Steven Seagal speaks!

"I am hoping that I can be known as a great writer and actor some day, rather than a sex symbol."

Its all fun and games...

You know it, I am back watching Robin of Sherwood. At present there is ye medieval dancing to a lovely folk band. I always appreciated the mass choreography of old fashioned dancing. In this case they have upped the ante: a room full of people dancing holding taper candles. I fear it is only a matter of time before Maid Marion's bouffant suffers. Insert flaming redhead joke here.

Oooh, a fight scene. I know it is not an important fight scene though, it does not have the dynamic battle music reserved for those. This is more of a plot building, casual, moments of hilarity piece of romping music. It is designed to show the youthful exuberance of Robin, leaping over fires, slicing up candles, besting his opponent in the most humiliating way possible. So I don't mind typing, I know Robin will triumph in the end.

The neckbearded man was begging for it anyway, if you ask me. Bloody ferals, you just can't trust anyone who worships Thor.

I smell conspiracy

Ahh, there's nothing like a good conspiracy to enliven my evening. Today I have been looking at the Bohemian Grove. This is an exquisite, all male (but really, what cool secret societies admit women these days?) group that meets each year in July, to commune with nature in a redwood forest. They revel in the freedom to piss on trees, drink, perform bizarre rituals and pay homage to significant people, especially from the 80s. I expect they talk business as well, although with the action packed bacchinalian revels, it would be a wonder that they find the time.

Lots of people feel very strongly about these goings on, the creepy owl altar, the whisper of Satanism. Some feel so strongly that they hold cleansing ceremonies concurrently with the July grove event.
Since I will never be invited to a Bohemian Grove party, I think the best thing I can do would be star in a prayer vigil/ exorcism/ cleansing ceremony inspired by it. I will start off small, perhaps a select group of individuals at Stonehenge Aotearoa. From there I fully expect to gain great kudos and mana, and followers in sufficient number to create a rival celebration that will effectively knock Bohemian Grove off the calendar. Maybe I'll even get some Jesus-is-saviour.com coverage of my own.
One idea I have had is to start that cult worshiping Christopher Lambert? That would be so much cooler than trying to get Jedi listed as a religion on the census form. Who will join me in the Church of Lambertology?

If your forehead is not tall like the mighty oak you aren't allowed to breed. Or perhaps I will start up a eugenics programme, and only allow those with low foreheads to breed only with people blessed with exceptional acreage.



Dylan McKay can be pope, unless he is put to stud.

Ick.

Harry Potter and the ultimate overexposure

Just to prove I don't live in a vacuum, I will make reference to the current big news. Will anyone read blogs? Does anyone actually even read this blog? (you are none of you commenting much, you sylvan creatures).
Maybe in a couple of days I will post spoilers about the Harry Potter book, but I would have to read it, and the penultimate one in order to do so, unless of course I made it all up. And frankly, I am a bit sick of the whole thing. I hope Harry does get killed off, J.K. Rowling does not write any similar novels, and Stephen King is not allowed anywhere near the Harry Potter character. Actually, I hope someone chops Stephen King's hands off, and cuts out his tongue. This would make it impossible for him to write, but possible to read bad reviews and hear negative assessments of his work. Every day he will suffer as little children scream in horror when they see him in all his ugliness. Hang on, they probably do already.
Anyway, I don't know if I have the intestinal fortitude to read the last two Potter books, particularly when I have found a Biggles novel I have not yet read. It is called Biggles in Australia, and has a picture of an aborigne on the front. I wonder if Biggles is hunting him?

Come home to a roaring fire

Its been a day of trials and tribulations. From the hilarity of realising catalogue search terminals were blocking access to nursury rhyme cds (I suspect they filter out the profane "Hickory Dickory Dock" songs; not to mention "Hey Diddle Diddle") to the drama of lift doors closing too quickly. The moment that will most stick with me, however, is a woman calling us all primitive because one has to show proof of address to get a library card.
Thats the thing that really gets me. These people go overseas, get back and then feel all superior and sophistimicated because they chavved it up in ye olde Englande. Any chance, and there they are, trying to wedge the fact they were overseas into conversation. Whats this phone number? Oh, I gave you my INTERNATIONAL calling details, in case the library wants to phone about overdue messages from its love nest in Borneo.
In general, the people who are most brazen about their international travel are the ones who have been to the most tedious of places, proliferating like fungi in the grottos and kiwi ghettos of London. They probably show interminable slide shows of their castle visiting, night clubbing, and carry fond memories of Andrew Lloyd Weber musicals with them to this day. Harrods would have been a must see, and you better believe they saw the changing of the guard.
Travel is wasted on these people, they should have given the ticket to me.
At last I would become the International Superbitch I am destined to be.

Lynne Truss would be most upset

I just saw an ad for the new Timbaland album. Pedants of the world will unite in revulsion at the title "The Way I Are." But its OK, I won't need to worry about advertising shortly, I have hooked up the Playstation 2 so I suspect I will be in the throes of RPG frenzy before long. I could also watch DVDs, but I have seen enough movies to last me for the next few months. Besides, it will take a stalwart action film to top Hot Fuzz. That film made me want to move to England so I too can say "yarp". That dialect could smooth out my New Zild in no time.

Trivia

I was reading some IMDB trivia, and apparently Christopher Lambert dated Stephanie of Monaco. Is there anyone that woman will not date?

I wonder if he killed her music career?

Separated at birth?

Nickelback lyrics - break out the bongos

I had the misfortune of hearing Photograph by Nickelback this afternoon at volunteer work. I didn't choose the station, and I was stuck sorting through bags of crap at the time so I had to listen. I've inadvertantly heard the song a few times now; fine if I could block it out. But, and this is a significant but, I tend to listen to lyrics of songs as well. As a result I can't block out the Middle of the Road, wallpaperness of Nickelback, and am tormented by every gasp and wail of Chad, ugliest man in music.
The lines that really get me are these:

I never knew we'd ever went without
The second floor is hard for sneaking out

How does that follow? And who cares?

Oh oh oh
Oh god I

can't believe someone crapped out those lyrics? Quite.


I won't afflict you with the complete rehash, suffice to say it is similarly embarrassing. Chad should have given up poetry back in highschool, that way no tragic souls out there would even have the chance to identify with this dismal summary of small town life.

And what the hell IS on Joey's head?

Rocky III

You, my adoring public, may have been wondering where I have been for these last few days. The answer, taking care of business. Working hard for the money. Getting down with my bad self. Taking out the trash. But I am back for the minute, in between shoulder rolls inspired by the sound track from Rocky III. Can you imagine the whole room of bespandexed ladies, marching on the spot to Survivor's Eye of the Tiger. OK now breathe ladies, we're taking it home now. Feel that burn! Big stepping motions!
Actually, Rocky III was the most homoerotic film I have seen all week. All sweaty thighs encased in satiney shorts. Lots of men hungrily grabbing at each other, while wearing what looked like colourful nappies. Stallone, the Italian Stallion, complimenting his sparring partner "you're looking good!" bouffant hairstyle overshadowing the whole scene. Witness the movie image; Mr T is patently smouldering with latent passions.
I wonder if Stallone took lots of steroids to pump up for the film? Must have, surely, if the Australia incident was anything to go by. Well, one wonders what the long term effects of such use have impacted negatively on Stallone or Schwarzenegger - which makes the idea of the latter being U.S. president even more appealing. However the joke would wear thing long before the 4 year term was up. Anyway, I wonder if these guy had sand kicked in their faces until they developed a permanent case of Roid Rage and stopped being wusses?

The Wickedest Man in the World

Looking at these pictures, it is hard to take Aleister Crowley's title as the WICKEDEST MAN IN THE WORLD seriously. In the one he looks like presenter from Playschool, and the other like an extra from Benny Hill. I await the train of scantily clad nymphs that will run past him.
Lesson: if you are going to set yourself up as a guru, mystic or head of a religion, control the images that are made of you.

Does anyone remember

Richard Scarry?
I am thinking happy thoughts because the odour has returned. No suspicions, I'd recognise that sheepy stale cigarette smell anywhere. It will be with me when I am in hell...

Every man wanted her, every woman wanted to be her...

Oh what the hey

I'm deeply disappointed I am not a celebrity yet; I figured my one chance would be writing. I could edit the author photograph and look semi-normal. Alas, I can't write and the rock star career doesn't seem to be eventuating. What to do? I'll never be popular, good looking, witty or, as I have discovered, have a glamourous and thus worthwhile job. I'm fielding suggestions for alternate careers in which you don't need to have talent or looks to get ahead. Damn, that rules out trophy wife, and they don't pay people to navel gaze.
So here I am, not really good at anything; I'm stuck in Dunedin and in a life that promises to be unremarkable. Damn society for raising my expections, and damn me for just being intelligent enough to be aware of my limitation. I wish Jim Flynn had advocated birth control in the water supply earlier, non existence would be so much simpler.
Apropos of the above, it could be suggested that he is being self interested, after all, he is called Jim "A for a lay" Flynn in some circles. I wonder if he was secretly representing the interests of a large group of sleazy university lecturers? Which brings me to another area in which I have proven inadequate; none of my lecturers hit on me...the logistics of it all puzzle me. Perhaps people are just overcome by passion as a way of evading really boring areas of study. Management and Economics lectures must be a hot bed of vice.

Too much information

This morning a woman randomly started telling me about how she hadn't had any water yesterday, and it was just terrible. You have no idea how good that first flush this morning felt. Then the penny dropped - she was talking about urination? Why!?! We'd been having a perfectly normal conversation about some books she was putting on hold, and then that?
People are strange, and sometimes strangely revealing. But I love it really, as long as they don't know much about me.

Girly Man!

All I can say is, "WTF?!" Followed by, "Thanks India"

I'm waiting for my yam

-I don't want no one minute yam
-Touch the hand of the yam
-Just a yam, with a yam's courage
-Gimme gimme gimme a yam after midnight
-I am an innocent yam
-In just 7 days I can make you a yam
-Ain't no other yam
-What a yam what a yam what a mighty fine yam


etc etc. I was half watching spinal tap, and cooking me up some sweet sweet yams. I was distracted from the film, I find it difficult to watch or enjoy things I have seen before, except thins with a Queen soundtrack, but I made sure I saw the bit with the dwarves dancing round a miniature stone henge; brilliant. If only they had done a song about root vegetables.

in the meantime, how about suggesting some more appropriate alternate lyrics. I can't devote too much time to it, I have to get to bed early and plot my working day tomorrow. Alas no sleep in; wish me luck getting down the hill safely because its cold out there. Or maybe it is not so bad, after all, the cat chose to be out there.

What is the attraction? Probably nothing much, she is pretty easily amused.

On TV at the moment is a documentary on Malcolm X. It reminds me of wandering into that hiphop bar (Route 66?). I was just so damned white, and deep down I knew I did not have the funk. I conformed to my racial stereotype by not being able to dance. That, of course, threw the gender stereotype, but I can still draw lessons from the situation.

Business people walking - not related to Live Earth initiatives

As I was vacuuming down the stair, I saw a man who wasn't there...
No prizes for guessing what my hot activity was just a few minutes ago. What better way to warm up?
Tomorrow keeping warm will not be such a problem - the employer will take care of it for a few hours at least. I am valiently sacrificing my day off to work shifts. Handsomely paid overtime of course; but one has to be paid handsomely if one is going to slide down the hill before 8.30 in the morning.
I really can't wait for this next week to be over.

Take me there!

Anyway, you may be wondering what the link is. I typed a search for the poem the opening line is cribbed from, and the first site that came up was "stock images of businessmen walking down the stairs together". I never realised that there were so many subgenres of reenactment, nor so many people keen to have depictions of business people carefully walking down stairs. I thought they just wanted footage of people's sensibly shod feet walking down corridors, hands dialing telephones, slags partying in trashy night clubs and beanied white men holding up service stations.
Well, now we all know something new.

I'm about to bizounce

This whole journal seems to be an extended whinge, as if the bitch ball never leaves my side of the court. Well, it does leave the court, but the world volleys it back to me. Todays moan: having to watch Mermaids. What a foulsome film populated with loathsome characters; exactly the sort of thing I did not want to watch. Cher is not fabulous, nor is she an amazing actress. She is a stretched bitch with a bouffant. I need not add how utterly over that retro music I am, that 60s revival shit is so 2 decades ago (1.5 if I am charitable).

Oh, and cleaning. I have spent most of my time after work trying to clean this shit hole of a place for people to look around. Mmmm, on my hands and knees scrubbing floors - don't look so amused damn you. I washed many dishes and found hitherto undiscovered collections of bottles for recycling my flatmate had amassed. The job is not done and so I will return to the coal face after work tomorrow, to brandish the vacuum at the now vacated room. The people looking round probably won't want to move in anyway.

And now, the weather. Will it just clear up already? Or I will have to wear filthy clothes and steep all week. The clothes racks are full in the lounge and it seems to be mildewing up a storm so drying inside is not an option. However, a mildew contamination of the brain would provide a good basis for a horror story & I'll let you know when I start hallucinating. Cthulu will probably feature. Who am I kidding, Cthulu always features.

All I have to do is hold it together for my public tomorrow.

Addendum: The people looking round didn't even end up looking round, Cthulu still hasn't called, possibly because the place looks too hygienic/fresh. Maybe he is just playing fast and loose with me. I am becoming more positive and excited at the thought of midnight missions depositing our breeding pile of plastic bottles around the neighbourhood recycling bins. Still working on the theme music for that.

Remind me to switch the channel

Remind me to switch the channel next time Campbell live has the feedback log. Natasha, when they said log, they did not mean the kind that steeps in bottom of the toilet bowl. Middle New Zealand, stop writing angry letters about how we need to be proud of the yachties, and get on your self indulgent blogs.

ADVANCE AUSTRALIA FAIR

Especially for you

Today I had the misfortune of thinking of this song; certainly not Jason and Kylie's finest hour. This led me to think of Craig McLachlan and Check 1 2 (Hey Mona, oooooh Mona), and finally Sealed With a Kiss, Jason Donovan's wonderful campfire opus. I still have not completely shaken the memory, but things are looking up. Project Runway is starting back up so I can revert back to saying "Where's Andre" instead of tum tum tumming along to dodgy a music soundtrack.

I initially had a delicious picture for your delectation, however it seems to have disappeared for the minute. In the photo, Craig looks like he is wearing a maximiser bra underneath his scanty green muscle singlet. I'm sorry, it was uncalled for, and the internet gods seem to have punished me approriately.

Dr Who?

So Dr Who has a new companion; wonderful. But what I really want to happen is Dr Who to reincarnate as a woman.

Kiwiana

Whenever luscious foreign people come to the library, I feel a little bit embarrassed about my accent. There they are with their candyass fancy talk and I have to respond with swallowed vowels and raised inflection. Sometimes I can forget about it, but I am afraid I wont be able to for the next couple of weeks. I decided to play in my inner gutter, plug some depths, watch some morning tv. Good Morning truely is the devil, and I think they speak even worse than I do.
While I think of things that should make us all ashamed, I recall a German friend of mine who recoils in horror when she sees the inclusion of peas in a curry. While I was sorting stuff at the op shop the other day I found a book which included a pea curry. With sausages. OMG thanks Maggi, for photos of some of the most disgusting food I have had the misfortune of being exposed to. The pork chops baked with hard boiled eggs and limp vegetables haunt me to this day. And lest we forget, Alison Holst's sweetened condensed milk mayonnaise.
But however much I may cringe over our foods, I can't give up on lolly cake and cheese rolls. Not on the same plate though.

Good Morning

For the first time in my life I have watched Good Morning. I made it through half the show, with plenty of gaps as I fled the television in horror. The accents, the banal topics, Simon Barnett rocking the free world for Christ. In that hour and a half I was was amazed, not one person said anything intelligent. Actually that is not surprising; the people on the show seem to be terminally stupid. But I had thought it would be like that roomfull of monkeys who eventually manage to type Pride and Prejudice in their random keystrokes. What are the odds of nothing worthwhile being said? I expect I was in the presence of an inverse genius.

Awww

Andrew Lloyd Webber naturally leads us to this - Macavity, international cat of mystery.

I think we better dance now

When I think back on some of the fantastic mass choreography of our past, I wonder why there is not more out there today? A pox on that freestyle, rapid cut editing, I want smiling faces in a frenzied routine. I want Hot Gossip and Pan's People. And I want it all performed to gang vocals. How can anyone think of the world going to hell in a handbasket with such a musical extravaganza? Buddy, you can't stop the music. Nobody can stop the music (pace Village People)

But the really strange thing is, this obession with team dancing does not translate to a love of musicals. They sully the purity of expression - which makes Andrew Lloyd Webber's work a perversion. Not even his association with that Diva Sarah Brightman can redeem him.

Snow again, dammit

It might be time to buy an auxiliary hot water bottle, because the forecast is nasty, nasty, Nasty. I don't what more I can do to be a survivalist; I've been hunkering down and using up all the tired and lame food in the house for pickles, spreads and baking. Perhaps I will just have to knit?
Anyway, I hope you all have your tinned food, because I ain't sharing mine. I'll shoot you all as soon as you get near the porch. My aim is pretty good, even allowing for the rocking chair.

Are you ready for your examination Mr. Umlaut Necrophagus?

Once a week C4 brings it, oh how it brings it, with a rousing two hours of heavy metal.
All the videos seem to be the same; black clad moderately overweight men with bad facial hair, performing vocal assaults on an entirely innocent microphone. The lyrics are indistinguishable, but usually revolve around wanting to have Satan's babies or the nocturnal hobbies of Werewolves. Well so the titles would have us believe. I think there is a strong possibility the lyrics relate to the perennial concerns of oily 30 year old computer geeks everywhere. Give me Cheesey Puffs! occasionally venturing into heart wrenching tales of when Mom accidentally bleached their favourite dragon long sleeve tee.
Obviously I was inspired by my viewing of the show the other night. The mysterious Mr. M and I discussed the beauty of the videos at length, particularly with reference to the widdley wee arpegio/chromatic scale guitar solos the songs abound with. Which set us to wondering, man cannot live by Cheesy Puffs alone; just how many of these virtuosic guitar players sustain masturbatory injuries? I bet A & E is inundated with them, every night.

UFO

It has been a tough quest, but I think I have found the costume of the future. not even Star Trek, with its gusset baring mini-dresses can compete with this (to the chagrin of the Schat).

Sylvia Anderson, you have a lot to answer for.