Windmills of my mind

The other day, the Friday before that Saturday, I had arranged to meet Johnny I. for lunch at the Museum of Sydney caff. and was mid stroll down Castlereagh Street when my mind went completely blank about the café’s location.

I could picture the actual museum and café and the big open space (not my mind) in front of it, but for the love of Mike, or Johnny, for that matter, I just couldn’t remember where it was.

I promptly panicked, and “fuckity fuck, bollocky bear” was the mind’s preferred mantra for the next ten minutes trying to ease me out of the blind panic, and boy was that a successful strategy.

I apologise if I passed you on Castlereagh Street and you happened upon my wild, startled eyes blinking furiously as I bit my lips and screwed up my mouth in a ridiculously contorted fashion. It really wasn’t my impression of some cheesecake model, it’s the only way I can think, particularly grasp life’s great problems such as getting from A to B, when you’re a great addled C, who has lived her life through the bottom of a cascade light bottle.

Eventually, in tribute to Moira Shearer and Hans Christian Andersen, I just let the feet do the walking, kinda novel, eh, and guide me to the café, which actually worked.

However that ten minutes of blank doesn’t augur well for one’s future or today, frankly. I’ve got another luncheon meeting, this time at a cafe called “Cube”. And I really hope my mind isn’t going to spin out like that of Lana Turner’s character, Big Moma, in that late 60’s film called Cube, or perhaps Big Cube, where Big Moma’s drink or food is secretly spiked with LSD by her wicked stepdaughter, and Moma trips out big time - not that i think today's luncheon companion would do that - her specialty is innocent mischief, and evidently my mind spins out of its own accord.

I think Lana made this film to revive her flagging career, get contemporary and keep up with the kids. Come to think of it, a pretty good idea, really. My career prospects are fairly grim at the moment. I’m gonna make a movie goddamn it and I’ll be guaranteed to get that promotion, blank mind and all!



Reverend Phillpott advises that today is Shrove Tuesday. So have a pancake for J.C.

Debacle of the highest order

Oh lamentations everyone. You may have read in my last “posting”, I hear that’s what it’s called, not entry as I’ve been saying (thanks P. Edant of Coogee sur mer), that my weekend was to be spent in the Illawarra region, performing in a salute to the stars of the Hollywood musical. I had confessed to some trepidation which unfortunately was realised more completely than I could ever have possibly imagined.

Oh, it had all started so promisingly. I boarded the train from Central, resplendent in that Australian flag, which I’d doused in 4711 (couldn’t lay my hands on any Aviance, oh, match a bloody belli where were you?). My hair looked truly magnificent, freshly bleached and curled, very Shirley Temple meets Sarah Jessica Parker and Dee Snyder on a night out on the tiles. Cute yet simultaneously hot and desperate. I was as pleased as punch with myself and my aspirations.

At first, the train trip was pleasant as I munched on some nice devon and tomato sauce sandwiches, which were tasty and in keeping with my surrounds.

I always get so peckish before a show so I rummaged further in my lunchbox to retrieve an economy sized sugar dusted jam doughnut. Yum Scrum.

The train drew into Sutherland station and I bit rather wolfishly and greedily into the doughnut's sugared surface causing raspberry jam to spurt forth, spilling over my flag frock, trickling down the Union Jack and settling in a large blob just below the Southern Cross.

At that precise point the Leader of the NSW Opposition, Dr Denham, no Admiral Denham, I think is his title, he looks like a cross between Edward VIII/Duke of Windsor and Lord Nelson, capital fellow, burst through the train’s doors, accompanied by Dana Vale (a former Hollywood matinee idol, I thought male but was proven wrong), Peewee Costello (can't stage a leadership challenge to save himself), and the entire camera crew and a journo from a Channel 7 current affairs tabloid television show. They were filming a "what's wrong with the trains" segment for an election campaign.

Denham and co strode rather impressively through the carriage drawing to a halt at the spectacle that was moi.

Suddenly I was surrounded by a circle of admonition. Fingers were wagged furiously around my person and in my face, my eye still waters just thinking of the prodding it received from Peewee. A chorus of “unAustralian” as they decried my jam stained flag frock, followed by “ooooooooooh mushy multiculticulturalcurlywurlygirly” taunts as they tore at my tendrils, and much murmuring of “where are your values” (I don’t know about them but mine are meretriciously on display in JWHoward's Australia, or under the mattress if really precious) resounded throughout the carriage as they pushed and prodded causing me to sob and wail. Horrible great galoots of pollies and press.

Eventually the tumult and shouting subsided as the rabble dispersed and disembarked from the train at Waterfall station. (no sign to be seen of Terry and Julie)

I was left discombobulated and shaken.

Another fat, hot tear rolled down my grubby rouged cheeks and my finger forlornly lifted that blob of jam from the Southern Cross and placed it in my mouth.

As I disconsolately sucked the jam from my digit, I stared into space and reflected on the turn of events.

I guess it was like what my friend Brian, the autodidcact from the municipal library, would call Bad Carmen (Miranda, Duncan, Electra or rollers, not sure which), resulting from last week's jamesschadenfreude.

I mean to say, perhaps if I hadn’t been snickering about boils and butts ( ha, still makes me laugh, imagine having a butt these days when you can be boilimic) and the ignominy of the pickle in which Lee Tamohori has recently found himself, poor man, I do sincerely sympathise, none of what had just passed would have happened. Surely not in God's own.

Trying to come to terms with the consequences of my actions, i was unaware that I was on the threshold of an extraordinary journey to me.

The train chuffed out of the Sutherland Shire and meandered towards the Illawarra...........................

Codfish Ball

Tonight marks the beginning of a weekend that I keenly anticipate.

Should be a real hoot.

Am off to NSW’s Illawarra region to visit X, Y, Z and A for dinner and a show.

There's gonna be a galaxy of stars.

And I hear Short Fat Fanny and Long Tall Sally won't be there. So that's a goddamn relief. Dirty, filthy, wannabe groupies constantly on the hustle for good time central. Well not this good time, lllladies. It's gonna be all MINE. You hear. MIIIIIIIIIIINE.

Ahem, woo, settle, settle, steady.

So, um, where was I? Ah, yes, there's gonna be a show and it’s going to be spectacular.

We’re staging a salute to the stars of the Hollywood musical.

However, I’m starting to feel a bit of trepidation about the whole affair.

I fear in my case the event might become more of a lachrymose spectacle. While the other stars dazzle with their talent, ability, and charm, my ringlets could wilt, the ankle could twist mid-tap, the voice could crack, and as for my mood, it could turn any tick tock, in true Hollywood tradition. (Impossible to imagine, but hey, like shit, it happens, baby.)

I will be accessing the Illawarra region via the Sutherland Shire, home to Cronulla which is suburban meaning acceptance and goodwill to all. So I’ll be sportin’ nothing but the Australian flag, natch, and a splash of 4711, or perhaps some scent by Prince Matchabelli. Hmmm some “Aviance” now that would be nice.

Thank you and goodnight.

(Sorry, just practising. I'm doing a big show tomorrow night, very excited)

Lordabumsamercyme

A colleague advised that he had "a boil on his butt".

How on earth do you reply to such an announcement?!

"Bummer"!? "Stop arsin' about"!?

I guess the kids would reply "too much information". And kids, I am like so totally with you.

STA Speedwagon

I am like so not early. I arrived rather tardy to work and I've got so much work to do, bulk of which is due today. So really what have I to lose by making this entry but more time, dignity, and, um, my job?

The buses were chockers today. I love the Sydney system, and it is like so cliche to slag off public transport, so i won't be doing that. I had to wait 30 minutes until I could board a bus and when I did, boy, was it worth the wait. As I embarked and deducted a ride from my fabulous brown travel ten, i was greeted with Toto blaring and the driver singing along in the most enthusiastic and infectious manner. His singing, I later observed in the rear vision mirror, was accompanied by equally heartfelt, earnest, occasionally needy, a little bit squittery, facial expressions.

And just when i thought it really couldn't get any better, he'd holler out

"How's everybody going? Yeah". He was very "well, alright! Charlie's good tonight innit he" in his delivery, dare I suggest, even better.

Then more disconcertingly, bus driver would cry

"Hey, where's everybody going?" followed by a "next stop, anyone?" And he'd fang on merrily until another vehicle would "cut" his bus, whereupon he'd gently moan "oooooooooooh, what are you doing to me, baby?."

Fortunately and presciently, the STA handy hint poster for this bus was about safety for Seniors which advised the olds to sit up the front of the bus, and hold on while seated. Indeed it was a rollicking bus ride. My best yet.

So who do i thank for this most joyful experience and wonderful start to my working day? Well, apart from STA , I would like to thank R and J Stone, for if i hadn't played their single "and we do it" that third time while brushing my teeth, i would have reached the bus stop by 7.45 am rather than 8 am, and missed the ride of my life.

Arise "Squirrel" Packer

According to today's paper and Frank Costigan, Kerry Packer used to refer to himself as Squirrel and not Goanna.

Curious.

Let's say you are in trouble, you've landed yourself in the soup, you're up to your armpits in it, and it's not of the Pete 'n' Dud Anna Magnani variety an'all.

It's commonly known as being against the law, it's somewhat nefarious, you've got to meet with your associates to discuss this trouble. Well if it happens to me and I'm meeting you, don't tip your hat and greet me with "evening , Mistress", or talk about the "Bel" dealing this and the "Mistress" avoiding that. I want a codename that is hard, gruff, inspires terror and fear yet doesn't alert the fuzz that it's me.

So when I meet you in that smoke free saloon, that alley with the gaudy 80's mosaic pavement, or at my local Council's skater graffiiti zone, armed with contraband chocolate eclairs, just nod your head as your eyes meet mine and whisper,

"Precious Baby Lamb".

I never thought that it would come to this

Lately, my ears and eyes have been playing tricks on me.

The whisperings on the radio, the announcements on the telly, the outrageous assault on my eyes as I enter a newsagent and peruse the magazine stands, all have rendered me in a confused state. At first my ears prick up, interest flickers in my glaucous eyes, my lips curl in a twist of mocking delight. Oh what was that that I heard, what have they done now, those lovably louche, obscenely rich rogues. Are they feuding again, has one of them lied, who are they rooting, and which one has died. Finger on the phone ready to furiously text, I walk to the stand and grab the magazine, upon which my eyes finally focus and read












Nic n Keith

NOT

MicknKeef.

The ears fold, the eyes glaze and the lips sink into the jowls.

Oh brother, it's old cold mountain herself, your Nicole Kidman, because sweetheart she ain't mine, and "legendary" "country" "pop" "man" Keith Urban. They are an item. Well cockadoodledoo and God bless the mounties. And it's Nic not even Nick. I guess if Nicole had been higher profile, (hmm, and that's some profile she's got), in the 80's she would have been called Nique, perhaps in the 70's Nik? When will people learn that the wacky wayze of spelling a first name does not an interesting person make.

I lament the calibre of who's hot right now. What a decline. From louche, scandalous and lined to botoxed, insipid and asinine. (sorry everything keeps rhyming, must be channelling Rod Stewart reading his rhyming dictionary.)

Still I must say I chuckle thinking of the confusion it's causing in Mick n Keef land. Mick pursing and twitching his lips, hands on hips, getting all whooftooty and snippety snoo thinking Keef has been talkin' to the press about 'im, Sir Mick. Owwwwww the cheek. (Mmmm, Mick appears to be channelling Eliza Dolittle).

Still you know we're all in for a real treat, when little Ronnie Wood hears about it, and several months later, finally over his confusion, is inspired to paint a magnificent portrait of Nic n Keith. Oh happy, happy, glorious days.

Talk like Dick van Dyke for a day

One of the most entertaining, charming and wickedly funny coves you could ever hope to encounter would be Lord Boy Moritz, of Portland, Oregon, who to the delight of all who are languishing in John Howard's Australia, aren't we all, sugar, now resides in stately Mel Bourne Gridleigh.

Boy, is one of my favourite and most addictive email correspondents. While I should be toiling at work, many hours have been consumed feverishly emailing boy, irritating my colleagues with my snickers and guffaws, as we type about wicked women of film noir, exchanging news and quips from/about our coterie of scintillating and brilliant friends, hearing about his capers -swinging over baths, getting jiggy at the bar, good times, malaise and curious entanglements. Wit and verve are Boy's middle names. He is a 30's manque, sans Mosley and the brown shirts, poverty, an' that.

Well, imagine my surprise, last week, when the tenor of our exchange changed. No longer were his replies lengthy and excellent sources of wit and more importantly information, but they had become abrupt, hard, kind of Robert Mitchum, in others a rather alluring quality, but I wanted Boy to be Boy. I challenged Boy who advised that he was "trying a new style, dollface" (ye don't say, cupcake) and his next reply came

It befit me, don't it.

Well, with one fell swoop he'd completely lost his Robert Mitchum toughness, and transformed himself to Dick Van Dyke circa Fitzwilly and Mary Poppins.

So fortunately the old joy boy returned. And in honour of his return, I want you all to speak like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins for one day this week.

Ma'am darling, if you please

Perhaps it is a sign of one’s ascent into one's 40's or is it society’s new found respect for me (ooh the St John’s Wort mixed with a touch of CBT just kicked in) but lately and very frequently, I’ve been getting addressed as ma’am by strangers . Not ma’am darling as I bask in the sun on the Isle of Mustique as these “strangers” obsequiously ply me with another gin and tonic, but Ma’am as in spam, as in when you’re in conversation with the Queen, not with the female D.I. or Super at your local Blighty nick. Generally it’s the kiddies or 20 something shop assistants who address me as Ma'am.

However, I was most perplexed when I was at the local Woolworths and a man around my age, said, “excuse me, ma’am” as he walked past me to reach the cash register. It was the third time I'd been called ma'am during that shopping expedition.

I really don’t know what it’s all about and I guess that it’s nice people are being polite. Still as it involves myself I find it all rather curious and I suspect that soon I will take umbrage if I’m not addressed as ma’am by all and sundry. So don't say you haven't been warned.

I saw the film “Capote” with the Lady Jo last night. It was pretty good but I was rather disturbed by it all. As a 60's US pop artist no doubt once sagaciously mused, "murder and manipulation are like total downers".

Anyway it rather pricked the love me bubble in which I had been floating for the past month or so. It was probably time for that to happen. Life, after all, cannot always be good time central.

I was aware that the film was not going to be about the life and times of Truman and was about his writing of In Cold Blood, am not mindless 60's pop cultural icon, after all, so was demi prepared for it not being non-stop carefree carry on with Capote. The film did feature a few martinis being sunk and several sugar coated but mostly vinegar laced barbs being uttered. However, I kept hoping there’d be mention of Gore Vidal’s disdain for Truman. And what I really wanted to see was a scene between Gore and the Bird, as Gore fondly called Tennessee Williams, in which the Bird would be raving to Gore about Truman’s public reading of excerpts from In Cold Blood at a theatre the night before. I then imagined Gore, who would be resplendent in his patrician glory sitting in some beautiful chair, perhaps with Jackie Kennedy to his left and Hughie Auchinchloss (sp?) to his right, coolly receiving the Bird’s rave, right eyebrow arched and grandly uttering his wonderful line “the last time I saw Truman Capote, I mistook him for an Ottoman chair”. Much laughter would ensue and Jackie’s pill, or pillar to post, box hat, (regardless, it would have sported a fascinator) toppling off her head and rolling to the floor, to be scooped up and returned to her crown with southern gallantry by the Bird.

Love Catherine Keener as Harper Lee. I just love Catherine Keener full stop. And loving Harper Lee is of course " a given". And really the film is good but I guess I should have waited to see Vidal.

Who would you cast to play Gore? Jude Law as a young Gore. That would be bad. Oh I can smell the potatoes that I’m roasting are burning. OH the chips.................