Sunday, April 29

Life is full of crazy coincidences.

Whilst shopping along New Bond Street yesterday, fondling cashmere in Fenwicks, checking out the hysteria of A&F in Saville Row and snacking on Godiva chocolates, I received one of the most hilarious messages on my voice mail I think I have ever had.

The caller was a very good friend in Melbourne who was currently at a friends place in Elwood, Melbourne, attending a party.

"Ed, It's Jase, I'm just over at Alyssa's place and her flatmate, Tiffany, has just showed me this picture hanging on her wall.." the message begins.

Well, seeing as Jase and I havn't called each other by our first names in about 8 years, preferring to slag Kim, Kimmy, Kimmoi, or generally anything Kimmish at each other, I was a little intrigued as to why he was being so formal, especially on a saturday night, when the champers was no doubt flowing freely, and the level of madness and hysteria wherever Lyssie makes an appearance would make a surprise number by Kylie and Madonna together at GAY nightclub seem like a memorial service on Christmas day.

So back to the message. It seems the said picture hanging on Tiffanys wall is a 500mm x 300mm wooden frame, with a whitewashed board, and upon this whitewashed face, are hand drawn, stick figures of a group of people, childishly drawn, titled "the Kimmies".

Tiffany to Jase: "Jase, I found this in a rubbish tip a couple of years ago, and I liked it for the frame, but when i looked closely at it, it was just so funny, all these people, its like, someone's life story and all their friends and family are drawn on here. Because it said Kimmies, I thought somehow you might know something about it..."

Backtrack now, dear reader, 8 years ago, Fanula and I living in Wimmera place, st Kilda. One day Fanula comes home with all these framed pictures, and proceeds to whitewashe them all, with the expectation she would paint new pictures over them. As one was hanging on a wall in our living room one day we decided to draw on it, images of ourselves, and our life story grew.

So here. about 6 years later, Jase is looking at this freaky drawing penned by me Fanula and various others on some strange wall in a house in Elwood. More strange is the fact that Tiffany has this crudely drawn picture of all these people she doesn't even know, hanging on her bedroom wall. Funnier still is the fact that the three central figures are me, Peter and Fanula.

Jase closing his mouth and picking self up of floor: "And that's me there with the Edward Beale hair, and there's Debra, lying down saying 'oooh Kim' "

I don't actually remember throwing it away, but we must have done when we moved from Vale street to Melby avenue. It's nice to know that someone has kept a little momento of our history together. I think just about everyone we knew at the time was on there, friends were invited to draw themselves on it when they came over for dinner or drinks. It hung with pride on a wall in our hallway, until we had some pictures framed of matadors slaughtering bulls in Arles, and it obviously went to the tip to begin a new life in another family.

Aww Kimmy, what a crazy coincidence, hey.


Friday, April 27

A drink or two

I'm Sitting at the dining room table with Nick, and we're discussing downloading.

He doesnt believie how easy this is.

here is a picture of venice at night.

Thursday, April 26

Never smile at a crocodile

I just read the most disturbing story in the Times.

It involved a nine year old boy who broke into a crocodile enclosure in a Chinese zoo, and tormented the animals by bashing them with sticks.

Quite surprisingly, the crocodiles dragged the boy into the water where he was eaten by the hungry and very agitated pack.

Like, in the iPod MTV era we live in, does anyone teach common sense to children anymore?

But don't think that I'm sympathising for the child at all. I'm upset that the actions of this imbecile has now cost the lives of these animals, who were then killed, to serve the autopsy. It would be awful enough to have to live in a chinese zoo. Probably a blessing for the poor creatures anyway.

Man this world is a bizarre place sometimes.



Last night The fella and I went off to the cinema house to see Spiderman 3.

Now, being the media whore star fuckers we are, we had hoped that this spidie adventure around, we would once again happen to be in New York City to attend the premier, as we did for Spidie 1 and 2. Imagine our disappointment when not only did we not even KNOW that a third spidie adventure was on the way, but that we would have to watch it at the Trocadero in Leicester Square.

So fronting up there last night, hot on the heels of the Tobey and Kirsten show the night before (OK, who needs New York, let the stars come to us) we find that it doesn't even start until May 4. So totally unfair. It's been way too long between superhero lycra; we don't ever talk about Brandon Rouths performance in Superman returns, especially when Parker is in the room.

So to make the evening at least marginally enjoyable, we decided to see the gore and ab fest that is 300.

Despite the 3 highly irritating Japanese seat kicking freaks behind us who talked all the way through (you night want to see this at home in subtitles so you can understand it you nightmares) and the unimaginable amount of gore, blood, severed heads and limbs, the film is the most stupifying mind boggling visual feast of the male form ever conceived. The gym fees alone for all the actors on this movie must have been in the millions.

Though, good friends, are 300 good looking totally cut rippling ab chunky hot guys all getting their gear off and running around getting sweaty and blooded really an excuse for bad plot, bad script and even worse acting? It was a little hard to watch a Scot play a Greek, an Australian play his general with one eye (David Wenham should be hung drawn and quartered for his appalling performance) and some Russian play Xerxes king of the Persians.

Bad Bad Bad.

The cinema was full of we gentleman who enjoy the gym too much and probably not just for the workout. Hardly surprising.

Funny how gay men are so discerning when it comes to what wine to accompany a filet mignon, yet suddenly have no taste when it comes to cinema if you just add a bit of flesh.

Shame, England. Shame.

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Monday, April 23

How much do I love it?

And for my next junket...

I cannot believe my luck. An invitation came in to my boss last week from the designers of the water feature of the Bellagio Hotel in Las Vegas to attend their annual party.

Unfortunately he is unable to attend due to a conflict in his programme.

So they're sending me.

All the way to Las Vegas, to attend a party. At the Bellagio.

Right now, I cannot describe how much I love my job.


Saturday, April 14

Human Gristle. Barcelona part 2

What could be more soul wrenching and pitiful than my substandard Emirates business class lounge in Manila?

Well, many things, I'm very certain, but on this dreary rainy Barcelona day, dear reader, I found myself in a 100+ queue at the Barcelona Sants railway station attempting to purchase a long distance ticket to travel on a day other than this day, to get me to Nimes, France, and then ultimately onwards to Arles for the easter break.

I recall many years ago, as teenagers, we watched a rather kicky little film, full of charming post war themes suitable for children and the mentally ill. This movie, titled Christiane F, is a delightful little tale about a 16 year old German girl who is lured into a life of herion and prostitution through the despiration of acknowledging her bleak, opportunity deficient future.

Apart from being harrowingly confronting and graphic, even then, the film was actually brilliant, from memory, even if it was completely unpalatable. It was an interesting look at post war Germany and her people.

The reason I'm delving into this mucky swamp, is that this gristly operetta was set what is arguably one of the in bleakest backdrops of modern life, that of the European train station. I think, other than Greyhound bus stations in the USA, you may never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. (10 points if you can pick the movie that delivers that line....) ...

So I'm ticket 493 in the line. Around me waiting to be called to the window are American teenage girls on their Eurail summer break (possibly waiting for the last bus somewhere), a midget woman with a burkha and an obviously long travelled African family, who's legitimate method of communication is to hock spit at each other. nice.

Window is calling ticket 445....

When I picked up the queue number almost an hour ago, I recognised that half a day of my holiday would be spent in some parallel universe where Christiane F would circle around me waiting to eat me whole. So I decided to have a beer; so what that its only 10.30am.

So now it's 3 beers later, and i'm till sitting here, writing in my hello kitty notepad, chair dancing to the Freemasons (still) about to dive into HELLO magazine where Jordon tells Kerry that they can be friends again, even though Kerry still hates her husband.

Calling ticket 457.

Shit, I'm way too old for this, Next time I'm going to pay the £400 and fly.


Thursday, April 12

I'm BACK from BEARcelona.

OK, so I had quite a good time away, many funny anecdotes to tell.

Firstly, I had 4 days in Barcelona, where, I was dimayed, and slightly titlated to discover, like a naughty child who had just learned that sticking chewing gum on the sofa would, like, TOTALLY enrage mother, that the annual BEARcelona festival was on.

Well, I'm just SO glad I had spent every morning for the past month jogging at 6.00am to get rid of my goose fat laden Christmas dinner that was hanging around my middle like Lindsay Lohan at the back door of the late bar...

Anyway, in summary, it rained solid for 3 days and I was pretty miserable. One of the more perky days involved a little "race around the world" type task where I did have to wait an exhausting amount of time hanging around the railway station, waiting to buy a ticket to France, like some American teenage Eurail cheerleader in the 80's. *shudder* God I hate mass transit.

The episode that amused me the most in this saga was appraching the SNCF (or spanish equivalent) desk, prior to joining the queue, just to ask if this was, in fact, the correct queue to join to purchase a rail ticket to France.

Me: "Ola, Habla inglese por favor?"

Woman at desk: Stunned silence (as if I had just asked "hfasdfhn akjdhfalk hfkhuuhhjh muuuunie muuuuu"

Me: "sorry, do you speak english please?"

Woman at desk: "Oh no, not here. you'll have to join that queue and they'll speak english there."

I then, nearly wetting myself with laughter and slightly hysterical, damp and hungry, proceeded to take a ticket for the queue (100 places long) then make my way to the bar, and get drunk.

And it was only 10.30am. Luckily for me, I wrote a lovely tale of my observations, which I will follow in the next post for your reading pleasure (or pain, if you're on my side).



Sunday, April 1

Barcelona bound

I know I have been a little light on with the blogging of late, but its because I'm absolutely knackered, and now I'm taking a much earned little easter holiday.

I am just about to head off to Barcelona for a week of Kultcha. I will see you all when I return.
Happy easter everyone.

Remember, Jesus died for YOUR sins.

Mrs Pussy.