On a good day I appreciate Fairy Floss.

Short and sweet tweet, tweet squawk. I just love Melbourne in the winter. No, I mean it. I really do. The Thorazine flows freely in rivulets of joy and Spain like dryness. Every facade is slapped by cascades of bleakness and mirth in the coolsy black night: Slapped until it smiles from one latte stained cracked lip to the next.


My thoughts go out to the merry mud schlocking patrons of Glastonbury this northern summer. I could feel the low ticket sales ebbing all over the cash register. I envisaged Bonobo preaching to the soily masses as he soiled the main stage with his and our collective guilty smugness.
The vibes of The Hedgefund's chords wouldn't strike any home plates with me.
I have just read that I must have been dreaming. Bonobo has cancelled, the world sighs, nay, the world says "Fuck you Bonobo and the shmorse you rode in on." No world tour: That'll do wonders for global warming.

Such good news has cheered me up no end considering I just sat through the opening night of the 27th St Kilda Short Film Festival. Sometimes short just isn't short enough.
If pissing in pockets were an Olympic sport I should say no more. I dare say torrents of the steamy liquid were flowing down the aisles. Methinks there was more $$$ than script in tonight's offerings although I did recognise the guy from my local Video Eazy in the first short which was too short by half.

There was an extravagance of cheese on my pre film Margharita, ditto the shorts although credit must be given where credit is due; the cinema was full which is a veritable rarity where Australian cinema is concerned.

On the other hand, Guinness is good for you once again. I hope this inspires a rethink on the benefits of burning britches and wearing lace witches whilst eye dropping Thorazine in the optician's waiting room.

Easy, breezy, beautiful ...

Easy, breezy, beautiful ...

Maybe she's born with it, maybe it's Thorazine ...

This week's Thorazine covergirl and all-round comorbid case study is Lady J ...

"Maybe I'll do a big load of washing today - it might make me feel like my life isn't catastrophically out of control"

Instead of suggesting honesty as the best policy and changing "washing" for "nothing" [ and, indeed, ending the statement after '-life'.] I merely said "Maybe" to stall for more time not to think about it.

The thing is, entropically speaking, J's life is in fact a little more orderly with her clothes remaining unwashed and as complete-if tumid-ensembles unevenly covering her body. Her fears of looking like a squatter in her mid-renovations-rubble-strewn-&-unheated house is less because she sneaks about darting from the possible view of the builders than her being down to two arbitrary outfits-not, as you may imagine, alternated, but worn one on top of the other- teamed with bed hair, frantic-eyes, and grasping of a half-empty 1.25 ltre bottle of Pepsi at 10am on a monday morning. This is not to mention the kleptomaniacal, ghoulish mongrol hound that barks, shits, and moults simultaneously and incessantly from her trembling side. This perennial companion of 14 years [perennialls?] is [son of] Sam -- a worrying and easily worried hybrid of all unwanted [/raggy-doll-reject-bin types] dogs ever discarded to the pound's death row to upset people who should know better anyway. Imagine What-a-mess but with 'tude and deafness.

Extrapyramidal symptoms persist, though they may in fact be resurgent. Certainly, the 'muscular, lead-pipe rigity is nothing new, and the facial spasms and other motor tics cannot be considered solely caused by her Thorazine regime as she has a history of childhood twitching and flinches so often it can appear indistinguishable from repetitive and involuntary movements comorbid pathologies are responsible for.

Junk Thunk.

White chocolate is creamy and dreamy, rum & raisin is boozy and brown but watching Scotch Connery play his part in ‘Diamonds are forever’ is just like old times. Old wooden times. Is it the drugs I’m on or are these ladies hotter than my velvet pants? Plenty O’Toole just entered the scene, and boy does she know how to make an entrance for our boy Bond’s benefit.

“A drink?”

Like I need a brain in my head and Plenty’s pants just hit the floor. These drugs are seeping all over my annoyance. They’re anti (in a Yankee accent please) psychotics(in a Swedish accent please) and they do everything that the graffiti on the wall says they do.

Like get a load of this; I called this dame today about her plans for expansion, which were on hold until she got her septic tank sorted out, and if I could be of any help.

Not bloody likely. There’s more chance of me dobbing-in ‘The Age’ for low editorial standards and an over abundance of fashionista social girly supplements on the weekend.

The pundits say that there is no future in paper newspapers, who cares? There’s no future in politics either but I don’t see anybody getting their knickers in a twist over it.

The future is irrelevant and not invited to this narco party. The future is what happens after breakfast and before Horlicks.

The future owes me money and I want it now.

Heck, that would be nice. But hold on there, isn’t that how the world works anyway? On the futures markets, sitting in hedge funds or massaging the cojones of the merchant wankers before martini time comes around again.

Crap, brutal, terrible, waste of money, like cheap coke, embarrassing, ball breaking, an abortion of a film and last but by no means least ...what happened? Are all words and phrases that I would use to describe the abomination that was ‘Catwoman’. For a few moments I did really, truly and honestly think that I was watching the new Fame film.

I need more drugs to cope with all this detritus.
Some tosser in Toorak today cheated on his boyfriend and fucked his own wife. I’m sure of it. I could smell an indecent sense of irony in the air as he reluctantly did the missionary thing.
If you don’t read about it in the papers this weekend it’ll be on commercial TV for dinner instead. On second thoughts it’ll end up as a juicy round five morsel in some form of trashy celebrity trivia.

These diamonds certainly aren’t forever or for me neither. Not all Bond films are worthy of the brand. Not all Melbournians wear black, not enough Melbournians are black. I wish that the mighty house on Spring street was down a dark alleyway behind a sleazy pool hall, at least then I would know where all the tragically thunk up trendoids are wallpapering of an evening.

“Doctor”

“What’s your diagnosis?”

“Did my lover give me psychosis?”

I hope they give me some more smarties.