Wednesday, 29 November 2006

kant, kanter, kaaant

Yeah how d'you like them apples for a title. I do love a good declension but at the moment it's all in my neck.

Did i land you in the soup with your work supervisor? Oh you are the team leader, well you'll be in the Heinz chunky veg/creamy pea and ham variety now and just about to flow down Robert Morley's throat an' all, cupcake.

So sOrry.

The mistress is up to her armpits in anguish and ignominy so it's only fair that you gain a little bit of her pain.

During my innocent knees up last Wednesday, i was blaring the nashville soundtrack, blogging away and sinking a gin and tonic or two, revelling in my company, when the neighbour from upstairs came and complained.

It was 7 p.m.

Get outta the pool.

If it had been in the wee hours or the people downstairs i would have sympathised, heaped on the Uriah and self-flagellated for a week.

The block of flats where i live is situated on a main road, under a flight path and in the city. These neighbours pick axe on amp, and generally between the hours of 10.30 and midnight stomp, move furniture, slam doors, and have explosive rows, so really should have kept sschtuum about my merrymaking. That's what McPoop here, who generally retires to sleepy bos by 10 each night, does, keep sschtuum not make merry. I just put in the ear plugs, roll over, and carry on - other people's living noise is one of the jöy's' of apartment living. Anyway i managed to express this several hours later after the complaint.

In true Costanza style i'd been simmering, stewing and huffing for quite a while and finally went up to the house of wowser and enumerated the reasons why i felt the complaint was rich. In essence i made a complaint but they started it. read the last clause with even more petulant and indignant tone.

This irritation added to the tension that had been lying in my neck and shoulder from the stress of a new job, not enough rest, three months of tennis elbow, and being mental. Friday morning my neck snapped and my head has been steeply inclined to the right ever since, this is jwh australia after all . For three days excruciating spasms from pinched nerves would stop me in my tracks every 10 minutes. On Sunday i was collected and chauffered to my sister's for a faaaaaaamily do. I had some booze and a marvellous pain killer, good times.

Chiropractor has stoppped the spasms but the left side of my neck and the shoulder are still very sore, immobile and twisted. Fortunately booze and pills make such a handsome pair, "and so say all of us "- Miz Liz 1962 to the present

And no interventions please, i need a hobby for 2007 - high lilly, high lilly, hi low.

Wednesday, 22 November 2006

Keep a-goin'

Well it is as hot as Hades in Syd. as it probably is everywhere else in this world-class, it don't worry me, T3 besotted nation.

No point complainin' about the heat. I've been countering it with a couple of very long Gordons and tonic, closed the windows and lowered the blinds.

It's a very dry heat which i must say i don't mind in moderation. I just imagine i'm in a Tennessee Williams play, but the heat in the south would be humid surely, adopt a southern accent and amuse myself greatly while flapping my pea green chinoise fan and alternate between cooing, sighing and laughing hysterically as i gaze upon my aged reflection in the looking glass.

Good news!

i have mastered an absolutely flawless impression of Liz Taylor's voice. I didn't have an opportunity to try it out at work but give me a call and you'll be so entertainted.

Am still loving the new job, despite lack of showing off opps, and more importantly am still being amply adored there.

Curiously i've managed to keep up the quietly competent front but for how long? I feel as though i'm walkin' a tightrope of double indemnity proportions; super efficient bel versus shit happens you got a problem with that bel. it's her and me straight down the line. or was that the premise for the patti duke show?

I do declare this heat is frahing what remains of mah brain. flutter of fan, twitch of eye, high pitched flirtatious giggle, gulp of gin upon glimpse of reflection. NB not example of Liz Taylor voice impression.

Been busy busy on the social front and all but like i said greatest achievements to date are my sensational impression of Liz Taylor's voice accompanied by the carriage of B. Dubois, and my new work place relations.

Spin out sister

Sad news about Robert Altman*. But frankly listening to Fran Kelly attempt to analyse his work with David Thomson on Radio National made me even sadder.

Nashville really is one of the most brilliant and entertaining movies. If it weren't for House and trippin over being broadcast tonight i'd watch it on deeveedee....

Thanks for some excellent movies and appreciating the Carradines, fella.

One of the Carradines should have been made President.

*When i heard the announcement of Robert Altman's death i was in a room away from the radio and misheard Bob's name for that of Dennis Waterman. I stopped in my tracks and then got dressed.

Wednesday, 15 November 2006

"comfy undies"

Call me uptight but every time i see that poster of Pat Cash, er, Rafter, oh how long have i been traipsing this earth, promoting Chesty Bond's underpants with the testimony that they are comfy, i get irritated. Imagine a world-class sweetheart such as i feeling such an emotion. Well it has happened and the concept of comfy undies has done it, sweet nsrs, all three of you, and yes, i do mind that i do not have global appeal.

I find the associated slogan displeasing not because i want my brothers and sisters, mums and daddies, to suffer discomfort and sport full briefs with loose elastic or knickers that have a tendency to seek domicile in the crack but because each time i read or hear that comfy undies' slogan i feel that Pat is sportin' underpants that have a distinct fart-like quality.

And woah, just stop there, you budding shrinkaramas and pop psychologists, I am not projecting. I most certainly do not a equate a pair of comfortable fitting underpants with fartpants. My beef with the slogan principally lies with the combination of an abbreviated adjective and an abbreviated noun. It's too smug , cute, self-congratulatory, gotta love our lingo, and is as coy as that catchcry promoting the eating of lamb, mum's cooking a lamb roast tonight. cosy. ugh.

Permission to spin out further.

What is with all those b grade starlets and lingerie lines. When will it stop? Only the other day, while having my hairs tinted at Rodney's hair salon, i read that jade jezebel scarlett jagger, mmm what message were mick n bianca trying to convey, had launched a line. This actually makes her a c grade starlet really, although she'd claim to be rockstocracy but you know, same diff, as most b's have their own line of perfume these days , and a's endorse skin care products, direct theatre companies and smile beatifically on red carpets, in playgrounds while festooned with kiddies or in foreign lands on kiddie adopting sprees.

tripping over is on tonight and that will soothe me no end.

Love you, and i'm talking to you, Huey, Dewey and Louie .

Monday, 6 November 2006

and furthermore

This morning while sitting on the bus I happened to observe a poster promoting Jamie Oliver's new cookery book. The poster features one photo of Jamie smashing up a microwave and another of him standing looking all puffed up and cocky with his arms crossed against his chest.

Jamie Oliver has never bothered nor thrilled me but as I appraised the advertisement distaste imbued my palate and it dawned on me that Jamie had become the Bono Vox of the cookery world.

Speaking of Bono, last week I was commenting to a friend how Sting had become practically harmless only to learn two days later that Sting had released a new lp on which he plays lute while squawking Elizabethan ditties or recitin' some excerpts from John Dowland's letters. I was lucky enough to hear an example of both on the radio.

English teacher, noo waver, poet laureate of pop, tantric lover, turtle lover, Russophile, peace troubadour - is there anything that Sting cannot do, well, apart from act.

A true Renonsence man.