See Paris die

Yesterday I blogged with sadness that every bastard was in Europe except me. One of those bastards is my darling friend Lara. Lara has since emailled me an open letter to the City of Paris, which I share with you now.

dear paris,

i was in our neighbourhood last week and noticed a few points of interest about you. i do believe there might be a few misconceptions held by the world outside of europe so I, with your blessing of course, would like to put the record straight and share with the rest of the world your true character.

You retain your steadfast position within the political sphere... you have helped formed liberalism, assisted in freedom of speech, and you have even assisted the united states in attain a suitable UN resolution for the latest middle east crisis.
you were the one who vetoed invading iraq and you brought france's poverty to the stage in les mis...all of which are commendable efforts.

however, there are some tarnishes, blemishes ...wait whats the word im looking for... oh yeh... STAINS about your moral character. details are as follows:


firstly, you smell like f***king s**t... i cant tell the difference from the stench of your homeless people and the aroma of your sewage that wafts throughout the underground subways. i would hate to have a fight in the streets of paris... not because im afraid of getting raped and robbed (which is also scary) but because i worry that remaining in the streets for too long and exposed to your fumes, i might catch some airborne venereal disease ... and i dont care if thats not possible... anyhting is possible in paris. michael jackson with his airtight mask and his pet monkey and god knows what other rodents would fit perfectly in your backyard
so take a shower and while you're there, why dont you clean up your act?
city of love? my ass! you are the city of porn you filthy hoe.
you are nothing but a sexual deviant parading half-naked women across magazines and selling them as "stlye mags" which brings me to another point.
paris puts the "le" in style... and that is all.
most of the people are that overweight they cant even fit into the designer labels you sell. hey, theres nothing wrong about being overweight..im australian... the second fattest nation in the world! but we dont go whispering to the world that we are the hub of international fashion do we? no! so stop blabbing to your little european union compatriots at your belgium HQ that you are too cool for school, because you clearly are not.

secondly, get an adequate welfare program for your homeless. the "derelique" campaign aint a fashion trend you idiots. whats made for zoolander, stays in zoolander.

thirdly, mate, im telling you, you love tourists. why? cos we spend our worthless cash on your stupid bread and perfume at la fayette galleries. we bolster your economy. you aint the pound... you're the euro... so lets just put it in perspective hey?

you do to speak english...and dont tell me you dont... ive heard you!
so when i ask... where is the prada section please... or .... where is the metro station please.... dont look at me like i'm coolio or some trashy white girl from jerry springer you f**k. why dont you just tell me so i can spend money and then we can all be happy?
and then you can use that money to get some proper freakin toilets, you diarrhea-ridden cesspool.
i go to paris to get away from indonesia...ive already been there once.. no need for an imminent return. so get rid of those "squat toilets" and lets get physical with hygiene.

the lourve is definitely at the helm... the art is amazing and one of your beauties... but did you notice there's hardly even any french art there??!!! its all italian, greek and egyptian... so dont go around declaring your love for culture and the arts... its not even yours you HACK
your eiffel tour rocks... but the bureau de change sucks... your commission is extravagent you filthy greedy frog eating freaks.
be like london.
work a full week, stop striking....stop protesting over every little thing... and save your shouting for the big things... like better health and education... a cleaner city... and embark on a crusade to be nice people you hapless porn-loving psychos.

love lara.

Now I KNOW I'm missing out.

O, Fortuna!

Sometimes we do something on a whim and it pays off. It becomes one of life's memorable experiences.
I have had many of these moments: I drove to Albany aged 19 and didn't return for four years; I covered a Burns Supper for my paper and took up the bagpipes for two years; I went to a restaurant for dinner and spent three years with the waiter; I filled-in a form at ABC Online thinking little of it and have spent a year avoiding directly answering the question "where do I know you from?".
Well this isn't quite the same scale as any of that... but I did experience something truly amazing.
I spent the afternoon listening to nearly 1000 voices singing brilliant choral pieces by Orff and Verdi.
The WA Symphony Orchestra Chorus was holding a "Big Sing" and people from the community were invited to go along and fill the Perth Concert Hall with their gleeful voices. (Okay, so the Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves isn't exactly gleeful... but you know what I mean). I wrote about it for work and a heap of our papers ran the story. So I'd like to take some of the credit for the enormous turn-out! lol.
It was impressive. The sound was incredible. I am always blown-away by the sound of human voice en masse. I love it.
Earlier this week I saw WA Opera's production of Nabucco (funnily enough!) at His Majesty's Theatre. The sound was awe-inspiring. And here I was, a few days later, listening to nearly 1000 amateurs singing the same piece. I wanted to cry, the emotion it evoked was so strong.
Tenors, sopranos, altos and basses, all together, in unison, in divisio: brilliant.
To hear two pieces of music I love so much, sung so well, by a temporary choir of also-rans, rehearsed for only two hours, was an amazing experience. I wish more people had gone along just to listen. I arrived depressed, I left higher than a castrati.

Every bastard is in Europe except me

And I'm sick of it darlings.
This morning I had a phone call from Lara "Perth's Best Kept Secret" Hyams (or DJ Abortion) from London's most exclusive club, Fabric. She had been dancing to the best progressive set she reckons she had ever heard... and she missed me.
Last week when I called her, because sometimes I too miss her, she was on the Paris underground looking for the station at Bastille.
This morning I had an email from another darling friend, Amy "Don't Tell Anyone I'm In Features" Henderson. She was in the Champagne region of France where she had sampled more of my favourite food group than I dare let myself believe exists. She was fresh back from Munich and Berlin.
Every bastard is in Europe except me.
Now I know my good friends check in on this site from time-to-time, so I'd like to put something on the public record. The following people have promised to move to Europe with me:
Daniel "Dancing Daniel" Baker
Lara "Am I Bovered?" Hyams
Lindsay "Dust?" McPhee
Emma "Thompson's C**t Gazelle" Gant
and Wayne "Antonio" Bennett gets an honorary mention in dispatches on account of the fact he's quite likely to at least leave Australia shortly and could therefore potentially hang out with me at Hilda's Brauhaus.
I'm adding Bill Bryson to the list as well, just because I think he'd be fun to travel with.
Of course, if this documentary hadn't have come-off I would have been in London from last Tuesday (August 15), which had been my intended departure date. Consequently everyone is constantly asking me when I'm leaving.
Let me also put on the public record, I plan to limp over Christmas and head off in the new year. Anyone who wants to come with me... well you're more than welcome. Sharing the adventure is half the fun.

Rallying the troops

Occasionally, I dedicate myself to a cause.
When I was in high school a group of mates and I joined a decent-sized protest on the steps of Parliament House to rally against logging old growth forests.
When I was at my (agricultural) university (in Northam, darlings, where they lynch non-conservatives) I perhaps rather unwisely chose to side with the Maritime Union of Australia over the dockside protests against Patrick Corporation in 1998. While farmers were volunteering to run the wharf themselves, I waswearing pro-MUA t-shirts and pulling finger signs at the scab labour driving blue and yellow Patrick trucks. (Still do, actually).
At various times I have helped further veterans issues (through the RSL, no less), refugee issues and general union clamour.
Oh yeah, and I also marched on the streets of Albany against the War In Iraq (as soon as I'd finished covering the event for the paper).
None of these actions have ever made the slightest difference. I'm too left wing and compassionate to be allowed to taste victory in Howardian Australia. (God I hope history judges that man for the disaster he has been. And if it doesn't, then I'll just have to set to re-writing history - a journalist's privilege).
Anyway, the point is, today I did something for my cause d'jour. Gay marriage rights.
Two years ago today John "Fist Me" Howard placed a Federal ban on same-sex marriage. We're talking about States and Territories being allowed to register civil unions between gay and lesbian couples.
It was used to create division in an already divisive election campaign (oh yeah, and thank God Labor didn't get in because then interest rates would have risen).
So today I attended a rally at the Northbridge Cultural Centre in the city and listened to an hour of fantastic speakers, delivering with eloquence and passion a message to our (notoriously and literally) hard-of-hearing Prime Minister. We want equality. We want access to our basic human rights. We are not sub-human. Marriage is about love not gender.
I was immensely proud of the young people who organised this event. They were passionate in the kind of way I wish Australians were passionate. They were passionate in the way people were passionate in the 60s and 70s. The refused to accept the status quo, the laise fair. They filled me with hope.
Several times I wanted to cry.
Last year I attended the same rally. There were about 50 of us. It wasn't huge but I was proud to be there. This year there must have been at least 300 - most of whom I had never seen before. I was so incredibly proud to be there among them.
After the speeches we marched through the streets of Northbridge.
Afterwards someone told me they didn't think the public paid attention to protests like this any more. They said the public took a dim view of speaking out in this way.
Perhaps he's right. Perhaps that's exactly what is fucking wrong with this country.
It is far too easy for politicians to call protestors radicals. Far too easy for the populous to do nothing.
You can hide behind your white picket fences, should you wish. You can lead your modern Stepford existence. You can close your heart and your ears and believe the propaganda of the Neo Cons.
Or you can dare to think.
Dare to feel.
And dare to speak.
I, for one, will never fucking shut up.

Research uncovers need for more research

The article on this link is long and one of several, but it is incredibly good. Researching this film means I'm going through an amazing learning process about my sexuality at the moment and stories like this remind me why I'm doing it. If you have 20 minutes, do take the time to read it.

Article

Around the world in 80 gays

Maybe it is because I grew up in a place called Gidgegannup, but I have an obsession with crazy place names.
Western Australia is a veritable glory box of stupid place names. Kudos to our Aboriginal fathers for names that have been Anglicised into Wyalkatchem, Koolyanobbing, Mukinbudin, Bullamakancka, Perenjori, and Dalwallinu.
But this secret delight has now taken a new twist. I am compiling a list of crazy name places that I want to travel to. These are places around the world that are worthy of closer inspection, simply because they have a stupidly beautiful name.
I then plan to travel to them all in 80 days and I challenge the best (wo)man among you to a race around the world!*
The first such name to spark my attention is Bulawayo. I’m also fond of Soweto and Okavango. To be fair, I’ve pretty much been to the Okavango Delta. I got as close to it as Chobe National Park and Kasane, on the Botswana/Namibia border. But I’d love to go back, so that makes the list.
“But Dan,” I hear you ask, “aren’t you going to the UK?”. Well the answer is yes. I am going there to visit Chipping Sodbury and Chipping Norton and several other delightfully named places, including Brans Hatch - a town which is just begging for me to adulterate its signs for my own edification.
Anyway, all suggestions for Dan’s crazy tour of death based on superficial nomenclature are welcome.
*may not actually happen.

Deliteration: A call to arms

A good friend and I have invented a word. That word is "deliteration".
It refers to instances where the English language is treated with all the respect of an aborted bastard foetus ripped from the guts of a southern suburbs crack-whore that has been thrown in the gutter outside a busy Centrelink or St Vinnies soup kitchen. Yes... that's a damn lot of disrepect.

Now I can handle people abbreviating "laugh out loud" to "lol" (even though they probably did no such thing) and I can handle net-nerds failing to capitalise or punctuate. Hey, it's a busy world we live in and hitting that shift key takes valuable nano-seconds in the chat-room.
But what I have great trouble handling is raping words of the letters that rightfully belong to them.

U no wot Im talkn bout?

Again, while the above example is straight from an inane MSN Messenger conversation or SMS, that's not particularly what I mean. Those are borne out of a need for brevity - sometimes as a measure to save money. But when you are registering a business, surely to Christ you can manage to spell "new clean" correctly, instead of "nu-kleen"? I mean for crying out loud, you molest words like that and they'll never again feel clean in the same way any seven-year-old who has met Gary Glitter doesn't.

To some extent I blame the Jews. Before you set Hezbollah on to me, allow me to explain: They killed Jesus. (And boy, haven't they paid the price for that little mistake?). Anyway, what happens when you kill a jesus? We get a Christmas, that's what happens. What happens at Christmas? We get Xmas. We get Xmas everywhere. I think it is possibly the first example of genuine wide-spread deliteration. Probably followed closely by "thru" in the popularly-used stakes. (For "thru" we can thank McDonalds and assorted "drive thru" outlets. Sure is seems cute... 'til I run Ronald "thru" with a MacKnife you MacFucking wankers).

I cannot possibly be alone in detesting this practice, so I present a challenge - a call to arms, if you will. Lets fix these bastards for good. If the pen is truly mightier than the sword (sord?), let us prove it. Let us raise (rayz?) our chemi-pens and permanent markers (markaz?) to the deliterate signs of the world and correct (korekt?) the spelling. Our world is at war with their world people and we cannot afford to let this drop.

A shy-nee nickle 4 each fotograf'd x-ampl.
(Next week: War on grocer's apostrophes)

A very happy birthgay to me

It's a big day for me today. It's my birthgay. My third birthgay.
Yep, it was three years ago today that I came out. Came out to myself, at least.
It should be a time for reflection, but I probably can't be bothered except to say I'm damn proud of the faggot I've grown up to be.
How nice that I can celebrate this day knowing I'm working on a project that will hopefully make a difference to so many other people going through - or about to go through - that same process.
My life would have been much easier if someone had been there to show me the way out. There should be gay sherpas.
That's what I hope to be: a gay sherpa.
(Now I can't get horribly graphic images of Hillary and Tensing out of my head. No-one needs that. Especially at altitude).

A machine that goes ping

I think there is a huge market for this, someone with the know-how could make a lot of money from this idea.
Unfortunately, I do not have the know-how as I am not Japanese.
I want a machine that goes ping.
Well not just ping, I want a machine that goes "boom-boom!" every time some tells a shit joke.
I want a machine that goes "wha-wha-wha-whaaaaaa" every time someone says something that falls flat.
I want a machine that makes that "whammy" sound from Supermarket Sweep every time someone does something dumb (or Ian Turpie tries to enter the room).
I believe the possibilities for this pocket-sized device are endless.
Why not include "strut music" (Like George Baker Selection's Little Green Bag) for when you're marching up the street with a smile on your face and the world feels fantastic?
Why not include a laugh track for when you say something deliriously funny an no-one is there to hear it? Why not include a laugh track for when you say something funny but people ARE there to hear it but they don't laugh and then you remember you work in the MIDLAND office?
And this device could be programmed to introduce sound effects and soundtracks into other parts of your every day life. What if you heard thunderous applause and cheers of encore every time you flushed the toilet, for instance?
What if every time you walked backwards you heard reversing beeps?
What if every time you lit a cigarette it started coughing uncontrollably?
Yes, this idea is gold. Gold I tells ya!

Who on Earth is David Tennant?

I am not remotely a fan of science fiction.
I match the definition of the word geek in many ways but sci-fi is one area where I collapse into terminological inexactitude (big-it-up to Thomp’s Donkey for that remarkable lexicographical treat).
I think Star Trek is possibly the saddest television ever made. I think Star Trek devotees are possibly the saddest people ever made. I don’t understand Battlestar Geraniums or those stupid Andrew Ridgeway Scott Alien films.
But there is one noted exception: Dr Who.
I was a massive fans of The Doctor as a kid. I remember watching Jon Pertwee in the role and then being amazed as he regenerated into Tom Baker.


Now Tom Baker’s Doctor was one of my childhood heroes. He fended off Daleks, Cybermen and – most terrifying of all – the planet of the spiders.
I was excited by the Paul McGann movie the 1990s (and then devastated by the absolute tripe that it was) and even more excited by Christopher Eccleston taking over in the new millennium.
Last night, the new version, with David Tennant as the Doctor, hit Australian TV.

Now I must confess I am in love. Not only is he dash-it handsome but he’s also every bit as good as Tom Baker. Eccleston may have had Baker’s bass-baritone bollock-soaked booming voice, Tennant has more of the innate eccentricity. (I don’t want you to think he does funny things to my sonic screwdriver or anything. I’m a fan, but I’m not about to start dribbling over ‘sexy’ aliens the way Trekkies do).
Baker was the definitive Doctor. No-one will ever beat that. But I think Tennant will come a lot closer than Davison, McCoy, or McGann.

And seeing as we’re playing with blue police telephone boxes, and seeing as the new Doctor Who focuses much more on London than in the past, and seeing as it is a year since the London bombings, and seeing as… well, you get the picture…

I stole this from another website. Kudos to whoever is behind it. Peace out. (Unless you’re a Dalek. No peace out to the Daleks).

Things is looking up for the media slut

I have news. Great news.
Unfortunately, I'm not quite allowed to share it properly yet.
But those who need to will know what I mean by the following:
As you know, I work here:


Until recently I wrote for this paper:


But to get time as a grade three under my belt I moved here:


And I also work here quite a bit:

Well all last week I worked both jobs... excitement enough, you would have thought.
But no. Something else has come-off. A little project I've had in the pipeline has been given the go-ahead, and I'm very excited.
I can't say too much, but those who already know will understand this:


I feel very very priviledged and lucky that this particular venture has paid off and have a lot of people to thank at the appropriate time. I just have to finishing pissing myself with excitement first.
And with any luck, it will make me much more employable to:


and my life-long dream will have been achieved.
But of course, that's not WHY I'm doing this particular project. Anyway... more on that later.
Just congratulate me if you see on the street, that's all I ask. Oh yeah, and pay some strangers to come up to me and tell me how good I am. LOL.

Fremantle should be wiped off the map

So last Friday night Linds and I put on our glad-rags and trotted-off to Fremantle.
You may recall, I am now one of the reporters covering that basic area, which means I should be evolving a brilliant fully-integrated inner-cranial GPS and UBD.
Unfortunately, it has eluded me to-date and let me down when it was most needed.
We were heading to the MC Lars concert and we were running a little behind our 8pm ETA. As it turns out, we could have caught a lift on Space Shuttle Discovery and got there earlier. (Or Challenger II, for that matter).
Driving down the highway we sailed over the Queen Victoria Bridge (most people sail under it) and I calmly said “Now I have no idea where Metropolis Fremantle is, do you?”.
“Computer says no.”
I understood it to be on South Terrace. She opened the map book. At that point we had maybe five minutes up our sleeves.
Lindsay directed me onto Parry Street. After some several hundred metres we decided we were heading down the wrong end of Parry Street. About-face. Re-trace steps.
“We’re still not coming to Adelaide Street,” Lindsay said.
“I think it’s over there.”
“We can’t get over there.”
“Well let’s just go down here.”
So we went down there… and found a harbourside car park. We pulled into it, stopped the car, switched on a light (Linds had up until this point been using the glow of her mobile phone) and stared at the map.
“Turn it up this way.”
“No we’re facing this way.”
“Well this is Elder Street, and that’s Elder Street there.”
“So how do we get to South Terrace?”
“We need Parry Street.”
“We were just on Parry Street… that’s it there.”
“Actually, if we drive along this road and turn left there, it becomes South Terrace.”
Can I just stress for you all, South Terrace is the MAIN street of Fremantle - it is the extension of Market Street – and we couldn’t bloody find it!
When we eventually did find the street, we sailed past it (what a silly phrase, I may as well have said I “hovered” past it or “aquaplaned” past it for all the accuracy it relates) for several kilometres and had to do a U-turn and stop and ask a stranger for directions.
We paid for parking, Lindsay got verbally mauled by some kind of rat-haired primitive with an erection but no breeding and we joined the longest queue imaginable outside a Zimbabwean food aid van stop.
So we got in late, but managed to see the whole gig.
MC Lars gave fantastic concert of his best work and then casually chatted-up Lindsay when I went up to introduce myself to him.
I don’t mind her pulling my friends but pulling my heroes is a new twist on an old favourite.
Well he might have enjoyed discussing TS Eliot’s The Waste Land with her but I’d love to see him navigate Fremantle with her.
That’s not Lindsay’s fault, can I just stress (lest she murder me for my pelt). What I’ve discovered is, while the map makes it look like Fremantle is designed on a grid pattern, in reality all the streets run at triangles.
I am also not entirely convinced that they don’t shift like the staircases in Harry Potter while no-one is looking.

*blinks*

Newflash: All trains to Penrith standing room only

Have to be proud of him, really