good. Not as good as the swim I had at Bilgoa Baths this morning, but when a man tries to take on the ocean in my affections...he's fighting something else then. He shat all over Megan Spencer's French-new-wave-lampooning-Alphaville-T-Shirt-wearing-masturbation festival back in First Semester. Except Adam Spencer sought to emphasise exactly how hard it is to get into the ABC. The only thing he emphasised more was how shit commercial media is. So there's tons of optimism for everyone to share in.

hahahahahahahahahahhahahaha.

Oh wow. I just had the most tasteless thought ever. Imagine if Joanne Lees had been interviewed by Richard Wilkinson during her ordeal. Or Molly would have been equally hilarious.

"Tell us, Joanne, How have you enjoyed your stay in Australia"

Oooh, Lateline. I love that they show all of the North Korean Army's synchronised marching. What are we afraid of now? Their Choreography? Oh Tony, that's just wrong. "So, what is George W. Bush going to do now that the axis of evil, has access to evil". Oh, Jesus.

Saturday, Wyong

2006-10-06T19:15:00.000-07:00

Well, my new favourite band is officially Death Cab for Cutie. It's not really a summer band, but I don't care. I mean I do, as I was saying to batman the other day, a perfect spring band can do a lot for the atmosphere of a summery gathering. Cody Chestnut's Look Good in Leather is a perfect example. But Death Cab is just so upbeat about being sad. I'm sad that they used to be on the OC, but then again, so have Ryan Adams and Evermore, and it hasn't done anything to ruin their reputations....right.

In terms of writing, I need to get back in the saddle a bit. I think that I've just been so apathetic lately that I've had nothing to write about. It was so gutting, the knowledge that I was too bored to write. And then I thought, 'what's the point, you're rubbish at it anyway'. You were always the writer and now you're just barely passing screenwriting. I think I need to stop caring what people think, about my writing anyway.

Did you know that Spike Milligan did a lot of his serious writing on the central coast? True Story.

Snow Patrol and Martha Wainwright?

2006-09-27T00:34:00.000-07:00

It happened. And I mad-crazy adore it! It's the most unlikely duet of the millenium (Kylie Minogue and Nick Cave easily took out the second) and yet it clicks more than a bouncer on a friday night.

Surely, Rhiannon, more is going on in your life, more poetic, weighty subject matter to share with your sometimes adoring, sometimes rabid fans?

No.

...

...

...

Okay, so I've sunk into a semi-vegetative state, induced primarily by Foxtel, and secondarily by my own frustration at being able to find gainful employment. So far, I've heard nothing from Tree of Life, Borders, and I'm quite sure I've been shredded by JB HiFi as well. As for right now, Kitty's going to cook me some mighty fine taragon Chicken. And Aaron's made a cheesecake that could realistically be sold in a cafe. I'm excited.

you're like a poet AND a sailor!

2006-09-24T07:37:00.000-07:00

That's what Erin said to me, and I think I like it. It's lyrical and raw, just like me. In fact, that may be the new name for this journal. What's been happening to me? Well, according to medical science I'm clinically depressed. But that's a load of hooey, and no one likes a fruitcake (unless it's Christmas, in which case it has to be soaked in brandy, like sangria fruit or a Swedish milk-herder).

Oh, and I've joined my first cult. The Golden Key society. Crack out the Kool-Aid!

Ummm....what to tell. Sean's having a party this Friday. It's open invite, which means I'm totally going.

Dolls is a really nice film. It looks like what would be painted on the walls of the left ventricle of my blood-pump, were it not too busy to paint.

Jurassic Park.

Newsflash

2006-09-18T05:49:00.000-07:00

ZOMG LATELINE HAS A NEW REPORTER CALLED JOHN STEWART!!

I knew that there was a reason that Norman Hermant went to the 7pm Bulletin.

I know I've been away too long.

I know there's a reason.

I know I'll tell you eventually.

Not now, though.

I want these motherfucking snakes off this motherfucking plane!

2006-08-24T06:23:00.000-07:00

I had a dream last night that I solved the oil crisis by convincing everyone to ride horses.

Then I woke up and saw Snakes on a Plane.

Life is good.

I'm now going to eat the other half of my Krispy Kreme in the dark. Watching the Daily Show. More Jon Stewart. Yeah. Jon Stewart.

It's Monday.

2006-08-20T19:33:00.000-07:00

Sitting at home, drinking a bottle of red. Not always red.

That's a lie. It's 12pm. I'm having Ginger Beer.

This was the weekend of...many many hours, and it's now time to collect my outstretched self. Friday was shopping and coffee (despite the fact that no actual coffee was consumed) in Newtown with Josh and The Lovely Jess™, then I walked along King Street to UTS and Edit Metropolis, to soak up as much wank (although I probably shouldn't have told the organiser that it was. Ah, hindsight. That's why I'll never be a diplomat or a Middle Eastern peace negotiator) as possible. Either way, it was my favourite brand of magical and I had my face painted, although it was a shame that I missed out on the pony ride.

Onto the Lansdowne (via an hour wait at Oporto because the birthday girl was late) and death metal night. Hold me! King Street again. Zanizibar. Creepy Irish man with his arm around my waist calling me a lovely lady and asking me my plans. Decline drunken Irishman. Threatened with the Cross. Voice my objections. Go to Purple Sneakers instead (score!), see Tim, Sean, all the Friday Boys ™. Miss my last bus at 3:30am, so I stay through til 4:30amish, when Erin leaves. Go home with Tim. Realise we're both starving. Get 40% extra Sausage Rolls. Also Wedges. Eat and whisper until 5:50am when I catch the second bus home, having missed the first due to aforementioned sausage rolls.

Home at 7am. Shower. Bed.

(Just as a sidenote, there is a fucking MASSIVE pigeon on my balcony right now. It's endlessly disturbing. It's huge. The size of a man! No, a chicken. It could floor a bantam in 30 seconds, I can tell.)

Slept until twoish, when Aaron arrived, full 'o beans, to go to Lucy's 21st and then out afterwards, because, well, she's 21 now. Send her love. Here's some photo-age. Did I mentioned that I looked stunning? Still no booty, though.

I now presente to ye, the great and noble tragedie of Lucye's Pinke Balloones.

Lucye hade ye olde pinke balloones

The balloons wanted to be free

So she let them go

But they missed her, and when they fell back down to Oxford Street, she was gone.

The End.

Happy Birthday Lu. Happy Monday Everyone.

Why I won't try Heaven Ganache

2006-08-15T05:38:00.000-07:00

I've been tempted by a culinary spectre, looming chocolatey and rich on the horizon.

Heaven Ganache promises me so many things. A soft, velvety coating; nothing like the all-conquering pioneer of chocolate ice-creams (the Magnum), no heartless shell... Heaven Ganache alledges to be luxurious and accomodating, 'Just like icing on a mudcake!'.

I really like mudcake.

There are few things I like more.

One of the things I like more is mudcake icing.

Another is getting sloshed and making out, but that's not for here.

But I can't do it, I just can't. What if it's not what it promises to be? What if it leaves me unsatisfied? More frightening, another prospect.

What if it's everything I've ever wanted?

Music Max's Top 13 Cliched Love Songs Explained

2006-08-07T08:12:00.000-07:00

While this is playing in the background (as I trawl Wikipedia for factoids. Some hobby that is. Neeeeeeeerrrrrrd!!!) I think I might write a little commentary of what I see and hear. Let's see how we go.

Number 13 - Shania Twain: From this moment.
Unless she's singing to her record company, I doubt that her "dreams came true because of you". Honestly. This hackneyed ode to monogamy and living your life for someone else....well. If she were really that obsessed with being the little wife, wouldn't she be making him potroast or southern-frying some chicken, and saving the oil to give him a backrub with later? Doubt she'd

Number 12 - Ronan Keating: We've got tonight
Former boy band boy teams up with country strumpet. Apparently her name is Lulu. Well, for one thing, she's too old for him. "We've got tonight, who needs tomorrow?". Children? The Middle East? Should be renamed "Screw the future, we've got hormones."

Number 11 - Leo Sayer: More than I can say
Never actually heard this one before. But apparently he misses he or she more than anything. And needs them so. And in the clip he's gluing things. Sounds like a bit of a pussy actually. "Am I just another guy?" Yes. Yes you are.

Number 10 - Reo Speedwagon: Keep on Loving You
"I meant I'd love you forever" No. You didn't.
http://www.oxytocin.org/oxytoc/love-science.html

Number 9 - Bad English: When I see you smile.
Apparently she gives him the movitation to keep living. Well, it COULD be her, or it could be the hairspray fumes. Your choice.

Mehhhhhhh getting tired of this. Being cynical is hard. I might go back to pithy skepticism. Yeah. That'll do.

Number 8 - Wet Wet Wet: Love is all Around
Yes yes YES!! Finally. Hugh Grant. Well, they did admit the cliche element. Fun fact number one: Rhiannon's never actually seen Four Weddings and a Funeral the whole way through. It's Andie MacDowell. Couldn't stand her in it, bored me so terribly I turned it off after fifteen minutes. Aren't I appalling! And to think I made it though Groundhog Day and ALL those Loreal ads.

Number 7 - Spandeau Ballet: True.
God, did you ever notice how much the lead singer of Spandeau (or however it's spelt) Ballet looks JUST LIKE that guy from the Late Show who quit comedy like straight after the Late Show finished? I think his name was Justin or something. Ah, Jason. His name was Jason.

Number 6 - Olivia Newton John: I Honestly Love You
Okay, so I can't fault this one. It's Peter Allen. Who could?
And don't you DARE say anything about AIDS.

Number 5 Berlin - Take my Breath Away
The reason I've never finished Top Gun.

Number 4 - Joe Cocker and Jennifer Warner: Love lift us Up Where we Belong.
Ewan McGregor saved this song for me. Then my mum bought a Joe Cocker 'best of' and had it cranking on full whilst picking me up from the Station once. She pretty much snatched the song away from me and drove over it. Repeatedly.

Number 3 - Minnie Riperton: Loving You
Too many lalalalala's. Also, that episode of South Park butchered it for me! Too many exploding Donkey's.

Number 2 (ooooh, almost there) - Celine Dion: My Heart Will Go On
Oh no!!!!! Nooooooo!!!!!!!

Well, it had to happen I guess. Fun fact number two: Rhiannon has never seen Titanic from start to finish either. I always thought it was a bit of a giveaway. But then again, now I love Kate Winslet, I should probably watch it. I might not like it as much as Eternal Sunshine, though. You can hear Celine's French accent in this song at several points. Or Quebecian or whatever the hell. Oops, there she is on a CGI ship. A dodgy-1997-CGI ship.

NUMBER ONE ZOMG BARRY MANILOW!!11!!!1!!!!! : Can't Smile Without You
HEeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEE. Good Choice, Music Max. That's made me happy. I wish I weren't alone, I would have had a love-in. Hehehehehehehehe I love Barry Manilow. Secret pleasure number three after Cliff Richard Movies ( you know the kind, where he saves a club) and Betty Croker Frosting straight from the tub. Mmmmmm. I think that will be the sign that someone really gets me. They'll buy me a Cliff Richard DVD, Barry Manilow CD and a Case of Frosting for my Birthday.

So it ends. I hope it was good for you. Now for 5 hours of sleep. KTHNXBAI!!!

An Entry for Josh

2006-08-04T19:31:00.000-07:00

Happy salutations from Newcastle, home of the raincloud.

This post is dedicated to my friend Josh, because he's too lax to update his own blog, I'm writing one on his behalf. So, I present to you, good reading public, Josh Partridge-Batman's Very Secret Diary.

Dear Diary.
Today I wrestled with my own existence, prior to spending some time doing the shopping. I purchased a single banana for $5000 dollars. This depressed me greatly because it used up the greater majority of my immense tax return. Then I called Rhiannon for a chat. She is the sunshine of my life. She is so talented that I often like to bask in the immense warmth of her talent, and her fame. Did I mention her fame?

My friend Rhiannon is so famous at uni that I'm often confounded by her remarkable ability to make friends at the drop of a hat (or perhaps she's dropping something else). She's so good at it that I wonder why why WHY she doesn't forsake tertiary education for a world of glittering parties, noteriety, cocaine and promiscuous sex.

Well, I'm off to write about superheroes and the effect of superhero culture on the eating habits of Generation X.

Love love love you all tons
(spesh'ially Jess)
Josh

Psued-O Week and the bite of Sweet Jane

2006-08-01T03:38:00.000-07:00

Mmmm First Week Back At Uni™.

The air is rich with the scent of instant noodles, the university grounds are lined with stalls and my ears are filled with music.

It's just like O-Week without the false sense of optimism.

So anyway, I'm still shell-shocked from handing in my first assessment of the semester. It's the script for Sweet Jane, a 4 minute drama. You can read it here. At least that's 20% of Screen production over and done with. I've tivoed last week's Doctor Who. And I watched it twice. I love David Tennant. He's so sweet and charismatic.

I just thought I should let you all know that I'm still alive.

My life hurts.

This Post Should Be An Opus About Why Orlando Bloom Reminds Me of a Pantomime Horse

2006-07-28T07:33:00.000-07:00

However, because like all bloggers and other miscellaneous Gen-Yers, I'm indecisive, I'm going to post this survey I did on the train back to Sydney last Thursday instead.

Last thing you burned while cooking? Erm....Well I didn't do it but someone burnt the spinach triangles at the wrap party. Last thing I burnt was the base of my blogtenary cupcakes. You can tell from Josh’s facial expression in the photo.

Describe yourself in 3 words. Intense, Loud, Soft.

How long does it take you to get ready for your day? That depends on if I'm 'dressing' or not. Average uni day, half an hour, normal ‘dressing’, can be anywhere up to two hours. I look towards formal occasions with fear.

Are you a health freak? If by ‘health freak’ you mean sclerosis of the liver, then yes. I take a multivitamin and eat apples too.

How many people have you thought were The One? That’s such a loaded question. And so early on, too! The official answer is ‘not as many as I'd like’. That is to say, none.

What turns you off about the opposite sex? Arrogance (although used in small doses it can be massively hot). Pig-headedness. Roughness without eloquence. Insensitivity. Insecurity. Assumptive thoughtlessness. .

What kind of car do you drive? The STA Fleet. CityRail. Countrylink, and when I’m learning to drive an AUII Ford Falcon. I think it’s 2002. It’s Silver.

Favourite thing to toast to? Destruction. Also Birthdays.

What celebrity would you have coffee with? David Tennant. N'hai! Or Spielberg, because he’d probably pay. Or Bruckheimer, because he’d probably pay and I could poison him. Not fatally.

What celebrity would you not have sex with? Hugh Hefner. Yeuk. And Harrison Ford is getting on a bit too. If time travel were a reality I’d do him.

What is the main ringtone on your mobile? Benny Hill, but I wish it were Doctor Who

What were you doing at midnight last night? On the internet, nerding it up. Mooching off the neighbour’s wireless, actually.

Last tv show you watched? I could say Doctor Who, but I’d be lying. It was Lateline. Which is SO much better, in terms of establishing me as a nice, normal young woman.

Who is your best friend? I have several. Lucy is the best of all, the Queen of Hearts; Josh is the Joker, and Kitty, Emma, Dave and Erin make up the rest of a pretty impressive hand. I'm loved. s'all that matters.

Who in your family do you get along with? Erm...all of them. Should I not get along with them? Oh wait, that would place us firmly out of the 21st Century. To maintain a sense of context, I’m going to say Aaron.

What is your top 5 hollywood hottie list? Can I say London instead? David Tennant, Ewan, Clive Owen, Richard Armitage, aaaaaaaaand I’d sex Orlando Bloom, but I wouldn’t be able to talk to him because he’s vacuous. If we’re saying Americans I’d do 2000 vintage Jon Stewart, bless his cotton socks. Oooh. Hugh Jackman.

Who is the 4th person on your missed call list on your cell phone? TJ

When/where was the last place you travelled? Newcastle, and I'm still sorta there!

How many times have you been in love? Twice, but probably only once.

How old will you be in 10 years? 30. JESUS!!!

What did the last text message you received on your cell say? Hey there sadie the cleaning lady, are you in Sydney yet? Call me when you get home to epping (!).

What is a saying you say a lot? "This is true". Which is weird, because as a postmodernist I don't believe in absolute truth. I need to stop saying it because it’s irritating, too.

Sinful snacking weakness? Food? Dude, it's a given. Everything. Probably biscuits though. Definitely biscuits. And Cheese. Custard. Dairy?

Best clothing style? My “style” is probably a nice top of some kind, with floaty skirt and flat Mary Janes, or Chucks with my Favourite Franz Ferdinand t-shirt and jeans.

Ever run out of gas? I don’t really suffer from it, so I never worry about it running out.

Ever been to europe? After Uni. You won't see me forever. I’m going to become a naturalised British Citizen and work for the BBC.

Worst date ever? At this point in the narrative, tumbleweed blows through the survey. I’ve never had a bad date.

Personal records? I keep a diary, and I’m the national champion for saying awkward things.

What would you do if you could be the opposite sex for a day? I’d do something chivalrous, to prove that it’s not dead. Open Doors, hold books. All the hits.

Total jail time? Nada, luvvies.

Have a crush on anyone you work with? Ahhhh Wesley. He looked like a younger, perkier, Australian John Cusack. But I don’t work there anymore, so it doesn’t qualify really.

In your cd player right now? I think the one at home is empty. But I’m listening to New Radicals and U2 in my iTunes.

What is something you believe in? Fate. Not in the predetermined, inevitable future thing, just that we’re meant to go certain places and meet certain people. The rest is up to us.

What is something you fear? Time. Dying before I find whatever ‘it’ is. Both of which are things I can do nothing about, so I think that they’re perfectly rational, and keep me ambitious. Oh, and department store Santa’s. They scare the heck out of me. Also Daleks. And Global Warming.

Big or small? Big dreams, big skirts, small lines, big hair, big hugs, small kisses, small perfect moments, big eyes, small victories, big bowls, small aches, big trips, small knickers, big heart, big hands, small lies. Is that what you want?

Worst physical pain you ever experienced? When my grandmother died. I was 12. August 1998. I cried so much that I couldn’t feel my chest on the outside, and the muscles burned, and my face ached. I was so heavy I couldn’t move. That kind of pain is absolute. I still feel its echo every time I think that something bad has happened to people I love.

Tell us something about your childhood? My first word had four syllables. I grew up on a farm 45kms outside Tamworth, next to Tony Windsor’s, the local MP. My grandmother made excellent puddings after the roast every weekend. My Grandfather lived in a separate house out the back because after 40 years, they had made each other crazy. I never questioned it at the time, I just accepted that this was how the world worked. I still tend to see families as if they’re on TV. I don’t long for it, I just find them to be unreal.

Best time to catch you in a good mood? When I’m with my friends, or when I’m watching something really good on TV. Saturday Nights, ABC.

If you could be anything for a day, what would it be? The President of the United States of America. I would fix everything I have broken, and then I’d shoot myself in the head, safe in the knowledge that I’ll go back to being a Single White Female tomorrow. Either that or I'd be a Pineapple. Just out of curiousity.

Most prized possession? This Powerbook

Would you ever sell it? Maybe for a better Powerbook.

What is one of your pet peeves? Cracking knuckles. Thongs in winter. That’s two but I got one off Lu, so it doesn’t count.

Favourite actor/actress? Do I really have to answer this? I’m a film student! Actresses, Kate Winslet and Natalie Portman, Actors Clive Owen, David Tennant, people with presence and accents.

What song are you listening to right now? “Hallways” by Something For Kate. I’m Splendour Priming.

If you could sucker punch someone right now who would it be? The guy who invented God, for making so much happen in his name.

Any secrets? Nothing Lucy doesn’t know. Except about my gender-bending and my secret career, moonlighting as a Piccadilly whore. Woops.

Unhealthy addictions? I’ve got an addictive personality, so it’s safe to say that some of them are bound to be unhealthy. I’m going to say cheese. Followed by people.

Unhealthy fascinations? What makes people tick.

Favourite sexual position? Ask me in five years.

What do you notice first about the opposite sex? After I get a general impression and judge whether or not they’re do-able, it all comes down to how long it takes for them to make me laugh.

Favourite physical part of the opposite sex? Can’t say I mind a nice body (toned but not too muscly), but it has to come back to a big dorky grin and scruffy hair. Oh, and they have to smell great. I have to want to eat them first.

What physical part would you change about yourself? The usual. I’d be thinner, my eyes would be bigger, my hands and feet smaller, hair thicker. Lop a bit off my nose, while you’re there.

Soft sensual sex or porn star sex? Despite my loud and overbearing personality, I’m going to go for soft. It’s more familiar, less violating.

Would you go on a date with someone you met online? Been there, done that. That said, it came after a lengthy friendship in person. I’d never do online dating things or speed dating. I’d rather accept the realities of my existence.

Work attire? When I’m employed I’m going to shop at Esprit and Cue. Mmmm Esprit and Cue.

What is your best physical feature? Well it COULD be my legs if I put in a bit of work. At this stage I’m going to say it’s a toss up between my lips, eyes and hair. Let’s go to a vote. Text lips, eyes, or hair to 199 EVICT! Or just leave a comment.

Do you think anyone actually has read this far? By skimming the questions with their eyes like a smooth pebble, yes.

EDIT: Shut up Josh. If I didn't have $5 riding on it, I'd smite you.

Now THIS is a Public Speaker

2006-07-07T08:50:00.000-07:00

I don't care what you think about Americans or September 11 or justice or morality or Foxtel. You can't watch that and honestly tell me that you don't understand why I want to babysit for him whilst he runs for the Whitehouse or at least cooks me breakfast.

God Bless Godless Central.

Happy New Year, Mr. Dollar!

2006-07-06T02:03:00.000-07:00

So here we are at the end of another financial year. Ideally, if I were going to go the whole Helen Fielding, I'd list my income and outcome, but since I'm confident that those numbers would be incompatible with human life on earth, I'm electing not to share them.

Many things have passed since I last conversed with you all, The Wrap Party has drunkenly been and gone with more than its share of drama (and semi-pornographic party snaps). And now I face a time of transition and great change. Aaron, my cuzzy-bruz (Maternal Cousin) is moving in, the house is going to be completely cleaned top to bottom and made-over (hopefully with a hand from some of Josh's old posters). Then it's onto a new semester and a bounty of adventure. For example, I'm doing at least one third year subject. MMmmmm. Third years.

This Saturday is my girly sleepover with Kitty prior to the shoot, which is deeply exciting. And, did I mention.............

NEW DOCTOR WHO!!!!!

Woooo-ooooh-oooooooooh-Ooooooh Oooooo!

OooOooOooooooOooooooOoooOooo.......

(Dumdahdumdeedumdahdumdehdumdedumdedum)

If you'll excuse me, I'm going to fangirl.

The Heart's Like Any Other Muscle (When you pull it, the only way to feel better is to use it.)

2006-06-27T08:35:00.000-07:00

So here I sit, looking out into my mother's reserve and squinting through to the other side of the suburb and its fairy lights. You really have to see Newcastle. It's a beautiful and underrated place. I propose a road trip. Takers?

This morning started on the study floor, which is home for a few days because grandpa's in 'my room'. Not that I have anything to complain about, I had enough feather pillows to make Mother Duck cry blood. Then I weeded the garden I made mum last year. My shoulder hurts like a motherfucker from foolishly carrying equipment back to F9C instead of swallowing my pride and asking for help. But at least I still have it if I get hungry later.

Then I decided to pop next door at about 11 to visit the neighbours, and subsequently the rest of today was spent with Georgia, who's One-and-ten-months. I've known her since she was a baby bump on Cherie, and even though I go away to uni for long spurts we always pick up right where we left off. Today we went to the beach. We chased a seagull for half an hour. Georgia flew, and discovered those tiny sea snails that live on the sides of sea boulders. I looked at Redhead, inhaled deeply and regretted my inability to make living here work. Then we drew Seahorses and ate dinner and I was home by 6pm. She makes me understand why people have kids.

I've been having this weird, something-bad-is-going-to-happen-or-at-very-least I'm-feeling-out-of-control feeling lately, that I'm only here to do a job. Like I'm only existing for other people at the moment. I'm here to try really hard to make people happy, and they make me happy, but I still feel like a goose amongst the ducks. A victim of time, thrown into the universe to do good deeds but watch all the important stuff from the outside. I feel like a flash in the pan. Please don't take this the wrong way, friends and loved ones. It's just premonition, nothing tangible.

Anyway, wrap party on Thursday. I'm going to make a lot of punch, a lot of love, and then I'm going to share it. Also Fairy bread. And Fairy lights. And Fairy men. They'll all be there.

The Question Has to Be Asked

2006-06-25T05:43:00.000-07:00

How many loads of washing can I do in one day?

Ten.

Count em, bitches.

My carpet is also beautifully fragranced and my piano keys are freshly vacuumed. Such is the joy of domesticity. I'm being whisked away to Novocastria to visit my grandfather and prune my fat dog, so I'm afraid I'll not really have any prep time for the wrap party other than now. Emma's kindly purchased three casks of red and three bottles of brandy, so all I really have to worry about now is getting enough Ginger Ale and taping off the cupboards in which the glassware is stored. I refuse to have a repeat of last time, where Lu got glass in her foot. Poor muffin. I refuse to let party shenanigans hurt those I love.

So, today in history....

1945: The United Nations Charter is signed.
1963: Kennedy: 'Ich bin ein Berliner'
1977: The Yorkshire Ripper kills 16 year old shop assistant Jayne MacDonald in Leeds, changing public perception of the killer as she was the first victim who was not a prostitute.

And didn't all of those do a ton for humanity?

Today is also the day that Michel Foucault died. So there's that. I suppose the Cultural Studies department will all be wearing black today. Not that it makes it any different from any other day. Maybe they'll all sit around and quote from The Prison.

I now know what my first screenplay for fame and fortune is going to be. I'm going to adapt The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde. Because it's postmodern, and so am I.

If you'll all excuse me, I'm now going to bed. So that I can wake up. Alone. Awwww.

Ohhhhhhhhh my.

2006-06-16T17:42:00.000-07:00

I just threw up. Water. That's all there was in it. It was the most bizarre slightly-medical physical thing to happen to me today. And also this year. This is what happens when you go drinking at the Ranch. Friends don't let friends drink at the Ranch. Friends make friends drink at the Ranch. Often to dire effect. And don't ask me how I ended up in a park at 3am whilst my close associates swigged Limoncello from the bottle. It just happened.

In brighter news, semester one has come to a close, and I'm now kicking back and producing a short film. And going to Splendour. And I'd really like a new job. So I'm not all that tied up.

Detail is retched. You learn people like songs, and then you play them so many times that they get lost in your head and lose all their meaning. But you still know what it's about.

Entmoot.

Happy Blogtenary!

2006-06-06T05:30:00.000-07:00

One Hundred Posts! And you said I couldn't commit. Actually, I've never been accused of that. But no doubt the moment will come, and I'll handle it just as poorly as I have all the others. But anyway. To celebrate, this post is going to be absolutely chockas with celebratory photos, reflections, and even a few announcements about the future of this blog. Firstly, here are the somewhat lame somewhat tasty somewhat terrible cupcakes I made this afternoon for the blogday, me eating one, and Josh aka batman trying one and discovering that they're actually not that grouse!

But it's the thought that counts. Or the sentiment. Whichever. But anyway. If I were any part of any song ever, I’d be the “Ding-Dong” in Rock the Kazbah. You know, the bit that comes after “’sha really don’t like it. Ding, dong, Rock the Kazbah”. Just thought you should know. To celebrate my 100th post, I’ve decided to list 100 things I want to do before I die. Did I mention I'm celebrating?!?!

1. Re-enact the final scene from Breakfast at Tiffany’s
2. Say something quoteable, possibly have said phrase put on a T-shirt
3. Run for federal parliament
4. Be Published in Book Form
5. Produce a TV series for the ABC
6. Drink coffee on the banks of the Sienne
7. Win a band competition
8. Sing the lead in a musical
9. be part of a chorus line
10. date all of the following: An Artist, a Musician, An Actor, A Writer and A Media Entity
11. Get married
12. get divorced
13. remarry
14. Send a love letter
15. Receive a love letter
16. Buy All the DVD’s I’ve ever craved
17. Buy All the CD’s I’ve ever craved
18. Meet a diplomat
19. slap a human in the face
20. Make it to a size 10
21. Go backstage at a major festival
22. Get a letter to the Editors of the following publications published:
• Rolling Stone
• The Sydney Morning Herald
• The Australian
• Time
• The Bulletin
23. Learn to ride horses
24. Learn to play tennis, golf and croquet
25. Take up sailing
26. Make a quilt
27. Knit a jumper
28. Learn to waltz
29. make the cover of Time. Or the Woman’s Weekly.
30. Say something funny
31. buy a bravia. Yes, I know that one’s really shallow
32. Do the hiking paths in New Zealand
33. Have a one night stand
34. Do stand-up comedy just once
35. Direct a short film
36. Win Tropfest
37. Win an Oscar
38. Get over my fear of flying
39. Read the bible
40. Meet my father
41. Slap my father in the face
42. Work for the BBC
43. Get a song in JJJ’s hottest 100
44. Own a house on top of a mountain. Not like everest or anything. Just hinterland. Paradise.
45. Own a Vintage Givenchy dress
46. Hail a New York/London Cab.
47. Attend Cannes
48. Get Arrested
49. Be kicked out of a bar for lewd conduct
50. Record a Director’s Commentary
51. Eat a whole packet of biscuits in one sitting
52. Sit next to someone famous on the bus
53. Get my driver’s license
54. Own a house. That is not on top of a mountain.
55. Be a guest on a major talk show
56. Paint my fingernails black
57. See Europe and the UK properly. None of your Contiki Shit.
58. Have an Orchard
59. Write a Poem. That isn’t shit.
60. Write my own Wikipedia entry
61. Be the editor of a major woman’s glossy
62. Fill 10 diaries
63. Do 500 blog entries
64. Run up a massive room service bill and not care
65. Stay in a five star hotel
66. Shag someone in a position of power ie. A lecturer or tutor or Excecutive Producer. But not jerry Bruckheimer.
67. Try some kind of illicit drug
68. Be a guest DJ at a cool indie club
69. Be a bridesmaid
70. Get a puppy with a partner.
71. Be in the Guinness Book of Records for something
72. Direct a feature film
73. Have a party for 500 people
74. Make 1000 paper cranes
75. Graduate
76. Make ten grown men cry
77. turn down a proposal of marriage
78. Make a cameo in a major motion picture
79. Hire a famous band to play at my house. Pref. Franz Ferdinand.
80. Host a television show
81. Win the ratings
82. Own a cat. Name it Neil-Jet E Beebe.
83. Find the perfect pair of jeans
84. Live in another country for more than a year
85. Attend the Logies
86. Pull off an internet hoax
87. fall in love
88. write a fan letter to someone I truly admire, even if I know them
89. Have at least 5 friends I know now when I’m 30
90. Show my mum how grateful I am for all her sacrifices
91. Inspire someone to aspire for greatness
92. Go to every major Australian music festival for a whole year
93. See every film at the Sydney Film Festival one year
94. Buy the original print of The Fast and the Furious
95. Burn the original print of The Fast and the Furious
96. Represent my country. I don’t know how yet.
97. Run my own (successful) production company
98. Star in a full-colour feature article. Pref. Harpers but possibly Vanity Fair
99. Have an insane hair colour like Clementine from Eternal Sunshine
100. Change the world

I'd tell you what's gone on in the past week, but there'd be no point because not even I believe a lot of it, so absurd is my life. As for the exciting announcement about this blog...well...it's having a name change. I'm thinking either the Red Wine Mafia or Banned in China. I've yet to decide. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have seven and a half pages of script to falsify!

What's that, 99?

2006-05-23T05:29:00.000-07:00

My Ninety-Ninth post and a tribute to Television classic, Get Smart. What more could you want in a title?

I just got back from seeing Neil Gaiman with Josh (aka batman) and I have to say that it was the best lecture I've been to since Helen Caldicott's keynote. And that was only better because it was more sweeping and there was free booze. He read a short story he wrote recently that's as yet unpublished. Frankly I can't wait. It was so beautiful. Two boys lost at the wrong party, learning to talk to girls. A girl with red ringlets and green eyes tells him that she's a poem. He asks to hear it and he listens. He doesn't know the language but the rhythm or her words, steady like the ocean, lets him understand. I think it's one of the best metaphorical explorations of the relationship between women and men I've ever heard.

"when does [the poem] stop being a contagion and start being art?"

On to other news, and today was one of the busiest if most productive days I've had in a while. I've lost so much hair this semester that Kate and I had to go halves in a tub of Draino. Tomorrow I'm seeing Dion Beebee or however the fuck you spell it at popcorn taxi, which will be a bitch to get to but hopefully well worth it. Megan Spencer is also guest lecturing at my uni tomorrow for my Screen Production class. Our head of department has been hilariously calling her Megan Simpson for over a month. Unfortunately she's stopped. Dang.

"Excuse me, Ms. Simpson. Some people say you're an obnoxious bitch and a menace to society"
"Well, as a film critic-"
"No. Not as a film critic"

Actually I'm sure she's a lovely person, I just disagree with most of her reviews, and I kind of see her as the personification of the forces that shunted David and Margaret off to Aunty. Let's hope I don't get caught on the bus with all that Home-made napalm.

Gut Nacht, mein Strudel.

Chillax, Bro!!

2006-05-18T07:01:00.000-07:00

Why, do you ask, did I give my 98th post (yes, I know, I'm just as excited as you are about my impending centenary) a title made up entirely of convoluted hip-hop slang?

Because, I fucking CAN. And I'm FREE. I have NO assignments due THIS WEEK.

Phew. There's a new one. And, since our group screening of the Da Vinci Code has been postponed (and I'm very cut about the lack of Hanks in my Friday), I'm going to give myself a Girl Friday. Only without Cary Grant. Damn. Of course, then I have a week devoted to Radio, Screenwriting and Producing The Beekeeper. Don't ever say that I'm wasting the government's time and money!

Urgh, television. I don't want to try SMS dating, and it's not for me, regardless of what you tell me, hyponotically soothing VO lady. I doubt you're alone. Unlike Mike Goldsmith. Whose only company, apart from the little calender by his bed that marks the time between Big Brother and his tragic existence is Gretel. And sure, her hair's okay, but I wouldn't hang out with her for more than 15 seconds at a stretch.

Today I had a lovely day at uni, and chatted to my friends (although I think things went a little far, and if I ever hear the phrase "Good Old Cunnalingus!" or any of Kitty's tampon stories again, I may bite off my own lips and feed them to pirhanas. Such will be the mental anguish, I doubt I'll notice the gore. I wouldn't even notice Al Gore.). Then Dave, Josh and I watched Twin Peaks (Hooray!) and had a glass or three of awful red (Hooray!) and ate Chocolate Pudding (Hooray!!!). Then I set up a play-date for tomorrow with Lu and watched a tacky Hugh Jackman Romcom with Kate. All in all, this arvo was a total result, as Mike Skinner would say.

I think I'm going to write a novel. Like, a proper one. As in, I'm going to try for being a published author. Or auteur, if I were french. Or auteur if I wanted to be a distinctive contemporary filmmaker. Which I do. But not at this second. For the moment I want to write. I just don't know how to be compelling.

Time to watch Eternal Sunshine and ball for a while. Just for balance.

Oh No!

2006-05-14T21:46:00.000-07:00

What Famous Leader Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

Your Battery Chooky

2006-05-14T10:08:00.000-07:00

Ohhhh fuck me sideways, it's 5am. And I have 1,577 of incongruous, nonsensical News and Current Affairs notes. This isn't going to be nearly as good as I'd dreamed it would be. I loved this subject, and I didn't give it any of the attention it deserved as a direct result of my shoot for Screen Production. What on earth am I doing here? I'm going to get to 2000 and have a rest until I have to buy Splendour tickets. But I'm not going to my bed, because that's a dangerous and hypnotic place. The essay is 2500 due at 5pm, just so you know. I need to demonstrate that I've had both wide and selected reading. Bollocks.

------------ Eight Hours Later -------------

My. Fucking. My. Delilah.

Number of redial attempts made to the Splendour purchasing hotline: 259
Hours spent ringing relatives in futile manner in cash grab: .5
Bleeding, damaged thumbs from redial: 1
Lameness of the new Splendour ticket buying system: I would say priceless, but I'm going to give you a number as a direct reflection of my mental anguish: 90, 4834832734,09237423897489237498237498237489237489237498273498710924783.

Tickets finally purchased: 4. Thank God. Really. It's knocked me for six so I'm going to take my time on the essay at my own pace and do it properly. Better 5% off an HD than 0% off a pass. And the lower my mark, the less I lose! God bless percentages.

So that's Me, Jess, Josh and David all going, and Lucy and Sean and Tim. Hooray! Road trip! Or some kind of trip! I predict lots!

My Sweet George Harrison

2006-05-09T04:22:00.000-07:00

Rather, My Sweet Neil Finn. I have heard music from the seventh layer itself. They just played James Blunt covering Fall at your Feet over the climactic, leikomgwhoaJOhnnyfellandieeeed!!!! bit of the OC. I feel culturally raped. This has compelled me to eat mandarin peel, which is now burning the tastebuds from my tongue. I have heard the Devil, and he's English.

Logies Review 2006 aka GO YOU BIG RED SPUNKRAT! aka This Night of Nights

2006-05-07T06:06:00.000-07:00

I'd like to begin with a phrase that I've held deep inside myself until I could get to my keyboard. I love you, Adam. Let's run away together. I want to ride in your big red fire engine of positivity and fondle your silky charisma. You're high on life, and I can tell. I can't believe that you won nothing, from four nominations. You could have it so much better. Next year, my love.

Well done to John Wood though, my yay was so loud that my flatmate slammed her door in distaste.

In case you can't tell, once again, Adam Hills was the best thing at the Logies. Far and away the best part of the poor, sad affair. Although Chas almost topped it with his hugging-the-winners on-camera slutting. Anyway. Let's review.

Jessica Rowe needs to quit. "You LOOK FABULOUS!" I'm sure they can tell. It's an awards ceremony, people generally do. You're not a kindergarten teacher, so stop talking in that pathetic self-satisfied simper. And stop mentioning your husband. It's sad. Apparently Megan Gale is still famous for something, or famous enough to do the preshow. I think that Maybelline owns me now.

As for the new five-presenter system. Poor Bert. Why can't he retire, and they can trot him out for the odd cameo on Rove or something. The beginning of the show this year felt like a clunky school speech night, which only made the contrast between our dags and the slick, wanky Americans greater than the amount of space between Bec Hewitt nee Cartwright's head. When Laura Bingle or whatever her name asked the CSI guy what he was doing in Australia, you could almost hear him say "Because Channel Nine Paid Me, You Moron!". As for Mr. Big... I felt his pain for him. And his eyebrows. Lisa McCune was surprisingly perky and not at all annoying. I almost forgot that I hated her. Just for a moment.

I think that they could have picked a better SeaChange moment for the Drama showreel, rather than the somwhat generic shadowy Thornton-McInnes kiss. Some Diver Dan, Maybe? The Graham Kennedy thing was expected if somewhat trite. Shaun Micallef was debonair perfection itself, and he's still my all-time favourite.

Next year, I'm going to make sure that Adam Hills wins best dressed. I can't believe that Bec Spewitt won again. Such a mole. Natalie Bassingthwaite was coked off her tits, as per usual. I mean, if I ever get to the Logies, I'm going to get a bit drunk, but I think that tripping the white fantastic on the year that Play School was Hall of Famed (Best thing EVER, just so you know) is a little low rent. I'd say it doesn't even make rent. Her dress was quite nice, though. It was a pity that John wasn't there for the Play School Hall of Fame Induction, because I remember when I was three, the thing that brought me the most joy in the world was watching him dress in drag and speak in a falsetto.

I just really wish that we'd stop pretending. I know that that's how most people got to where they are in our Industry (Bec Hewitt nee Satan makes a sizeable living from it, last I checked) but you'd think that you would get to a point where you can safely acknowledge that we're a backwater with some really good shows. Don't get me wrong, I love our culture. More than most people. I just resent it when people get try-hardy about what we've done. On the whole, we don't have the wit of the British or the masturbatory splendour of the Yanks, and we should accept that, and let Shaun Micallef host the Logies every year until I'm famous enough to take over.

Sunday

2006-05-06T20:25:00.000-07:00

Good afternoon, children. Here I sit in the warm embrace of Mother Pollution (sounds like a good name for a band, actually) and I thought that I should let you know what's up, down and sideways.

Claire came around last night for a lambrusco and diet coke (Just coke for me, I'm drying out), which was endlessly classy. My cold sore is almost healed. I went for a bike ride and had a rare moment of freedom. I met Lu at the Cove for Iced Tea. I made several resignations, none of which were based in the realms of capitalism or academia. And now I'm sitting in my underwear and a T-shirt and dressing gown writing a blog entry for people who'll never read it (well, except for Lucy. She reads it. That's very good). Many congratulations to Lu for the new gig at Esprit, and the ~~whopping great staff discount, which I intend to abuse~~ large step up she's taken in the world of retail.

Oh, and I have four major assessments due in the space of a week, and a film shoot. None of which I've started. Joy! And I was going to go to the purple cast guy's musical. Huzzah!

Did you know that Macquarie University is home to the only public statue of a prostitute in the entire WORLD?

I'm going to have another bike ride.

Dear God.

2006-05-05T08:54:00.000-07:00

I forgave the Americans for a lot of things after I discovered that they were the motivating force behind the world's greatest culinary combination; namely that of peanut butter and chocolate. I was probably willing to let Hiroshima fly after I learnt that. But not this. Now, they've gone way too far down Shitting-Rhiannon-Off-Drive™ (no relation to Mulholland).

I don't care if he co-developed Scrubs

WHY!?!? Surely, American Coupling was example enough to the viewing public and society at large. Sure, American translation worked for Queer As Folk but that's just because the cast are absurdly hot, and it's pretty much just porn. That, and it's almost impossible to ruin anything that Russell T. Davies has a hand in. The new series of Doctor Who is a perfectly good example.

They took my beloved Simon Casey, renamed him Jeff Cahill, and they made him care about life. It's intrinsically wrong and completely forgoes the point of the show. What's more, as Americans are always so desperate to do, they made everyone attractive, in love, and they shoot it in front of a live studio audience. ARGH! Simon! My baby! What happened to you! Where'd they put you!?!?

I'm sorry to get immature and ranty, but not many things make me this angry. Injustice, Corruption, and American TV Executives. That's pretty much the list.

What happened to you, Paul Dempsey. You seem to have gone a bit mad and grown your hair. The new single's good though. I won't buy the album, I don't need to be sadder. Oh, the cycle of artists has started again. It goes like this every now and then; The Whitlams, Something for Kate, Eskimo Joe; they all release in succession and I get all sentimental for the last time they released anything and I think about old friends and best friends and lost friends. But then I think about what I have now, and I don't want to go back. Who would?

I'm this close to pulling an all-nighter. It's so easy with Rage when it's on a good roll of clips. Not a single note of homie shit. It'd help reset the body clock, but then....no. It'll also give me mad eyes and mad hair and mad brain. I read Breakfast at Tiffany's. You should too. Not at all like the movie. I feel sorry for Holly, but more like her in the book than the film. Audrey makes her a dreamboat but Capote's story shows us everything. She's just a mess with a modicum of style. I've done two loads of washing. Two more and some hand washing and I'm a free woman!

Anyway, it's Aaron's birthday (or, it was, two hours ago) and he deserves more than his derivative cousin waxing desperate at two in the morning!

Oh, and did I mention that I need to make a budget? That'd be a good idea. Goodnight, my darlings.

It's a wrap. For today.

2006-05-01T07:00:00.000-07:00

Greetings, Newsfans.

So, here we are on the cusp between Monday and Tuesday, full of cous cous and wonderfully witty if somewhat slick British Television, and we find ourselves asking that question of the ages... What's Rhiannon been up to today? Well, mostly camera tests for Short-film-I'm-producing-Numero-Uno™, Spinning Reel (well, the Director wants to call it "Spin me a reel" but I'll use an abbreviation for now.), taking stills, production bookings, battery charging, tape-labelling and all the wonderful ephemera that clogs my life like the hair in so many plugholes.

Additionally, I'm now producing for Club Reverie (filmmaking club of Club Mac and all-round great time) and there goes my mid-semester break. Not that I'm sad, because I wanted to fill my life to the brim this year. Finally, a resolution I can keep. Just to illustrate how diverse and creative I am, I thought I should have in on a project about a psychotic violent apiarist (beekeeper for those of you not in the know) as well as the emotionally scarred Irish dancer. Mmm. Well at least this whole Producer caper is teaching me about organising and not being so shambolic. What a lie. I'm just as messy as before. Now I'm just messy with an Agenda. Here, have a production still.

Now, if you'll excuse me I'm dog tired and have a lot of walking to do in 8 hours. Guten-nacht, my little shaggers.

Thought of the Day: Do you think that people who say they're saving themselves just can't get laid?

The Joy of Fetta

2006-04-26T22:40:00.000-07:00

I promise, I promise. I didn't get a life. Just hand-apathy. My typing was devoted elsewhere. Blame it on the boogie, and my promotion to bright-and-shiny administrator of the forums at chaser.com.au. Ohhhhh yeah! That means I can delete people. It's so special. Apart from when I'm deleting porn. That's not so special.

So last night. Dylan Moran. How I heart him. So so much! The show was compelling, rich, and of course, hilarious. "That sound you hear at night isn't the radiator. It's me gnawing on the bed because I HATE YOU!!!!" I had my head between my knees at least twice, and he made some excellent cracks about absailing sharks.

Now, over the coming weeks I'm going to catch you up on the many exciting things that have happened to me, including...

- My own flesh and blood breaking and entering (Into my house)
- A Senile neighbour pushing and banging on my door, telling me that he wants to go outside (I live on the top floor)
- Being published in the Student Rag (Rag being the operative)
- Hanging out with famous people
- My regret at not having done more work towards the three-minute film I'm producing for uni
- My Suicide Attempts as I realise that I probably should start all that work
- My foray into Dole-bludgery
- My feeble attempts to save the minimum $370 to go to Splendour
- Doing the bump at 3am with a deliciously drunk Californian guy
- My first attempted drink spike (as in, it was me that recieved the spiking)
- My big fat crush on Natalie Portman (in the non-lesbian way (back in your box, boys))
- My bigger, fatter crush on justice.

So stay tuned! It's going to be golden! Oh. And now I'm apparently going to Faker. So I'll talk to you later.

Baby got back. As in, is back.

2006-03-19T22:04:00.000-08:00

Yes, I know. You were in the bell jar without me. So here's the rundown.

I'm now 20, and stunningly mature. Uni fascinates me (I've just handed in my first stills assignment, the classiness of which you may bathe in at some point).

The social life is holding up well, the staple of which continues to be my partner in crime, Lu. We're keeping on keeping on. I should probably get around to making some kind of witticism about the state of the world or Paris Hilton's latest handbag, but frankly it hardly seems worth it in this late stage of the game.

Happy Birthday, Helen (and also Rhiannon, but she's got too many syllables to be included in a suitable parody)

2006-03-05T16:46:00.000-08:00

I know, I know. I'm a stranger to you all now and you think I should either post steadily or not at all. Tough. It's my Birthday!

It’s been ten years since John Howard got into The Lodge, and 9 years and 364 days since he actually slept in it. Kirribilli groans another year away and I should probably give a rats. The only problem with me offering any kind of perspective on this decade is that I was only 9 on the day of his ascension, and so it’s hard for me to separate any kind of honest memories. Was the world getting worse, or was my naivety just keeping me sheltered from the realities of how things change? This post could be an episode of the Wonder Years, if The Wonder Years were a bit more indie.

So I've decided to spend this birthday doing things that make me happy. Listening to music, painting my nails red, blogging, watching the Oscars, and eating cake. I know, it sounds good to me too. I have a News and Current Affairs lecture v. soon, which I'm quite looking forward to, because I love the Scottish lecturer and the lecturer loves me and they play lots of vintage CNNNN. It's not a bad way to spend an hour.

The house is clean, and my mind's in disarray, which makes a nice change. I'm throwing a party on Saturday, mainly just because I can. I think I'm going to go down from 40L of punch to 30 or 20, because people were far too inebriated last time. Fairy Bread, Fairy Bread, and Fairies will feature heavily. And I'm going to find out what's going on. Eegads!

Taking on Sunday

2006-02-11T13:08:00.000-08:00

Oh Boy, is it going to be a long day. I'm deliciously seedy and hungover from Cait's farewell...and now I have to spend the afternoon on a boat with the indie set. Sweet Virginia. I'll miss you Cait! You're my favourite stalker. Please keep stalking me in Chile, and be sure to update me regularly with your exploits and news that you haven't yet been eaten by an anaconda. Or, better still, when you wind up marrying Gael Gabriel Thingy (you know, the hot one from the motorcycle diaries) and you need someone to mind your hot mixed-race children. Now there's an Au Pair exchange I wouldn't mind.

The party was a blaaaaast, and many thanks and much adoration goes to Daz for driving me there and saving me from four hours of public transport hell. That's right. To get to St. Ives from North Ryde actually takes 2 hours by bus and train. It's about 7 kilometres away. I can't say I find that satisfying. Anarchy now!

So yes, yesterday I went for a long boozy lunch in Tuggerah with the matriarchy (Mother AND Aunty Darian. What a double whammy) and bought shoes. A rare event, to be sure, but one that I relished. I love a new shoe. Black Mary-Jane Ballet flats with a leather upper. They have bows on them. Which I'm going to give a fair burial when I remove them from the shoe.

Too nervous to eat. Remind me never to consider conflict resolution as a career. This is going to be messy. And hurtful. I'd tell you, but this kind of thing doesn't belong on the internet, it's much worse. It belongs on Days of Our Lives. Actually. Neighbours. And now for the million dollar question - Are pizza and beer able to fix anything? I suppose there's enough saturated fat in the Pizza to generate cholesterol to congest the arteries and fill any small holes in essential organs caused by my anihilation thereof.

Sooooooo hungover. Goodnight.

You broke my heart at the Big Day Out!

2006-01-30T20:30:00.000-08:00

No you didn't, actually, I had a lovely time. Thanks Lu. I also saw Franz twice in the space of a week. This makes me the coolest person ever. I'm here until 8 if you want to touch me. The list of bands attended goes as follows: The Presets, Red Riders, Bit by Bats, Couldn't help overhearing Mudvayne (ew, ew, ew), Wolfmother, Soulwax, The Living End (why don't they just give up, it's amazing that they still headline regardless of age or the relevence of their own songs to themselves) whilst waiting for Franz, and The White Stripes (awwww Meg).

In other news, I drank about $20 of the BDO Lemonade (best beverage known to man, beast, or Rhiannon) and my FAVOURITE German sausage stall (the same one that was at Splendour) gave me much Weisswurst. Lucy had a Kransky. It was a touch phallic. Especially when she called it a penis. It was definately phallic at that moment.

Beyond feminist eating, Presets are still the finest electropop out of Sydenham (Cut Copy technically being from Byron). Red Riders put in a strong set as always (I like to see indie with a future). I'm very impatient, and want them to put out an LP asap, because half of the songs I really like aren't yet released, and there are only so many times you can listen to a 5-track. I'd say fifty. Bit by Bats...the lead still looks like a French chef, much to Lu's delight and comical gesturing satifaction. Solid set, but they get a bit sameish. Mudvayne. Well. MUDVAAYYYYYYYNE. Sums it all up really. Wolfmother's hair still scares me a bit, but I can understand the appeal. Soulwax were AWESOME. I wish I'd known Aaron had found his feet with a hussy from Warner's Bay, or I would've stayed for the whole set. The Living End need to retire. Franz Ferdinand="My heart's back in Glasgow™". The White Stripes; well, despite Jack's Hair looking a bit like The Crow, I found them to be quite satisfying. That is to say, excellent.

And before you ask, why yes, I did take these rather groovy stills of the Red Riders whilst partaking of their music, and a Diet Coke.

The downside of this week of excess (trust me...it's scary to even think about booze, caffiene, and other miscellaneous chemicals consumed) is that I'm absolutely wrecked, and despite this being my only day off before a week of 8am starts, I don't have the energy to do anything apart from be concerned about the strange noise in my neck and listen for beams. Anyone want a ticket to Prophecy? Unavoidable family engagement clashed therewith, which I didn't realise when I put in for it.

Less talk, More Rave.

Keep on keeping on, soldier.

2006-01-18T16:02:00.000-08:00

So, to update you on my life. I'm now onto my third degree, and currently in the process of transferring into the B Media (Screen Production). This means that at dinner parties I can boldy proclaim that I am a "film maker", and then hang around to see if there are any leftovers to nick, because I'll be unemployed. But hey. Such is life. Socially, thanks to Best Friend 2006™ Lucy, things are gangbusters. Party Party Party. I still haven't been sacked, which is a miracle in itself. My sex life is still a vacuum, but not in the same sense as a male whose sex life is a vacuum, because when I say it, it's a metaphor. The weather's been crying for the state of the world, occasionally her weeping will make way for sobs and my washing is fucked once more. I painted my nails pink, got drunk on a Tuesday, and tried to think of ways to cover up the fact that I was still gone when I got to work. Thankfully, I only took 7 calls and all was well in the world. It was the longest day of my life.

I spent my rent on music and booze, including the Presets and the Red Riders EP. The lyricism of the Presets is outstanding. For example. Hello Sailor, I wanna go, Down Down Down. But then it's Girl and the Sea and all is forgiven.

I thought I had lost my mojo, but apparently it's just buggered off on a break of sorts. I await its happy and safe arrival home some time in the near future. Stay tuned. I have to go shower now, because I'm working for the man today. Aloha.

Happy New Fear™ and the Ashen-faced Wednesday

2006-01-10T16:04:00.000-08:00

So a lot has happened since I last made a genuine post, and I think I probably owe you a bit of something, by way of comphensation. I finally have a new Powerbook, Insurance payouts be praised, and I'm enjoying the features which this one boasts (and trust me, if any computer were to boast, it would be a Mac). This one has a backlit keyboard for dim conditions, double the hard drive of the old one and a Superdrive, so that I can burn my captured montages of Joe O'Brien and Adam Hills onto DVD and enjoy them in my own lounge. How's that! But past the banalities of hardware and onto the meat of my life (and there's quite a bit of that).

The Christmas Haul™ was by all means quite impressive, and the inclusion of the Indiana Jones Boxed set will make for hours of satisfyingly nerdy adventure viewing. Ah, those damn nazis. I'd also like to say happy birthday to this blog, which is now one. My sweet George Harrison!

Today was easily the worst day at work I've ever had, and it was made so by a single phone call, a small slip, and a customer complaint. Considering that half of our training group has already been given the axe, and despite the fact that I really enjoy the company, I have that feeling of imminent doom, like a guillotine blade hanging just millimetres above my spinal cord. Despite its presence underneath my own skin, I feel it trembling there, like a Venus Vibrance Razor (that's one of those kinky vibrating ones, for our male readers). It's just such a pity, because I'm settled and happy and trained in my current position, and I think I'm doing a good job, and I must be to a certain extent if I've lasted this long. It's like Call centre survivor, and I'm potentially Ethan from series three (that is to say, EthanthehotonefromSurvivor:Africa™). Oh, to win.

The primary positive outcome of this entire experience was that I realised I should't let the disheartening atmosphere of the workplace hold me back from writing. That was unfair to my muse.

Anyway. I'm going to bed. I've had 6 rounds and two Macca's burgers. Oh dear!

Happy Hauswarming! Happy Homebake!

2005-12-13T23:59:00.000-08:00

Well I suppose you all want libelous gossip. Unfortunately, he had to go home and there's none from me. 40 litres of Sangria, 20-plus people to drink it, and a stylish fourth-floor balcony add up to a 3am finish and a good time. I think that everyone who came managed okay, Aaron (cousin/brother type) and his girlfriend chaperoned me in an appropriate fashion. People throwing up, sexy jenga, chilli vodka, and an aesthetically deserted park all made for memories of some significance.

Moving on, I'm still only getting about 5 calls a day at work, which is marvellous, really. It's really taken off. actually for 130,000 members, I'm surprised we're doing so averagely. I guess the service must be that good. Today, I'm too tired to give you my words, so you can have my image instead. And Lucy's. She's the blonde. Yes, the hot one. Please, enjoy our Appletent photobooth snapshots from Homebake.

It's such a gimmick, and there are many more, but I figure there's only so much hypercolour distortion you can cope with in one sitting.

I have a not-date tommorrow, with a heterosexual! Huzzah!!!

I'm Back!

2005-11-30T15:28:00.000-08:00

Pop yee olde Champers, and crack out some...somethings...because I finally have the internet! At home! In my house! Not being forced to walk to the uni to use their net is a luxury I dreamt not of! Hooray for everything.

Now for a brief rundown of events, featuring mild anecdotes and unsavoury gentlemen. Yes, that's right, Tuesday night was The Kaiser Cheifs. After managing the usual four mains and three deserts at Pizza Hut (and my unfortunate, literate interpretation of the phrase 'all you can eat') my friend the retailer (that is, Lucy) and I strolled into the Metro, and stood in the second row for the support acts. The Red Riders and Bit by Bats had their moments, particularly the moment we realised that the lead singer of Bit by Bats looks just like a French Chef. I kid you not.

The show was hilarious and great, although apparently the Cheifs have faarrrrrr more skinhead expat fans than we anticipated, one of whom hit me in the head, but hey! I elbowed him, and he seemed to back off. Ah, the joys of a mini-mosh.

And of course, yesterday was my first day on the phones at work. I took two calls. I was shifted sideways, too. So to answer any queries as to whether or not I'll have time to write, the answer is yes. Very much yes. The surroundings are so uninspiring, though. I can actually see the little muse (who usually swims so artfully through the air above my head, occasionally ducking in and out of my ears) sitting on the desk, his little eyes deadend by the flourescent tomb. Poor little guy.

Hello, This is Rhiannon

2005-11-23T00:09:00.000-08:00

Well I'm three days into training, although I couldn't go in today (mum wanted me available to go home in case something went wrong with grandpa and his new titanium knee, and he's already had another two operations on top of the initial one. With the rest of my family's almost alien aversion to hospitals I was ordered to be close at hand.) My grandfather is now a 78 year-old Steve Austin. Calamities avoided, I'll be back at training in the morning, bright as you like.

So: About my Job. Truth be told I think it's pretty damn cool and I couldn't be more pleased at being one of Branson's Harpies™. I answer the phone, I help people out, they're hopefully happier and more satisfied as a result. Initially it's going to be quite intense and full time, but at least I'll have weekends off and I won't be so exhausted from all the running around and fish-mongering that I'm too buggered to do anything for the next three days. It almost feels like I have a real job, albeit in marketing rather than the once idolised media. That, and I'm amazed I got it because apparently they went through about 700 applicants and only chose 130. That's quite the hit rate. It made me feel a bit spesh. Try and put an upward inflection in the last syllable in my name, though. It's impossible.

That said, my building is in the city for a change, and I saw Angela Bishop and both of the decidedly unmemorable Idol finalists yesterday, who I admittedly didn't recognise at first. Apparently Jessica Rowe eats in the same cafe as me at lunch, although what she ingests is yet to be established, apart from the obvious, of course.

After discovering the rather shameful lack of balance in my domestic life, indicated to me by my ownership of two corkscrews but no vegetable peeler, I've decided to get all Zen, leik omg whoa. I'm going to do things like vacuum, and burn scented candles and write about holistic medicine and produce an alternative living show for TVS. Well, no. Actually, I'd say as far as that's going to go is me actually buying a vegetable peeler, and that's more engaging with capitalism than anything else.

Several items are in development for the new site, which I'm hoping to launch in time for the new year. 2000 Words is going to unite my two favourite and most prolific activities, namely writing and photography. It sounds a bit dull but I'm going to get one of the photos I've taken, and write another 1000 words about it. Wooo. The first one is a picture I took of the Finn's from the barrier at Splendour. It's more an activity for myself than anything of real worth in terms of sharing. Also a bit of genuinely serious stuff, with almost no jokes and no pithy pop culture references. Notes from an Aversionship is suitably pretentious and will, no doubt, set the world on ice rather than fire. In this bushfire season of global warming and passion, that's quite an acheivement. It's such a 21st century wank, running something like this, but as the wise man once said: Better out than in.

The next week is going to be an absolute bastard, I can tell. Exams tomorrow and Friday, Head shrinking tomorrow, Whitlams Saturday, Kaiser Cheifs, Homebake, and THEN I have to do something about my hauswarming™. And did I mention I'm working in the midst of this?

Since when did I get a life?

Two failures and three victories

2005-11-17T19:05:00.000-08:00

Another week of corporate training lies monotonously in front of me. And you know why? Because I got the job! Virgin Blue Rewards. I am now a wench of Branson. I thought I absolutely dived in the interview. Apparently I'm better worse than on-form. Like the Socceroos. At last, some topicality. For a minute (week...decade?) you all thought I just lived in my self indulgent bubble, didn't you?

The only thing that was the tiniest bit alluring about Woolworths and packing up the seafood department was when I filled the cabinets back up with ice (by hand, of course) , and I had to be inside the cabinet with the lights back on. The light reflecting off the ice was so pure and crystalline that it felt like I was trapped in that scene from Angels in America where Mr. Lies takes Harper to Antarctica.

"Mr. Lies of the International Order of Travel Agents. We mobilize the globe. We set people adrift. We are adepts of motion, acolytes of the flocks. Cash, check, or credit card, name your destination."

But then it's over, and I'm walking through a park in the middle of the night feeling the slow and excruciating burn as warm blood finally makes it into my hands, cursing like a sailor because I'll have to shower twice. That kind of drudgery fosters more self loathing than Pippa fostered small children on Home and Away. "I smell like a trout, what's to like?" what have you.

I may well survive the year.

Lu and I are heading out tonight, which should be a blast. It's strange, the attraction of a place that leaves you with less hearing, braincells and eyesight than you had four hours prior. We could be in a Nazi Science Experiment, or it could be Oxford Street! Nobody knows!

If I survive, you'll hear from me.

Hillston and a few things to remember.

2005-11-14T19:11:00.000-08:00

That title sounds like a Sarah Blasko featuring The Clash MishMash. Can't be much better or worse than Mylo and Gloria Estefan, by my reckoning. Won't you help me, Doctor Beat?

After a memorable Japanese Fusion dinner with Lucy, a work debacle and some illness on Thursday, Ma and I rolled into the Falcon to drive an absurdly long way to a slightly less absurd place, where I spent probably the most formative of my years. Apart from this one. I've been putty, this year. So we drove, and we drove. Bathurst, Cowra, Young, Temora, Griffith, Hillston. On the last stretch I felt things kind of stirred and pulled out of my ears like liquorice, which is odd, because I didn't think it could for a place with so much in it that I had left for dead. And I slotted right back in, like a Joker into a deck of cards, and I saw people I haven't in two years and I was absolutely cool with it, more cool with it than I ever could have been when I lived there. I saw Nick in the Clubhouse. He saw me.

"Fuck. FUCK!!"
"Hey Nickolai."

We used to talk about the end of the world and music (ironic, considering the awful 'Apocalypse Wow' submission I just put in for Vertigo). It was probably the landscape, it lent itself that sort of dark chatter. All the red smoke and skeleton trees. It didn't seem that awful in context. I was terrified, and he said it would be cool to sit back and watch it all go up. What he thinks now is a testament to change. He went to Mount Isa, was screwed over, taken to Sydney, screwed over. $2500 he didn't owe and couldn't pay back. Liquidated, left absolutely paralysed by the same dickhead who tried to get my mum fired and ruined my HSC. "I had all my trust in that one person. That's why I'm not a little social slut anymore, straight to the point." I don't think I ever really understood pathos before that.

We went beer for beer, he was amazed that I can now finish a schooner twice as fast as he can and I was amazed that he still looked the same. Book by its glossy jacket, and all that.

"My hearing's fucked, I can't hear music anymore. Dead by 30. They're giving me two hearing aids." His easy sloping grace is gone, and so much has been taken from him, and as far as I can tell no one has really asked before me. In such a small town, where he knows every person, how could he have been lost? Of all the people it could swallow, why take the only one with a brain and a soul worth engaging with?

And the worst part is I'm not even making any of this up.

We got to last drinks, and I figure we're up to my shout. Don't I owe you? "You don't owe me anything, Rhiannon." But I do, I absolutely do. He doesn't have to hear me write to him, so that's what I'll do. AndI'll see him, I promise. He doesn't need his ears for that either. He seems happy at the moment, and he loves his job, and he's busy, but in five years how much more can go wrong for us?

Now I'm going to falsify a CUL101 essay and tell myself that roast meat fixes everything, even terminal illness.

I know, I know. I missed me too.

2005-11-06T13:45:00.001-08:00

More than a week without a post! How were you sustained? My guess is macaroni.

Sunday, and it's finally quiet in my head after the DJ at Purple Sneakers (No, I don't know which one, and I'm definitely not cool enough to care.) What a week for you to miss! My first proper week at Woolworths seafood (it really does make Uncle Raja's slavery house look like the David Jones Food Hall. After the renovations.) The Palimpsest Launch, the final handing-in of the media essay, The Chaser Annual launch, and the at least four free bevvies there-at. A couple of very interesting tutorials, some party planning and the sharing of emotion over a well-timed Boost Juice (and of course there's such a thing.)

Let's start the entry with a resounding "I hate my job".

There's no point in lying to myself, or you. At least I got free butter chicken at Uncle Raja's and my shonky sexist cocksucker of a boss was away with his child bride most of the time, so I could sit behind the bar and listen to the radio. I could drink milk, and chill out. So the other thing I'm going to be doing this week is looking for a new one. Oooh, a new record in Rhiannon's 'Running from anything too hard' hall of fame! I'm going to do a resume tonight, and then walk the entire Macquarie centre until I find something that smells better, sounds better, or pays better. The only good thing about work is the people I talk to beforehand (so, uni) and the television I watch afterwards (so, Lateline. God bless Norman Hermont). Apparently a friend of a friend can get me a job at a call centre if everything gets too awful. Apparently it’s sitting down. How awful! I don’t think I could ever cope with staring at a computer screen for hours on end, typing in a vacant fashion.

Anyway, then it was the launch of Palimpsest (not sure of the spelling on that one still), an anthology in which I knew one of the authors! I truly feel touched by greatness, Daz. And remember, the audience favourite always does well in future projects. Look at Rove! No. Don't. Look in the mirror and say positive things. “I do not look like Rove, I do not look like Rove”.
I managed to hand in my worst ever essay in the history of ever. I'm confident of little more than a pass. Gracious. I'm not even being pithily self-deprecating. I was not in a happy place after that, because for all my apathy there’s a little nerd seething within me, pissed off that I don’t go to the library for anything but the internet.

All was not lost, though, because I finally checked my email on Thursday afternoon and it turned out that I had indeed been invited to this year's Chaser Annual launch, which was deeply exciting because it made me think for perhaps a second that I matter in the scheme of things. So I went, and Lu and Daz came with me, and I talked to many people, and I accidentally lampooned someone and made a knob of myself (true to form and very embarrassing but I'll stick to my guns. I'm sorry, but I just hate Vulture! Nothing personal, Fiona, I love your cartoons.). On the plus side, I met Tim from Big Brother. He held my hand and we sang of the Stevie Nicks, and talked of Fleetwood Mac, and it no longer mattered that I’d made an arse of myself because I was ratted and I met Tim from Big Brother so nyer.

Of course this would be the bit where I admit that I probably watched about three hours of it all up and that was mostly the final, but it’s in the spirit of things, not the actualities. Anyway, he went to Sydney Uni. I know it’s not my uni, but at least…er…one of my friends goes there. We sorted out that whole stalking thing with Chris, too. I hope he was sober enough to remember the bit where I explained that the security guard let us in through the window at Byron, and not just the bit where I explained that we crawled through the window of the Bowls club. Poor guy, must be terrified. I swear, it’s the vivid youth culture I love! And maybe also Robbie, a bit. But shhh.

Then it was Purple Sneakers for a bit of a drink and dance, then home again home again jiggidy jig to an exciting 8 hours sleep and 8 hours Woolworths. And then Sunday, my glorious Sunday that I’m milking every second of because in about 9 hours I have to be cheerful to bastards who can afford the delicious, smoky smelling oysters in the cabinet. I don’t care if it’s technically Monday, it’s still the one expanse of consciousness. Leave me alone!

I love those songs, where they make you feel like something large and electric is being pulled out of your pores at crawl speed. I know they're so, totally leik, ova, leik whoa, but The Bloc Party's new one is a good mantra for all the first year undergrads I know. You don’t need to form answers for questions they’re not asking you, it’s two more years to hold on. Hah. Anyway. Sometimes you find a song that’s worth losing your hearing to, while life is still visceral and rich, and so completely about the music. It’s a kind of hypnosis, all repetition and see-saw pulling riffs. It’s like trance rock.

I’ve already filled the first part of my new diary (yes Lucy, “My Diary!!”). Yeah, I still have more to say once I’ve said some of it here. Pathetic, isn’t it? So I’ve had a thought, and I’m thinking this. I’m going to make a bit of an archive, with all of my Vertigo articles, self-indulgent photography, short stories, stuff that I don’t put in here because it really doesn’t work with the format. Comments, suggestions? Knowledge of the best free host these days? No, I won’t be inflicting my angst upon you. That’s just cruel. I’ll keep it light and fun and not quite sane. Just the way it always is. So Happy Monday, and think of me every time you eat fish.

As for the well timed Boost Juice and the emotion...well, you've got to let me have a bit of mystery, don't you?

Corbett Good, Young People Bad.

2005-10-27T17:25:00.000-07:00

Hola muchachos.

I've started at Woolworths, which really means I've started stabbing myself in the fingers with prawns for a living. I'm going to have more callouses than a careless lumberjack by the end of the week. Still no internet or phone line at home yet, which is nice in a way. Although it's a bit like that thing amputees say about still being able to feel the missing limb, sometimes.

So I'm in the library, doing nothing in particular before starting an eight hour shift in the hellish Roger Corbett chill room of fun, and considering the summer courses at uni. I need to pick up two, so this may be the perfect solution. I'm so, so lazy. I'm never going to be able to do four units a semester next year.

I'm making a housewarming party guest list. I'm thinking intimate lighting, I'm thinking cool music, I'm thinking Sangria in garbage buckets. The Theme will be ThemeChoices, a parody of WorkChoices, and everyone thinks they can come as whatever they like until they discover the flaw in the IR policy and it turns out everyone has to come dressed as The Red Baron, or a Banana.

Setting the Record Straight.

2005-10-21T05:20:00.000-07:00

Yes, the record will be straight. Not even bisexual, not transgendered. 100% truth.

You know who you are, and you once said that you thought you knew me enough, so you'd know that someone like me would never be proud of doing something like that. But I don't tell you everything, and there are some things that you should know, but won't. Let's just say there's a reason, and you're not the driftwood. It's more a case of me thinking that you wouldn't want to associate with me, rather than me thinking I'm too good for you. Deliciously deceptive as it may seem, there's far more meat in the Deli Choice Roll, and you're not even close to knowing what's in the secret sauce. Not through any fault or lack of observancy on your part, but I was seriously scared, and wouldn't have told anyone. I didn't, for a long time. I was ashamed. I still am. I did apologise, and I thought the message would have made it to you. I think that assumption was probably the stupidest bit of all. I don't write everything down here, after all.

Of course, this is a total waste of time and words if you were too incensed to ever come back here and read it. I hope someone else sees it and tells you to look, if that's the case.

Cryptic? Yes. Decipherable? Of course. But the essence is simple. I'm sorry. And that's why I left. There's no misunderstanding other than the one I foisted upon you all. I'm not a snobby, heartless bitch, and if I am then it's not deliberate and it's sure not directed at you. You're not Dead Wood, you're the roots.

Ocktober

2005-10-19T17:55:00.000-07:00

So here we stand on the 20th of October at 10:55am. I'm cleaning out my inbox, because I don't want to waste Lu's Broadband, as I'm rooming with her this week. It's very lovely. Tilly, the Schnauser, gets up in the morning at 5am. I had bananas and Yoghourt for Breakfast.

I signed the lease, so I'm now officially a home-renter. Top floor, 2 Bedroom, views over the Suburb. Trees. Parrots. Anonymity. Kate from college has agreed to move in for the summer and hopefully longer, and there's plenty of room so no doubt I'll be having you all for dinner at some point. The table won't be as big as it was going to because Mum and Aunty Darian won't let the boys take the big old oak one up the four flights of stairs. Bastards.

I feel a bit detached at the moment. From my own head, even. It's probably the sinusitis but the artistic soul I don't have would like to think it's something else. Probably something to continue on about in the new paper diary Mutti bought me. It's that thing with mothers and their eerily prophetic buying and sorting powers.

Induction for Woolworths is on Saturday. Joyous Joy! At least I don't have to touch the fish yet. I do, on the other hand, have to tuck in my shirt. Just as bad. Human dumpling. Actually, I think I'd look more like a Pork Bun, they're cheaper.

I wish there were less attractive people at my uni. It's belittling to the enth degree. And if that's not a real phrase, then it is now! Even the techis are cute. There are several laws against Cute IT professionals, I swear. Put them away!

Bring on the Money and Starvation!

Holiday-ee, Celebra-ate

2005-10-17T03:01:00.000-07:00

The full transition to the NewbileTM (New Mobile)is now complete. I'm sorry if you haven't made the cut, but it's time to cut the dead wood and move on. I don't love you anymore, Goodbye, etc etc etc.

And that was a quote from Closer, not me having an angst, for your information. Got a new flat in an undisclosed suburb, sign the lease Wednesday. Very exciting. I can throw suitably large parties!

I'm having a cup of essay tar, then I'm going to finish the suitably extended but still overdue media essay. Ironically enough, it's about blogging, bloggers, and podcasting. How SAD!

Then I'm entering the busy season. Heaven help us ALL.

This Week, On Spicks and Specks

2005-10-13T09:04:00.000-07:00

Adam Hills: Which Australian band's first EP was titled Elsewhere for Eight Minutes
Rhiannon: (calmly) Something for Kate.
Myf: Ohhhh this is driving me mad, I know it, I know.
Myf and her team spend a minute agonising.
Rhiannon: (Screaming at the television) IT'S SOMETHING FOR KATE! YOU'RE FROM MELBOURNE! HOW COULD YOU NOT KNOW!?!?

Adam Hills: That was Melbourne outfit, Something for Kate.

Myf's table all make "Aaaaaawwwwwww" noises, and Myf looks as if someone has died...or, rather....

Dave O'Neill: They're never going to speak to you now, aren't you friends with them?

Myf: I lived with them.

ahahahahahahaha. haha. ha. That made all the eyesight I've lost to monitors almost worth it.

We are indeed drifting into the arena of the unwell.

2005-10-09T20:45:00.000-07:00

Hooray. Isn't acute Sinusitis a BLAST? Five dollars for the filmbuff who gets the quote in the post title.

It feels like someone parked the pre-disaster Hindenburg underneath and behind my eyes, and is slowly inflating it, ready for takeoff. Oh goody. And the Antibiotics have killed all the good bacteria in my mouth, so I'm anticipating ulcers, coldsores, and all manner of stomach upset. My mouth tastes like a warm, wet washcloth and my face is so puffy people have been mistaking me for the Michelin man and asking me for tyre advice. Call me a hypochondriac (you won't be the first), call me a sad panda, but do it in person, not the comments section, because I can't see.

Other than being dragged backwards through Satan's spectral rose bushes, this week has been fantastic. I have two essays, one presentation, and a fruitless house hunt to keep me occupied, when I can get myself out of bed. And it's almost the end of term and I've yet to see any essays or assessment feedback from any class, so I have no idea how I'm doing at uni. It's endlessly frustrating.

Now I'm going to go up to the 3rd level of the library (I'm currently in the IT's subterrainian ~~lair~~ lab. It's kind of spooky.) and ask exactly why it is that they're now asking for payment to look at pay-per-view articles on the APAIS database, because let's face it, my entire essay is studded with journals and debates due to the fact that the convergence of products and services in contemporary media is not exactly something that McQuail has written an Opus on. I want that damn Quadrant piece!

Look after yourselves, Muchachos.

Happy October!

2005-09-30T10:00:00.000-07:00

Well, I needed an excuse to post, because I can't exactly use "popular demand". I've become slowly and gently lulled into deep affection for the new The Devoted Few single Sleep Less. This has been fostered by the video clip, which is...well. Cool leik whoa. And that's quite a commendation. The lead singer has groovy dancing movements, to comphensate for his lack of guitar. When I first saw the clip and heard the song I honestly thought they were a big outfit from the UK, such was their sophistication. Apparently the clip was made in Artarmon.

Sure, his dance moves are not quite on par with Alex Kapranos, the world's only living sexual confidence donor, but they have their own appeal. Speaking of Franz Ferdinand, I feel obliged to tell you a tale of much woe. Of me, and of our Franz Ferdinand tickets.

I woke up at 7:20 out of sheer paranoia that I would not get them. I walked the 3k's to Newtown, because, well, I need walks. Many walks. I arrive far too early, spill tea on myself in the cafe, and linger in King St. Nothing too deviant from my usual ticket-getting funtimes. The shop opens, and they're playing the new Finn Cover Album, which I took as a good sign, and wait anxiously. They start selling. I'm the first person.

"General Admission?"
"Yes, Thanks. Front Dancefloor, GA."
"Cash or Credit?"
"Cash thanks"
"Sure, just go around there, he'll fix you up"

"Envelope?"
"Yes thanks!"

So I go out, looking happy. Having a dance. I open the envelope. THEY GAVE ME STALL TICKETS!!! THOSE DIRTY MOTHERFUCKERS, I BOUGHT MY TICKET AT 9:01AM! I DID NOT GET UP ON THREE HOURS OF SLEEP TO WALK THREE KILOMETRES TO BE GIVEN STALL TICKETS IN ROW H! FUCK YOU!. I went back in and they said they couldn't get onto GA, and implied I should be grateful for even getting into the same room. I talked to the Lu on the phone and she rightly suggested that I should go back and ask for a full explanation and the RUDE BASTARD WAVED ME AWAY! I'm nice and polite and sweet!!! I wasn't going to bug him for long, I just wanted...I dunno, a rundown of the technical problem and an apology?

I'm generally a put-up shut-up type, and it could be said that my aimless waifish socialist drifting isn't what keeps the capitalist machine oiled. But I'd had enough. I refuse to be screwed over when it comes to music, and Tickets that cost 70 dollars a pop (for ONE act, albeit a fantastic one){ahahaha...70 dollars a pop...pop music...}. I called ticketek when I got home, and the guy (Who sounded a bit like Samuel Johnson. Hello Sailor!) was really nice and apologetic about the cock-up, and said that my only chance was a letter of complaint. They can't magically conjure tickets due to venue capacity, but if one Charlie-snorting babydoll who's banging the promoter's nephew misses out...then of course, I'll still feel bad. But chances are, being a supermodel, she'll be really tall and won't mind having our seats in ROW H.

So I'm going to threaten them with my full weight, and that's a considerable amount. With my less than average height, poor eyesight, and whoever it is that replaced Alan Fels on the ACCC behind me, I am going into battle. For Lucy. For me. But most of all, for the democratic system of 'first in, best dressed' that we all hold so dear. Oh, and for Franz Ferdinand.

There's a really cool little moment at the end of Sleep Less where feathers fall from the ceiling, and they serve as a sort of antidote to her insomnia. It's a nice little device, that sort of subtle (well, not really subtle) physical representation. Something to keep in mind. Mmm such satisfying lyrics. Serious, but not too angsty. If only I'd known of their existence in May of last year, when they were touring with the Boat People. Alas, last year in May I was otherwise occupied with pop music and drunken partying. How I love Newcastle. I went out so often!

Is it dark in your room at 3am? You can't sleep again tonight. So you write me a letter with a pen (that has no ink), this is the fifth night in a row, a row a row a row a row a row...

Scary clips to give your children nightmares:

I feel just like a child - Devendra Banhart
(Title says it all, really...)

My Doorbell - The White Stripes.
(Jack White had some nerve dumping Renee Zellweger for being fat. Creepy, Pasty man.)

I really need to make a movie, if only to put together a killer soundtrack.

Good morning, and in case I don't see you, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight!

Joe, Joe O'Brien, I love you.

2005-09-26T08:33:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry, Tony. Sorry Norman Hermant. Oh, and Kerry too. But now you just can't compete. Yes, this will seem quite naff and you'll all dismiss it, muttering under your collective breaths, "Oh, that kooky Rhiannon, she's just romanticising Newscaff staff again." But this time, I mean it. I'm smitten. Sure, he's probably hitched and double-sure he'd never look twice at a small town girl like me, except perhaps to film an adorable little human interest story on my webbed hands for the end of the Sunday bulletin. Of course he'd have to somehow make it relevant to economic downfall and the rising price of oil, but the fact is, that's his charm. That sharp dressing, smooth talking, pointy eared, raven-haired demi-god has all the weekend slots and all of my turmoil ridden, bulletholed, blackened soul. What a lucky guy.

It must be love, I'm using a disconcerting amount of commas.

Now, onto the good news.

Apart from my newfound passion for staying home at weekends, time in Newcastle has been soothing. I've consumed my weight in Lambrusco and the tracks beneath my carriage on the train home this Wednesday will doubtless be smoothed by rubicund liquid happiness. Mama's long service leave will treat her very well, I am sure. Why am I, all of a sudden, writing in the manner of the protagonist in a bonnet drama of questionable calibre? Gracious. Let us revert to our former state of light-hearted friviolity.

Oyveh, that was close. Anyway, I've got some revised goals to share with you. This has come about from having discovered my severe lack of talent for radio and therefore television (I'm chosing to blame all those years in the stix {or Styx, haha}, where I did no performance or voice work and turned into a stuttering recluse).

Become a Director, hopefully the one that gives Australia a film to remember itself by. More likely, a film that 10 people will remember themselves by. But that's still ten more than I have now.
Own a successful milk bar
Buy a house
Get into NIDA (Then turn them down)
Make it to a size 10. Just once. Then I'll get back on the ice-cream.
Be in a musical, or musical comedy, or anything on a stage
See all of Europe, and everywhere else as well
Cook dinner for a celebrity
Graduate
Work at the ABC, probably in the Cafeteria or the Library.

There were actually 20 more, but I lost them when my mother's laptop went spazwackle. And now you'll never know and I'll never remember them. It's like having a small aneurysm when that happens. Farking Bill Gates.

Apple Pancakes, and other sorry excuses for the state of the blog.

2005-09-19T07:00:00.000-07:00

Hugo Weaving was in my Blockbuster today. Gracious! I resisted all temptation to make jokes about elves, drag-queens, agents or drag elf agents. Instead, I had a quiet stroke or two and slinked out, unnoticed by Hugo Weaving.

The first of the reunion invite has slinked my way. December. If I'm not in the country, coincidentally, I may be unable to attend. I really have to address my insecurity and confidence issues. The fact remains that I'm half way to twenty (in the annual, not the decade sense) and I've yet to keep a member of the opposite sex in the same room long enough to find out their preferred chocolate biscuit, let alone arrange for them to come around and watch me clean the house.

I think that perhaps it is my destiny to produce and convince Jasper Fforde to turn The Eyre Affair into a damn fine movie. In that order. We shan't let the Americans do it, they'd make a right job of it, and would cast Alec Baldwin as Landen Parke-Laine, and Scarlett Johannson as Thursday or some puff.

Today's song: Crowded House, Fingers of Love.

New Years Resolution Update

2005-09-11T09:05:00.000-07:00

Lucy's New Years Resolutions(as of 12:50am, 1st Jan.)

1. To have the BEST HAIR! (oh yeah.)Victory, if you ask me
2. To lose some love handle damn you and your success!
3. To get OVER the Monique Brumby joke. Success AGAIN
4. To Shag a C-Grade Celebrity (Like the guy from the Aussie Home Loans Commercials) Not yet.
5. To Put up with Rhiannon more (gee, thanks Lu.)

Rhiannon's New Years Resolutions (as of 1:00am, 1st Jan.)

1. To give up all products catergorised as "Manufactured Meat" Failed
2. To wear more skirts Mostly Definately Failed
3. ~~Appear on television at least once~~ HUZZAH! I got one! I was on Channel 9 in the short for the Chaser Decides Logies Tape.
4. To not lust over products I can't afford, let alone pay the GST on. (Since Lypo is a Service, does that mean it's $200 More Expensive?)Failed
5. Dispense with Fahdoobaduhs Failed
6. Cleanse and Moisturise more often Hmm.....Doing okay
7. Say Jigaboo more often Will try to cram some in
8. Survive Lucy Can't really be judged until NYE

Hey, that's my bike.

2005-09-11T01:23:00.000-07:00

I think I may be navigating into the murky and dangerous waters of the domestic. I stayed up vacuuming until 11:30 last night. Sure, it's because my house was a tip. But the fact remains, I've reached the point where I look forward to having the house nice and clean and creamed corn on toast. Sad, sad, sad.

Did you know that Helen Childress, the writer of Reality Bites, had finished the script by the time she was 19? Does that technically make me a failure?

Too tired. Just too tired.