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.
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