But I'm not heading for Spain. I'm heading for Sydney, Dubbo, Coffs and BrisVegas. So excited. I get to see Daniel, Enda, the Tourles, Outback House (where I haven't been for four years), the Allcorns and dear Andrew up in Brissie.
So so excited. Hopefully will post from on the road... pictures bound to be on Facebook in about 10 days time.
Big licky love
D xxx
Well I know it is not literature but that was a ratting good read. I don't spend nearly enough time reading any more but interestingly, since Thom has spent the week grinding out uni assignments, I've managed to chew through a great volume of gay chick-lit. Julian Clary, you continue to be one of my idols. A wonderfully funny book with a gorgeous level of gruesome and a delightful cast of characters. Perhaps a little too neatly wrapped up, but then a part of me finds that deeply satisfying. And great lashings of camp humour and that kind of gay love neurosis we tend to suffer from. Murder Most Fab. Fab indeed. It'll take most of my mates no more than an sitting to read it, but such a delight.
"She insisted we drink white wine, favouring the oaky, rich Chardonnay that rolls down the throat like Spanish semen but gets you drunk and tired at the same time."
From Julian Clary's first novel, Murder Most Fab.
Which, too, is fabulous. Reading it right now.
The tragedy about youth is, you only get one shot at it. And if you were like me and wide-eyed to the world around you but oblivious to what lay beyond its (in my case, barbed-wired) borders, then chances are you have regrets.
For me, that regret is brought home every time I go to the ballet. As it was last night during and after the truly exquisite performance of The Taming of The Shrew.
When I was a little boy mum took me to art classes in the nearby village. I was seven and I think it was on a Saturday morning at the Parkerville Hall. My friend Melissa and her little sister went to ballet class in Mundaring. My Aunts had also done ballet in Mundaring in their time and I kind of grew up hearing a lot about it. I was fascinated with it. All I really knew was, boys didn't do ballet. And I spent most of my childhood drawing little pictures and sketches and so I was content to go to my art classes.
But there was always this nagging feeling that ballet was something for me.
I think I mentioned it to my Mum when I was about 12 or so that I would like to try ballet. She informed me I had left my run too late. I should have started when I was 5. Or 8 at the latest.
She was right, for the most part. Most dancers do start that early. God how I wish I'd pushed the point though. But then I was one of those kids how never stuck at much so it was probably, reasonably legitimately, dismissed as a flight of fancy,
I'm 28. I didn't truly discover ballet until I was in my early 20s.
I made the wrong decision. I should have pressed the point. I should have danced.
It is so beautiful. So graceful, so strong, so exquisite. Darlings, I love it. And I love dancers. And, frankly, who wouldn't dance 14 hours a day for 14 years to get an arse and legs like these...
But I left my run a little too late.
So I guess there are a few lessons to take away from this. Firstly, let your children experience everything you can - you might just let them catch their passion in time to do something about. Secondly, life is full of missed opportunities, so make the most of the ones you take.
And thirdly, I would totally be one of those pushy stage mums you see in films like Centre Stage. You know the one who's daughter drops out of ballet school before the big final performance because she never really wanted to dance, it was her mum's dream all along... not hers?
Yeah. That's me.
I belong to a generation for whom even the first few notes of the theme music chill and excite. They transport us back to a time when only two agents knew the truth and battled those who didn't believe, and those who chose to hide it. A generation of boys for whom Gillian Anderson is still something of an unfinished wet dream.
A generation of 20-somethings for whom THIS TRAILER is either a chance to revisit something great, or to have a our teen memories destroyed.
Fuckin BRING IT ON.
I Want To Believe the new X Files movie will rock.
Alannah: Now can I talk to you about the Northbridge Link, which you seem to be obsessed with. Honestly you're like (West Chief Reporter) Mark Drummond, scoop dooby doo.
Me: Well thank you Alannah, I'll take that as a great compliment.
Alannah: Oh... um... well it wasn't meant as one.
She gets more hilarious with each encounter. The other day she asked where "that nice Giovanni" was. I said he was covering Police. She asked if that was "more ethnic stereotyping" from the editor.
Usually I'm very proper on the phone to her but today I thought, fuck it. I'm going to fight back. So when she accused me of not "writing the right kinds of stories" I said "I didn't know you went to the same school as Jim McGinty".
She laughed.
It was a good day.
I don't just mean on mute. Seriously. Watch it at home. Leave the kids outside. Prepare to piss yourself.
Use Of 'N-Word' May End Porn Star's Career
That was a fair warning. Did you listen?
Have you been sacked?
I'm not as eloquent as Johnsy when it comes to reviewing gigs I've been to, but I'm going to try.
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
(Told you).
Last night I joined a few thousand people in the rain to watch a man sit at a piano and sing a shitload of songs from the soundtrack to my life.
Elton.
I'm so glad I did. I took Michael, one of my oldest mates, and we made a night of it. I loved every minute.
He opened, after an intro piece, with The Bitch is Back, which has never really been one of my favourites. The first song to really give me that "OhmyfuckingGodI'mwatchingEltonJohn" feeling was Tiny Dancer (Hold me closer, Tony Danza). Great track. The crowd went spastic.
Then after a couple of new tracks no one got excited about, he rolled through Daniel, Honky Cat, Rocket Man, Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting, Candle In The Wind, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, Bennie and the Jets, Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me, Philadelphia Freedom, Someone Saved My Life Tonight, I'm Still Standing, I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues, Sacrifice, Crocodile Rock and his second and farewell encore, Your Song.
Well Daniel has, for obvious reasons, always been a song close to my heart. When I was a kid I asked my Mum if there were any songs with my name in it... from memory after hearing The Beatles' Hey Jude. We were in the car park at Midland Gate in her old bright green Gemini. She mentioned Elton John's Daniel. About 20 minutes later it must have come on the radio and I've loved the big homo ever since. When he sang it last night I was like six years old again and back in that car park in Midland.
Rocket Man fills me with visions flitting between Apollo 13 and Stewie from Family Guy's hilarious spoken-word rendition of the song. It's probably on YouTube if you haven't seen it.
Candle In The Wind was a very special moment... cigarette lighters up and waving everywhere. A crowd of thousands singing long is a remarkable thing to hear.
And finally, Your Song, what a brilliant encore. Michael and I had been waiting for hours for that moment. It was a spectacular ending to a concert which was right up there as one of my top concerts of all time. Right up there with Tori Amos last year for sheer spectacular musical experiences. Honestly, I could have died last night and died happy.
Michael and I have for nearly a decade had an agreement that when I hit 40 we're flying to New York, hiring a car, and driving across the USA and pitching ourselves into the Grand Canyon. I turned to him after Your Song last night and said, "shall we just go now?".
LOL.
Truly, truly fantastic.
Thank you Sir Elton, you did not let me down. I still feel warm inside.
...that this is the best album I have heard come out from anyone anywhere in years. Kylie, you're a freakin princess. I love you.
Whereas...
...this is utter gutter shite.
I can't believe it. I had just finished telling Thom Madonna had NEVER let me down in a career as long as my life. I used to dance around the living room to Holiday for crying out loud (with the girls from the neighbouring town, mind you... how did they not know?) when we popped this in the player. Oh. My. God.
I cried. Not just because she's got her vagina on the cover again (you're 49 now love, even the Confessions cover was pushing it) but because the tracks are truly, incredibly, disappointingly, ordinary.
Beyond ordinary.
Utter. Gutter. Shite.
I will still, however, pay absolutely anything and trample mincey faggots underfoot to get a ticket to one of her (four only) Australian concerts later this year.
Anyone reading this blog who knows anything about WA politics would know there is one politician above all who has a reputation for getting things done - the Train Tsarina who much like Madonna or Cher, only needs one name: Alannah.
Now because this is public and I deal with her on an almost daily basis, I obviously won't comment on anything to do with Alannah the person, the Minister, the State Builder.
But I would like to crow a little. You see, I have written more about the Perth Waterfront Project than any other reporter. It's my pet issue. I'm very close to it. I'm very deliberately and in a very calculated way, attempting to lead the charge on Waterfront reportage. I've kept the issue alive for three months. I'm slightly obsessed with it.
It is, of course, despite the Premier being the one who made the original announcement, Alannah's baby.
What has thrilled me to the back teeth has been the last two press conferences. One a couple of weeks ago and one yesterday. You see, the way it works is the Minister fronts up to the cameras and makes her statement on the latest developments, then the journos begin asking questions. Firstly, for the last decade I have always been crippled with nerves at press conferences, but not these last two. I know the issue too well. I know what to ask. I'm confident and it feels great.
Secondly, while other journos are there and while of course they ask questions (I'm not an egomaniac... well not to that degree at least), I easily ask the most questions, I like to think I ask the best questions, and... the second the Minister has finished answering a question she looks to me for the next one. Directly at me. It's great. I love it.
I guess the point of this post is that, despite what I've said below about being depressed and hating the workload and the hours and so on, I'm beginning to feel for the first time like I might actually be able to do a good job here. I'm getting across my issues and I'm getting comfortable. And I love it.
But just for the record, I don't pretend the Minister and I have any kind of special relationship. I should point out she'll still rib me or rip into me if she feels like it.
Which, as any reporter in WA will tell you, is almost even more rewarding.
The kitchen before:
The kitchen after:
The kitchen before:
The kitchen after:
The kitchen before:
The kitchen after:
Just have to put the tapware back on.
And yes, I am aware the kitchen looked more modern before I renovated it. lol.
Thom mentioned yesterday the sales boy at Holy Sheet in Mount Lawley appeared really very cute and was possibly a mincer. I go in there about once a year.
Today was, following that tremendous recommendation, the day I went in there.
Well that little titilation cost me $250.
On one hand I have no idea whether the cute boy at Holy Sheet is a mincer or not.
On the other hand I have a fantastic new bedspread and sheets.
All in all I'm happy with the arrangement.
But if everyone could just refrain from mentioning they've seen cute sales boys in stores where the average price per item is $100+, that would be most helpful.
Send me pictures from your phone instead.
PS, as you can see from the image below, my obsession with all things brown continues... doing nothing to quell Thom's use of my nickname, "brown boy".
Is it because I is black?
I wish every day was Negro Day!
