Its like a marathon. Feel the burn?

Idol night.
The first night.
I am pumped. I've trained for this all season and I know I can do this. Its been a damn hard slog but I'm sure I'm ready. I've been practicing snide remarks and nasty putdowns. I've primed a list of welldeserved praise and high accolades. I've had exploratory surgery done on my anterior cingulate cortex and my ability to feel and maintain empathy and emotion is in tip top condition. I have both pejorative and complimentary descriptive terms at hand. I am ready, willing and able to go go GO. I nervously finger the remote control as 7.30 approaches, crack my knuckles in anticipation and switch the tv on . . .

Our first semi-final. They've added the live audience element to the show - I like that - it means that even if you bail out at this point you've still experienced that frisson, that thrill of performing for real people, you get an immediate visceral reaction that a cold semi vacant television studio full only of the crew and the onscreen talent won't necessarily give you. We'll be getting two singers from each gender divided show (giving us eight) and then a Wildcard show next Sunday (where four more will go through - though they don't tell us yet how many of those four the judges will handpick). They bring out our six performers of the night and Dean Geyer audibly gets the loudest cheers. We get it girls, he's cute.

Chris Murphy is up first and he's tackling Crazy Little Thing Called Love. I hate it. I hate the arrangement, I hate the cheesy guitar and I hate that it sounds so easy listening FM radio station. His singing in this song is so 'safe' that he's lost all the power we've seen previously. Don't get me wrong, he sings it well, his voice is still extremely good but by god I'm bored. He gets rousing applause and the judges all love him (well, Marcia didn't actually say she loved him, she just said it was obvious he had 'gigged' but you almost always have to read between the lines with her) but Kyle does note that he wants to see more of the grubby rocker. Amen Sandilands, well played. I really thought Chris would go through with the first group this week, but I feel he will have to play the Wildcard. And he should call the CourtJester and get some tips on song choice.

Nathaniel Willemse has decided to completely ruin U2's Vertigo. Seriously, I didn't even recognise this until he got to the chorus. Nathaniel has taken a frenetic, wild song about being thrown off balance and being dizzy with life . . . into an RnB ballad??!! What the fuck? Guys?? Where is the rock tonight? Where is the fun? Why have you sucked the life out of this song, Nathaniel? Just like Chris before him, he sings well, he hits all the notes and he is very sincere about what he's doing but I can barely stand to listen to this version. The judges love it, again. I . . . huh? Really? Y'all liked that? There is discussion of the 'interpretation' of the song - Mark didn't like it, Marcia did - but everyone seems fine with the arrangement. I feel like Bono would disagree and request that all groups concerned meet in a prearranged 'safe' place for talks about the lyric and the content . . . man. And everyone would get to wear big bug eyed sunglasses and Irishman Damian would have to go along and interpret the accent and the beer drinking etiquette. And the Edge would just sit there and raise his eyebrow at everyone and halfway through the proceedings, around about the fifteenth pint of Guiness, everyone would realise they hadn't invited Adam Clayton and that Larry Mullen Jr went to the bathroom an hour ago and didn't come back . . .

Spunky Paul Vercoe comes out and massacres himself a Lifehouse song, Hanging By A Moment. There are so many problems with this performance, starting with the key he begins in and ending with the fact that, if this were your local pub karaoke competition he'd probably be a shoe in to win unless that tone deaf drunk chick got up and sang the theme from Titanic and then forgot halfway through and thought she was in a wet tshirt competition instead. He is flat, there is a decided lack of any melody and its painfully shouty. Sorry Paul, but I'm calling it. Time of death, 8.05pm.

Sidebar : Pink is on 60 Minutes right now and if it weren't for the fact that luvverly Irishman Damien Leith is up next and I have high hopes for him, I would watch the rest of the interview - god I love that Stupid Girls video clip.

Damien is singing You Are So Beautiful by Joe Cocker, which I remember fondly from the days when I was in love with Michael J Fox (before I realised what a dirty Republican his character Alex P Keaton was on Family Ties) - I'm not sure why. Did he dance to this song with one of his girlfriends? Was Courtney Cox on that show? You know, whatever happened to the cast of Perfect Strangers, god I loved that show, I loved the theme song "sometimes the world looks perfect, nothing can be arranged" . . . sigh . . . excuse me whilst I visit You Tube for a moment. Wow, they just don't write theme tunes like that anymore do they? You know, that would make a KICKASS theme night, old tv theme tunes. Gold. I don't get paid enough to come up with this stuff. Anyway . . . I stop thinking about old 80's sitcoms as Damien starts singing because I am transfixed. Yes, he is noticeably nervous for the first couple of bars, his voice wavers a little and his eyelashes are on Flutter Alert : Code Amber, but he regains footing very very quickly. He builds the song up gradually and the bridge is just soaring. I sit on the edge of my seat waiting for the falsetto at the end of that song and . . . here it it and it is great. I get that prickling feeling just behind my eyes that I get watching ER which means I'm about to tear up . . . The judges understandably love him - but Mark hates the thought that they might get stuck with another unhip, uncool, unmarketable winner, right Mark? Thats not how he words it, but its what he means. Not another Poor Poor Casey, not another Kate, right Holden? You want another Callea, a Ricki-Lee, a Guy. You forget - again - that people over the age of 19 buy CD's. In fact, we buy MORE. We may not have bought Poor Poor Casey's or Kate's but maybe you need to start thinking that its not the singer we're avoiding, its the cookie cutter by the numbers bollocks you try to foist off on us via your winner. Kyle however, thinks Damien can sell CD's. I am coloured a surprised shade of I'll Remember That Later . . .

(I catch the end of Pink's interview on 60 Minutes and my girl crush is solidified.)

I had such high expectations from Gangsta's Paradise singing Brendan Boney and to hear that he'll be kicking Stevie Wonder's Higher Ground is an awesome start. Except he's not singing Stevie Wonder's Higher Ground. He's singing the Red Hot Chilli Pepper's Higher Ground. But he is kicking it. To the KERB. (sorry, sorry, bad joke, BAD joke, my profound apologies.) Its faster, its louder and it drowns him out. I can't hear him at all, even when the band cuts out he is still struggling to be heard above the backup singers. His breathing is all over the place and when I can hear him, he sounds flat. The judges basically tell him everything I've written down on my notepad. He'll have to wait and see if he gets a Wildcard and if he does he'll still be riding the wave of his original audition piece . . .

Final singer and obvious Judges Favourite Dean Geyer sings If You Could Only See which is the second song in a row to have previously been performed by a contestant on RockStar Supernova. But unlike Brendan, Dean does almost as good a job as Chris did on that show. But Chris also got ousted the week he did that song. I suspect Dean will have better luck with it. He is cute and sings well, he is rather charismatic, if a teensy on the cheesy side and he doesn't look 100% comfortable performing in front of a live audience but a couple of weeks performing (and lets face it, he's a lock in for Top 12) and I think he'll be kind of unstoppable. He is definitely the 'package' Mark is looking for, Marcia pretty much wants to adopt him and Kyle could pimp the crap out of this boy on his radio show so its kudo's all round for young Dean.

I have to say, Damien aside, I was kind of underwhelmed by tonights performances. Four of them sang well, two of them were kind of crap, but almost all of them were a little boring. I imagine the older viewers will vote fairly en masse for Damien and the younger for Dean Geyer. Chris and Brendan will most likely Wildcard at which point I hope for greater things from them both.

Go Irish.

TallulahBelle out.

Seymour Centre. Part, the second.

In what has quickly become known as one of the darkest times of modern medical history, the terrible epidemic of laryngitis, tonsillitis, nodules, strep throat, hysterical muteness and dysphonia has continued into its third week. Young contestants on an Australian reality television show, Australian Idol, were the most recent victims struck down by these insidious conditions. The show bravely battled on, with the contestants and judges alike smiling in the face of certain demise. When will the politicians accept that we are in the midst of an international health crisis, the likes of which has not been seen since SARS? Funds must be IMMEDIATELY released to medical testing facilities. When a show like Australian Idol, a show built on the foundation of singing and music, is unable to actually show any of the contestants singing for any length of time, it is time for action. My friends, I urge you to immediately contact your local member, to write to your state newspaper, to rally in the streets and to help us break the vicious cycle. Let our Idols SING!

Okay, maybe I’m being overly dramatic, but COME ON. There was a decided lack of any actual performing in Monday nights show. We were privy to mere snippets of the solo performances – I can understand if they’re trying not to saturate the public with any one particular individual - its nice that Tom Cruise has been an example to someone - but still. A little more wouldn’t have hurt them, right? A bit more singing equals a lot less Mark faking someone out about whether or not they got through. A few more verses equals fewer sob stories about how their mothers didn’t hug them when they scraped their knees. The odd vocal warmup with Eryana equals no nervous breakdown for my poor mother who visibly flinches everytime I raise my voice in anger and ire whilst watching the show.

We begin with 49 left in the comp. 49 people who’ve been herded into a room and made to wait for hours to find out if they’re in or not. 49 people who probably know that if they go into the room with the judges immediately after someone who got in, that the odds are against them getting in as well. Its brass tacks time. Balls to the walls, kids.

I refuse to recap the contestants who don’t get in. I’m sure they understand.

James Steele from Tassie sings Love Me When I’m Gone and is our first Idol through the gate. Not the best singer in the competition and certainly not the best of the guys who didn’t make it through, but he is proof positive that confidence pays. He makes you believe he can sing because he exudes belief in himself. They pimp the poor bastard by making him ring his Dad on the phone’s loudspeaker, hoping for Dad to burst into the tears of a proud parent. He is instead stoic and Aussie, and chalks it all up to his son’s talent. Awwwww, good Daddy!

Jessica Mauboy’s solo was some song about spreading her wings that I didn’t recognise but her voice reminds me a little bit of Christina Aguilera’s. She is, of course, our Northern Territory Idol. NT represent!!

Sidebar : my first sidebar of the year is in quick defense of my love of the Xtina. Yes, she is Mistress Melisima, Queen of the Quaver, Temptress of the Trill. But her new song Ain’t No Other Man is the SHIT and is currently my mobile phone truetone. Yes, she unnecessarily trills – BUT – she can really really sing. Really sing. Dude. Girlfriend can hit a high E above middle C first thing in the morning before she’s had a drink of water and without breaking a sweat. Shaneequa, back me up – that’s some good singing, right there . . .

Which is what Lavina She’s Gone Too Far Already Williams tries to do in her solo perf. She sings a Xtina song and trills all the fuck over the place (but and this is the key NOT as well as Xtina), eventually finding the actual note and blessed be!! She actually gets called out by Kyle for relying too much on vocal tricks and not portraying any emotion. She bursts into tears and tells us a sob story whilst I feel every muscle in my back tense with dislike. You’re already in, they’re fucking with you, STOP CRYING ALREADY.

My not so random or surprising hate-on for Lavina is swept aside for my not so random or surprisingly love-in for Chris Murphy whose solo was Cry In Shame. I hunger for him to bust out a falsetto as I suspect his may even be better than his brother’s was. The judges do not dick around with him because I suspect they sense his emotions won’t necessarily be as easily messed with as some of the younger contestants and he is in. Well, duh.

Jessica Griffin wanders all over the stage and I want to nail her feet to the floor but she sounds good, if a teensy bit shouty.

Ricky Muscat sings I’ll Be Loving You Forever – his voice is cracking slightly under the pressure and I hope desperately that he isn’t this years James Kannis. Because I kind of hated James Kannis. A lot.

They montage a few random In’s and I am pleased, if not a little perplexed, to see Carrot Top Bobby Flynn made it through.

Auctioneer Paul Vercoe sings If Only I Can Get Through This and not only does he look like Shannon Noll, but just like The Noll, he is apparently risking his farm and livelihood to be in the competition. Thanks goodness he gets in! He also has the teary family phone conversation but is allowed a little privacy as he breaks down in the hallway. I didn’t get a little teary at this point. I didn’t. Shut up.

Edie/Missy singalike Lisa Mitchell funks the hell out of Diamonds on the Inside and is looking a LOT less nervous. She still lacks stage presence and confidence but she’s the only one I feel safe about predicating will be Top 12. Lock it in, Ed(d)ie.

They don’t show Brendan Boney’s solo perf so it must not have been as truly inspiring as his audition piece which was an acoustic version of Gangsta’s Paradise which they do show again. Seriously. If you didn’t see it, I can’t even tell you how great it was.

Dean Geyer – who FYI, is freaking adorable and my current show crush – is another Idol who sings a song I don’t recognise. His singing is a little flat in the lower register. Work on that, Dean, don’t make me say goodbye too soon!!

Amanda Streete sang Early Warning as her solo. Mark fakes her out but we all know that every season must a rock chick have, and Amanda baby, you’re it. She’s also a single mother, but her singing is actually good enough that they don’t need to dwell on that. Marcia must be so disappointed . . .

Moptop Reigan Derry’s solo isn’t great, its not even as good as the group song that she got totally bagged out for and the judges are a little harsh. Marcia’s call of ‘you’re not as good as you think you are’ is just pure and utter bitchery, wrapped up in a sarong and a decent wig. I don’t know why they put her in if they hate her so much but they do.

Lyndall Palmer-Clarke sings I’m With You and is this the first time we’ve seen this girl? I don’t remember her at all. She does remind me of Tarni the Rock Chick from last season – to look at, not to listen to. I don’t even remember her now. That does not bode well for her.

Guy Mutton sings Yellow, which is just about my least favourite Coldplay song – it’s a urine thing, don’t ask – but he does have a lovely voice . . . welcome to the Top 24!

Joseph Gatehau brought his entire family, maybe he’s doing his ancestral history while he’s waiting, he needn’t bother as Kyle already convinced him to drop out of his final year at school. Whilst I think this is an assy thing to do, if the kid is serious about the show he wants to get all the leg ups he can, we all remember that other high schooler who had trouble remembering the lyrics to songs - which I put down to trying to do both Idol and school at the same time. He dedicates his solo song to his mum and moves the entire room to tears. It is pretty damn good.

Annnnd its torture the remaining contestants time by bringing them in together knowing that one is in and the other is out . . . the last two guys are Cowboy Korey and Irishman Damien Leith. Korey’s song was good but uninspiring whereas Damien, who has the FALSETTO OF AN ANGEL, wisely performed the Jeff Buckley version of Hallelujah. It is Damien, right? Don’t fuck with me show. It . . . is . . .Damien, yes? Yes.

The last two chicks are Melanie (good god, please no) and Klancie Keogh. I don’t think a whole hell of a lot of either of their voices, but Klancie’s solo of Redneck Woman is significantly better than whatever that was that Melanie sang. Klancie gets through and is distraught, seriously, she’s sobbing. She does know she’s in, right? I start disliking her a lot until Voiceover Mathieson tells us its three in the morning. So they kept these people awake for what? Probably damn close to 24 hours? No wonder they have no emotional control. I want to cry just thinking of the lost sleep. This method of telling them one on one is just needlessly cruel. Horrid show. Horrid mean show.

The others rounding out the top 12 guys are Nathaniel Willemse and Chris Graffitti and the gals are Atlanta Coogan, Raechel Lee, Rebecca Pearce and Lydia Denker. Who? Yeah.

Semi’s start Sunday, continuing all the way through to Thursday. Yes, every night. Yes. EVERY night. Y’all? That’s going to kill me . . .

Seymour Centre. Part, the first.

See the Idol Wannabe’s arrive in Sydney from all over the country and behave like completely normal people. Witness the complete lack of pratfalls, mugging for the camera and screaming. Marvel, as the judges actually critique them on their talent. Gasp, as everyone works together and gets plenty of rest. Be amazed when everyone learns their song overnight and have no trouble whatsoever learning the lyrics. Be completely taken aback as no-one shiny and suspiciously orange has a hissy fit ostensibly about his ‘professional reputation as a seasoned performer’ but that would appear to actually be more about his inability to cope with stress and no sleep and storm off in the most metrosexual huff I’ve ever seen. Watch the Idol Wannabe’s treated with respect, dignity and the slight sense of awe they deserve for putting themselves out there on national television for the chance to record an extremely well thought out, produced and not in any way rushed to the stores in time for Christmas CD, chock block of superbly written ballads and pop tune classics that will stay on the radio, get stuck in your head and be on permanent rotation on your Ipod for millennia to come. See pigs develop opposable thumbs, a sense of self, the ability to converse and learn complicated math, be accepted into flight school, pay off massive university fees and become pilots for Virgin, the first airline to break the porcine ceiling and adopt a Pigs Are People Too affirmative action policy.

We start the show with Voice Over Mathieson advising us the Top 100 is actually 127 and they need to cull 30 to get a Top 100. Hmmm, even I know that there’s something sketchy with that math . . . (I have a calculator in my phone). The first few groups are seriously underwhelming and pretty much all get sent home – one of the few who undeservedly makes it through is mother of four Melanie who to absolutely no-one who has seen this show’s surprise, is singled out by Marcia. I would roll my eyes but I don’t want to jump the gun. I suspect I’ll be getting a lot of eye rolling done this season. I need to stretch before I watch tomorrow nights show, warm them up.

Carrot Top Bobby sounds like he didn’t get enough sleep the previous night and isn’t quite as good as he’s previously been but James from Tassie belts out his song and although he sounds a little pitchy and breathless he is so damn enthusiastic and putting so much energy into it that his confidence overrides the underlying not greatness. Both get through to the next round but little funky fashionista from the Alice, Dylan goes home. Lavina Williams is working my last nerve when at the end of what sounds like a pretty damn good version (but not as good as this little girl) of And I’m Telling You (I’m Not Going), she mimics her sister by unhinging her jaw and caterwauling the last note for about an hour. Nadia is woefully unprepared to sing the song she only just chose and I’m sorry, but is deservedly smacked down by Holden and basically told to stop wasting everyone’s time. She joins the 58 other people who are told their Idol Journey is over. Whittling!! Whittling them down!! Whittling rocks!! More whittling!!

Group songs . . . ahh, separating the strong from the weak, the wheat from the chaff, the . . . the . . .yoghurt from the muesli . . . The boys get – U2’s Beautiful Day, Jackson 5’s I Want You Back and Elton John’s Tiny Dancer. The girls get – Blondie’s Call Me, Earth Wind and Fire’s September and The Bangles’ Eternal Flame. Oh and before I go any further, I love Chris Murphy. Just getting that out there now.

And then, the drama! The drama!! We spend about fifteen minutes on the Trials and Tribulations of shiny Anthony Callea lookalike Jorge, who has hit serious Killer Fatigue (TM Miss Alli from TWOP) mode already. J, who tells us he’s coming from a professional standpoint, has trouble learning the lines of the Jackson 5 number his group has chosen. So he’s a professional musician, but he doesn’t know one of the most famous Jackson 5 tracks enough that he can learn the lyrics properly in a couple of hours? Riiiiiiight. He then chooses to rant at his fellow contestants and behave like a six year old by declaring it to be all too hard for him. He then talks about himself in the third person before taking his bat and ball and leaving. Leaving! Because Jorge needs to stay true to Jorge! And apparently that involves completely screwing his group over by not telling them he’s leaving until the next morning. Teammates Ricky and Paul are understandably pissed and a little defiant and aggressive when they front before the judges. It throws them to the point where they sing like they didn’t practice at all and barely scrape through on what may be a trademark Marcia pity vote.

Girl group Jessica (of the Alice), Estelle and moptop Reigan are singing Eternal Flame about a key lower then they should be and their harmonies? Leave a lot to be desired. Luckily they’re not being judged on this particular performance and get through. This aspect of the show has never been more obvious (that is, the don’t worry if you’re shite today, you were awesome yesterday and besides the group singing doesn’t really count aspect) than with the next group of boys – our two older urban cowboys and a young genteleman whose name’s all escaped my trusty pen and notebook. Young guy remembers all the lyrics to Tiny Dancer and he sounds good. Older urban cowboys BOTH forget their lyrics and kind of shuffle along like they misplaced their zimmer frames. The cowboys get in because THIS PART DOESN’T COUNT. If it counted? We’d see more of the actual group singing. Little Miss Eddie/Missy 16 year old Lisa is shown smiling happily at the cameraman because she got through and did we hear her sing? No. We didn’t see so much as half of the contestants actually sing.

But we do see the final group of the day, the only official duo of the groups. It’s the aforementioned silver lining in the cloud of Idol that is Chris – brother of the CourtJester – Murphy. Chris and Dean Geyer sing U2’s Beautiful Day and hallelujah, it is. The two completely and totally ROCK their harmonies. They are flat out awesome and get the only standing ovation of the day (that we see). My only bugaboo is Chris needs a haircut. Like . . . now. Other than that? Love him. LOVE.

Tonight tune in for solo performances and the emotionally suspect, time wasting, blatant show filler face to face smackdowns between the judges and the contestants as they find out if they made it into the top 24.

Not a good day

Two pieces of truly upsetting news out of Hollywood today, one extremely sad and the other devastating (I’ll let you decide which is which).

Firstly, my Bruno is no more. Recently diagnosed with leukemia – so recently that I hadn’t even heard about it – he died Monday in LA from complications. Read this to fully comprehend my loss.

Secondly, Gywneth Paltrow has decided to come out of acting ‘retirement’. Sigh. What did I ever do to her??


(And does my blog look funny to anyone else? The typeset seems to be randomly changing font size without my say so. Weird.)

Jesus is still alright with me

I . . . . well, I barely know what to say. I wasted another two and a half hours of my life watching the audition shows and . . . . really, that was it? Interspersed between a multitude of truly wretched singers were a mere handful of talented individuals. A skerrit. A thimbleful. A tiny. And we somehow still have a top 100? Prepare yourselves kids, there's going to be a LOT more crap to wade through before we get to the top 24, its all I'm saying.

But this week our painful search begins in Sydney, where, I'm sorry, but is there some sort of council ordinance that demands that one out of every three Sydney-siders MUST own their own barnyard animal suit? Chickens, cows and dog costumes as far as the eye can see - witness the famewhore in its natural environment, wacky enough that they'll make it on to the show and yet still covered up enough so that the average passerby won't recognise them on the street the next day after the show airs and beat them into a bloody pulp for taking up so much MOTHERFUCKING screen time.

As usual, we're subjected to a cavalcade of crappy crooners until we're presented with Jorge, a shinier (who'd have thought that was possible) and stretched version of Anthony Callea who oversings When Doves Cry more than the kid from Romeo and Juliet. Honestly people, can we stick to the tune? Just once? Too much to ask? The answer is yes because HOLY MOTHER OF GOD ITS EMILY WILLIAMS' SISTER. She starts off not too painfully but THEN oh god then of course, she kicks in with the vocal gymnastics and a key change and her voice goes all the fuck over the place which gives the three judges erections to the point that their table lifts off the floor. Gentle readers, may I present to you the contestant who (if she makes it through to the top 12) will receive the most touchdowns, you go girls and you're a star from Mark, Marcia and Kyle respectively, whose backstory will bug the most because it will feature her sister, otherwise known as my least favourite Idol ever and who has just been voted Idol Most Likely To Harsh TallulahBelle's Gig. But. Is it wrong to hate Lavina just because of Emily? Am I tarring her with the same brush as her screeching harpy of a sister? Thats not fair, is it? FINE. Williams sister? You get one Get Out Of Jail Free card. Use it wisely.

Next up is what I like to call The Final Straw. Eliza has auditioned SEVEN times in the last two years. She can't really sing, but her higher register suggests that given a couple of years with a really really good vocal coach, she might be okay at karaoke nights at the local pub. Of course, this being the show that it is, no-one suggests anything of the sort to her. Instead, Kyle is revoltingly snide, Mark berates her for wasting their time and Marcia takes the condescending moral high ground of "I don't need to say anything, do I?" Karma is going to get these three good and I really hope its during a live show but I'm done. I loudly vocalise my intentions next year to not start recapping this show until we're at the Seymour Centre.

Then we finally get some of the good NSW singers, like Irishman Damian who sings that song from Closer when Jude Law is scamming on Natalie Portman from across the street and it always gives me goosebumps because the song is great and this guy? Sings it really well. Damn fine falsetto. Damn. Fine. Then Moulin Rouge dancer Rebecca busts out an okay version of Heaven (she's trilling a bit, but its not that bad), the Nipple Guy presents us with a fantastic R&B voice and JJ plays and sings to us beautifully and busts Kyle's hump in a manner that endears him to me instantly because he doesn't lose his temper or raise his voice, he is calm, he is straightforward and he doesn't take any shit. And don't freak out, but the Last Person To Audition Gets Through Because They Are Completely Unexpectedly Awesome (trademark pending).

And we're in QLD, where everyone hates Kyle and I love everyone. Usual bullshit, Kermit impersonaters, Emily Williams pimpage (more of the same), a chick who sings the entirety of The Rose . . . TWICE . . . and enough Jesusfreaks for everyone to take one home. This show only goes for an hour and it takes us until 7.54 to get to Bobby. Bobby sounds like Jack Johnson and looks like a brunette version of Carrot Top. Honestly, go to the link and look. I'll wait here. See? Uncanny. Bobby is pretty much radio ready, you could stick him in a studio right now and he'd deliver. He's extremely talented, is what I'm saying. As is hard rock seasoned performer Guy, who they show playing with his band. Guy would love to make it to the Opera House and I want to leap through the teev and remind him what show he's on. Has he even heard the tripe they make their winners release? Its not Metallica, its not Def Leppard, hell its not even Bon Jovi. Its Angels Brought Me Here, its Maybe Tonight and its the godawful saccharine piece of shit they gave to Poor Poor Casey.

Albury/Wondonga is our final stop. Thank. God. And you can tell at this point that they're padding the competition to try and make up a hundred finalists, because they let through some really average singers. The first real gem out of AW is auctioneer Mark who is hot in a Shannon Noll kind of way (yep, I can't believe I wrote that either) and does two things that rock my cotton bobby sox. He sings Pearl Jam whilst wearing a Vote for Pedro shirt. Gold.

And then they seriously piss me off. Once again the Last Person To Audition Gets Through Because They Are Completely Unexpectedly Awesome and not only are they unexpectedly awesome, but they just might be one of the best talents I've ever seen on this show and it makes me forget the pain I've suffered through over the five and a half hours of this bullshit audition process. Lisa is too young. She's too too too young, she's just sixteen and she is nervous as fuck, you can hear a tremulous wavering lilt as she sings. But. Her voice is the love child of Edie Brickell and Missy Higgins and she sounds amazing. I don't want another sixteen year old to win this competition but she could do it. She made the sitting through the hours of crap worth it, just to hear her sing. I look forward to hearing more from her at the Seymour Centre.

Which is where we're headed next and it couldn't have come any sooner. I need to go and have a lie down and regroup. Get myself one of those fizzy energy drinks or something because its been an exhausting process and it didn't even last a month like the audition process did last year. Small mercies, right? Praise be to someone.

We were on a BREAK

Dear Australian Idol,

I have something to confess. Now before I do, you need to know that I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. I never thought I was that kind of girl, and I don't know what else to tell you but that I got caught up in the excitement of something fresh, something new and I'm sorry but I think that you need to take on some of the blame. You've let things get old and stale, you never surprise me anymore, we barely talked after last season ended and I need more than that. I've accepted that you are going to foist screaming banshee's like Emily Williams on me, I've accepted that you somehow allowed DeadtomeOnetrickponyLee Harding to record a CD, I've accepted that the trained monkey you hired to replace Dicko is still Kyle Sandilands and I've even accepted that I was wrong about Ricki-Lee, the Young Diva's have forever proven to me that she represents the best of the (currently signed) Idol alumnus. But just because I've accepted this, doesn't mean I'm happy about it.

So.

So . . . I started watching another singing reality tv show. I started watching Rockstar Supernova. The contestants are talented singers, seasoned performers and the judges actually critique them sensibly - well, maybe not Tommy Lee, but come on, he's Tommy Lee, the fact that he can walk and talk at the same time is cause for celebration. And you need to know that whilst Rockstar Supernova is on, I will be watching it and you at the same time and I will be comparing the two and at this point, you're coming off second best, trailing waaaay behind the competition. Now, I watched the audition shows on Sunday and Monday and I have a few problems with the people who made up the first three hours of Australian Idol Season Four. Maybe if we work on these together, we can begin to heal the rift in our relationship.

Okay, so you keep telling me that this season will be different, new age limits, instruments allowed in the audition process, the judges have repeatedly said that they think the competition this year will be the Best One Yet. And I appreciate greatly that you've made it through the first two shows without subjecting me to some deluded twenty year old with pitch problems who sings through their nasal cavity doing their rendition of James Blunt's 'You're Beautiful'. But don't tell me the talent this year is fierce and then take FORTY MINUTES of a two hour premiere to get to someone who can actually freaking sing.

But okay, yes - in Melbourne, do please put a sixteen year old boy who honestly thinks he can sing The Prayer onto my tv and then unleash Kyle fucking Sandilands to CRUSH the childs spirit because it is AWESOME to make sixteen year old kids cry! Its the new black! And then lets perpetuate the myth that if you're from the country you're a) a redneck, b) a country music fan, c) you talk like you've never even fucking heard of the Queen's fucking english or d) you're Shannon Noll. And lets not forget the single mum who gets down on her knees and begs the judges (but really she's talking to Marcia) to let her through, she won't disappoint them, she'll try really hard, really and truly she will!!

And I'm assuming that getting the auditionees at the Alice to do it in the outdoorseyness of the Aussie Outback was just so G and Mathieson could get their schtick on, not that I'm complaining, those two are still the best thing about your show at this point and watching people react to swallowing flies is like the Greatest Hits of Mental Flashbacks of my Pilbara raised childhood. And you did find two sterling singers (although I maintain my long held bitch that sixteen is too young to be on this show) - young Jordan whose sartorial sassyness in the Land of Denim was a welcome detour and Jessica. Wow. This beautiful little girl sang I Have Nothing by Whitney Housten and she nailed it, she sang it better than Ricki-Lee did and RL didn't have to contend with the hot Australian sun, an army of flies and sweat dripping down between her shoulder blades. Kudo's kid.

And in Perth you let Mark tell the CourtJester's supremely talented brother Chris that he wasn't great and you don't know that he's right for the competition? You gave the Bored Musical Guy ten minutes of airtime? You let Stalker Scott sing Fever at Marcia to the point where I wanted to give him a restraining order?

And Adelaide? Oh Adelaide. City of churches, wineries and whackjobs. Whackjob #1 Emma sings Faded by last seasons winner Kate However The Hell You Spell Her Last Name I'm Not Looking It Up to three people who didn't give a damn about Kate, two of whom barely applauded when she won. Whackjob #2 hears voices in her head and they sound like Natalie Bassingthwaite and the Rogue Traders. Whackjob #3 is chess champion Kevin. Now, the brilliant Bobby Fischer, chess champion genius openly claimed that the US deserved the events of 9/11. Bobby Fischer? Still not as crazy as Kevin. WJ#4 Martin isn't wearing underwear or a shirt and is drunk. Right? WJ#5 is 80's lovin' nut Jonathon who firstly disappoints me greatly by not singing a NKOTB song but who cheers me up by getting into a stoush with Kyle. And the coup de grace is Jess who screams at the top of her lungs and is of course warmly welcomed into the top seven hundred by all three judges. See Coulter, Ricki-Lee and Williams, Emily.

And thats the first week of Idol, the good, the bad, the ugly, the Kyle, the oversinging, the trilling, the mimicking other artists, the be true to yourself, the slaughtering, the shimizzle, the refusal to so much as mention that SONYBMG has already dropped their Season Two winner Poor Poor Casey. So you see, Idol dearest, we have a LOT of work to do to make this the Best One Yet. A LOT of work.

Roll up your sleeves. Make it work. Or I'll gladly make Tommy Lee my bitch.

Yours hopefully,
TallulahBelle
xx

Well, duh.

It was reported in the Herald Sun today that Casey Donovan, winner of Australian Idol Season Two, has been dropped by Sony BMG. Poor Poor Casey, who suffered the indignity of releasing the Worst Winners Single Ever and who was mis-managed by her agent and publicist to the point where people forgot she was ever in the competition to start with, will be shopping around her own songs to get a record deal with someone else.

Continuing with the Well That Was Always Going To Happen theme, Michael "Honk If You Hate Republicans" Moore has advised in his latest updated letter (yes, I'm on his mailing list) that George W Bush has very quietly closed down the special section of the CIA that was devoted to catching Osama Bin Laden.

In other startling news, the sky is blue, the earth is round and I think George Clooney is rather handsome. Carry on.

Seven Things

Because I’m lazy and couldn’t be bothered writing something of actual substance**

7 Things I Cannot Do:
1. Watch Dead Poets Society without crying
2. Laugh quietly and unobtrusively
3. Keep my opinions to myself
4. Sit in a cinema whilst people talk behind me without shushing them
5. Algebra
6. Smoke pot. I get intensely paranoid and I greatly dislike that sensation.
7. Save money. Gah.

7 Movies I Watch Over and Over:
1. Jaws (Yeah. Shocker.)
2. Kill Bill volumes one and two
3. Oceans Eleven for what should be plainly obvious reasons.
4. Pride and Prejudice – the BBC miniseries, mmmmmm Colin Firth playing Mr Darcy. Sigh.
5. A Bug’s Life. Favourite quotes are "Francis! Francis! Francis!" and "Just because I'm a lady bug, don't make me a lady" David Hyde Pierce and Dennis Leary are hilarious.
6. Scream One and Two but not Three for some reason, even if Parker Posey is awesome in it as the actress playing Courtney Cox-Arquette's character Gail Weathers. Its not that I hate the third film, its just that I haven't watched it nearly as many times as the first. Maybe its because Randy isn't in the third one except for that video he made that his sister brings to Sydney in LA . . . but Heather Matarazzo plays his sister and she was still uber cool then (this was before The Princess Diaries) . . . you know what, I'm just going to go watch Scream Three now so lets just add it to the list.
7. True Lies – don’t blame me, channel ten keep putting it on.

7 Songs I (currently) Play Over and Over:
1. One Crowded Hour - Augie March
2. Not The Girl You Think You Are – Crowded House
3. Touch The Sky – Kanye West
4. Emaline – Ben Folds Live
5. Army – Ben Folds Live
6. Glorious - Spook
7. Suddenly I See – KT Tunstall

7 Books I Read Over and Over:
1. HitchHikers Guide To The Galaxy Series – Douglas Adams. Not my signed copy, the other copy I have of this book. Yes, I have two copies at the one time. I used to have three . . .
2. The Stephanie Plum books – Janet Evanovich. Although she's starting to lose her way, the last couple have reeked of a desperate money grubbing editor who doesn't care if the storyline is sparse, the book is only 200 pages and the characterisation is getting completely lost. I envision Janet's editor standing over her with a whip screaming 'More books, more books, MORE!!' and laughing hysterically. She's dressed like Cruella De Ville too. The editor, not Janet, Janet is poor stupid dressed in rags scuttlebutt Hugh Laurie from the live action version of 101 Dalmations trying to keep Glenn Close from biting off his nose in a sartorial fit.
3. Anything by Terry Pratchett.
4. Jaws – Peter Benchley. Oh shut up.
5. The Stand – Stephen King. My all time favourite of his books.
6. Pride and Prejudice – Jane Austen. Seriously - Fitzwilliam Darcy has RUINED real men for me.
7. The Harry Potter series - JK Rowling. They're getting very exciting, aren't they?! I won't say anything in case you haven't read the most recent book but I freaking love Snape. LOVE.

7 Things That Attracted Me To Blogging:
1. No-one HAS to read my crap, they choose to. You do. Suckers.
2. I can talk ad nauseam about The Clooney and not care if you’re not paying attention.
3. It occasionally gives me something to do during my lunch break when I can’t be bothered moving from my desk.
4. Clooney Clooney Clooney Clooney Clooney Clooney. See?
5. Fosse made me start doing this after it appeared people rather enjoyed my Australian Idol Season Three email recaps.
6. **When I can’t be bothered writing something of actual substance I can steal meme’s from other peoples sites (this particular one was stolen from Purps’ livejournal. *waves* )
7. The union is top notch.
8. I can make up my own rules about things and change direction at whim . . .

Amendment

An amendment to The List.

8.25 Ryan Reynolds (caveat, this applies only to Blade Trinity Ryan Reynolds due to the aforementioned incredible hotness of the beard, the body and the wiseacre)

Bzzzzzzzzzzzz

Hello last day of the financial year, hello clients who don't know their arses from their elbows, hello lack of sleep catching up with me, hello loss of functionality, hello fourth coffee of the day, goodbye proudly held record of sticking to one weak latte a day since The Detox and hellllllllllllllllllllllllooooo coffee buzz.

God I missed you . . .

Whither thou, pirate?

So. Sat down the other night to watch Pirates of the Caribbean, in giddy girlish anticipation of the Yo Ho Ho Fest about to hit our screens with PotC:Dead Man’s Chest and came upon a horrible realisation. My DVD of Curse of the Black Pearl was nowhere to be found. I searched my DVD collection twice. I looked under the tv, behind it, hell, I felt like pulling the screen off and checking inside the telly because when you want to watch Johnny Depp, you freaking want to WATCH JOHNNY DEPP. Right? I have come up with three potential What Happeneds.

One, stealth ninjas broke into my house, rifled through my stuff and took only this DVD (and that Norah Jones CD I haven’t been able to find for a while) deeming it the only DVD worth stealing, because Johnny Depp = hot. They also either broke in while it was nighttime and their torches had low batteries or they didn’t see my copies of Out of Sight and Ocean’s Eleven or they don’t have the normal reaction to Clooney, freaks.

Two, I have lent it to a friend and completely forgotten about it. If you are that friend and are reading this now, I don’t blame you for keeping the DVD and never giving it back because Johnny Depp = hot.

Three, the serious Ai Ya Chi Wumba-ness (say it out loud, go on, you know you want to) of Johnny Depp in PotC smouldering from within what is realistically merely a plastic DVD cover, is so hot that it must be watched at least once a month, lest it spontaneously combust leaving nought but ashes. As it has been a while since I last watched it, this is obviously the most likely explanation and one of my housemates has accidentally vacuumed up what was left without realising it. I will buy a new copy of PotC:Curse of the Black Pearl, have it wrapped in a fire and waterproof blanket and submerse it in a bucket of continuously replaced ice in between viewings.

This all led me to query with myself where I would place Depp on The Clooney Scale of Hotness. He’s obviously higher than ER Clooney, but not as high as Oceans Eleven Clooney, whose DVD is segregated for reasons of professional jealousy on behalf of all other Clooney DVDs.

Without further ado, I present The Clooney Scale of Hotness (ten being the best, one being the worst, although lets face it, Clooney's worst is still better than most people's best.)

10 - Oceans Eleven Clooney - the only thing higher than the Oceans Eleven Clooney is The Tux Clooney and ain't nothing higher than The Tux Clooney. The Tux Clooney is Clooney turned up to eleven.
9 - From Dusk Til Dawn Clooney – yes, he’s a bank robbing, vampire fighting, brother of a sexual deviant scumbag but the tattoo, people. That tattoo is SEX. He also isn’t scared to kill Salma Hayek, one of the sexiest women alive, even after she dances with a snake and pours whiskey down her leg into Quentin Tarantino’s mouth. I mean, I usually have to go have a lie down after I watch that scene and I’m not in the same room as her when she does it.
8.5 - Johnny Depp. Well, that answers that question.
8 - Independent film/risktaking/bit part Clooney – this is almost as perfect as Clooney gets, O Brother, Where Art Thou/Three Kings/Syriana/Perfect Storm/Thin Red Line/Fail Safe/Out of Sight. From an acting/professional point of view, this is his ten but on the hotness scale, he only gets an eight because although talent is very attractive lets face it the only film on this list that is in really seriously dangerously good looking territory is Out of Sight and although I add points for the Soderbergh I deduct them for the JLo.
7 - Directing Clooney - this Clooney? The Confessions of a Dangerous Mind/Good Night and Good Luck Clooney? Makes me a little dizzy, especially when you consider where he came from. This is the Clooney who will one day run for office, causing me to move to America just so I can vote for him.
6 - ER Clooney – the live episode, the punching abusive fathers, the sexiest man alive, getting his aunt Rosemary Clooney, one of the greatest singers ever to appear in an episode, reintroducing the Caesar cut to great foreheads of the world etc - myriad reasons, myriad.
5 - Sense of humour Clooney - c’mon, as the voice of Sparky the gay dog in a Season One ep of South Park? All he does is woof. That shit is GOLD. And Funny Clooney would be higher on the list if I wasn’t still smarting from RomCom Clooney and One Fine Day.
4 - Roseanne Clooney – as Booker on Roseanne, I remember thinking ‘hey, that guy is cute’. Then he disappeared until ER. Still, I’d buy those first few seasons of Roseanne for Booker (and also because Darlene ROCKED).
3 - Batman and Robin Clooney – really, this is higher on the list than it should be, but hey, how can you not love how much shit he gives himself about this now? Seriously?
2 – D Grade sequels that are still better than Peacemaker Clooney - at least you can get a giggle from watching down on his luck, young buck Clooney in Return to Horror High and Return of the Killer Tomatoes! and be rest assured that things – specifically his hair- will get better and so will his acting. It will, young cute darkhaired boy with only a few lines, it will.
1 - Peacemaker Clooney – its been a looooong road to forgiveness. Kidman, get your filthy hands off him.

Where did May go? Specifically May 6th . . .

Dear George,

I am SO sorry I missed your birthday, I can't think what was going on that was so important that I would completely forget to wish you a happy birthday last month. I mean, I have been rehearsing an awful lot recently, as you know I've done three plays since Feb and thats a lot, but still. What kind of besotted fangirl am I?

So as an act of penance I sat through Batman and Robin last night. Yes, the whole thing. Yes, the whole thing.

(Just quietly, and you KNOW I love you beyond reason, but you weren't very good in it. Still a little too Doug Ross-y, I don't think you really shook Dr Ross until Three Kings. But you were still better than Uma, Arnold, Alicia and the Uberking of Boring 'Acting', Chris O'Donnell. And for god's sake Elle Macpherson is in that shitfest. ELLE MACPHERSON. Joel Schumaker - the fucking hack - should have his fingernails removed, surgically reattached and then removed again for the mess he made of Tim Burton's wonderfully Gothic first two films. I refuse to discuss anything involving Val Kilmer.)

Am I forgiven?

If you still require some show of regretful devotion, I will force myself to watch that awful Peacemaker film (and you know how freaking much I hate Kidman, so I personally think that's the equivalent of doing time for murdering your parents.)

Love
TallulahBelle
xx

Vehicularly challenged

Not everyone is good at everything, right? Maybe you can’t cook, maybe you can’t dance. (My cooking is average and dancing? Let me tell you, I used to be able to bust out a fairly awesome Running Man back in the day, now my knees start to ache just at the mere thought of it.)

Me . . . lets see . . . where to start? Well, to my chagrin I STILL can’t read music - two years of guitar, years of choir and singing lessons and nuttin, I consider it a personal failing. I also can’t for the life of me hold a conversation on a phone and I am physically unable to take a compliment. Seriously, try and tell me I look good and I’ll regale you with stories of how much I hate my hair this long/short/colour and I don’t really like my butt in these jeans and do you think I’ve put on weight?

And if you don’t think I look good? Speak now or forever hold your peace, because I’m from The Chandler Bing school of You Can’t Insult Me If I Get There First (Defence Mechanism Masked As Witty Rejoinder). I was their star pupil. I had perfect attendance, I was the class swot, head girl, valedictorian, I graduated summa cum laude with honours, I excelled in The Miranda Hobbes Method of Sarcasm As Cover Fire to the point where they asked me to come back and lecture. Hell, they named a building after me. I’m quick with the self-deprecating put downs and the mocking, is what I’m saying.

But I digress.

My worst ‘Can’t Do That’? She is automobile shaped.

I?! Have done it all, baby. I’ve locked my keys in my car, I’ve left my headlights on all night and I once sat in my (at the time) brand new car (Mazda, nickname GiGi – she’s French) for almost half an hour just trying to work out how to open the hood. (Turns out there's this little latch down by my right knee that I have to pull. The damn thing is HIDDEN, okay? I had to look in the freaking manual and you KNOW how much I hate that.)

Once? I drove my first car (Holden Barina, nickname Sly) for twenty minutes on a stone flat tyre. On the Monash freeway. At 100 clicks an hour. Wondering to myself . . . wha?? . . .whhhhhy is my steering wheel pulling to the left like that? It wasn’t until I stopped at a traffic light and the wheel rim soared over the bonnet that I realised it wasn’t my steering that was the problem. To be fair, I had never experienced a flat tyre before. The awesomeness of it was that as I pulled into work the VERY NEXT DAY, the spare tyre that the RACV guy had changed my flat for? Also expired. Flump. Right down to the rim.

When I lived in Perth and hadn’t had my licence for very long, I must have locked my keys in Sly at least five times in the first six months. PapaBelle became quite adept at breaking into my car. And I am legendary at work for the time I locked my keys in the car whilst it was still running.

Case for the defense : the defendant was driving to work when she indicated to change lanes and heard an electrical ‘bzzzzzt’ noise, which the defendant can only describe as "like a dozen angry college age fratboy bees had taken up residence behind my steering wheel for a kegger and the beer had run out". Thinking that possibly said indicators were no longer working and cognisant of how dangerous that is (I was new to Melbourne so was still used to the Perth method of actually using your indicators when you change lanes, its crazy, I know) the defendant left her car running, flicked the indicator to the right and jumped out of her automobile to confirm. Automatically locking it behind her. The defense rests.
(Luckily, because of the above mentioned past experience, I carry a spare key with me at all times. Unluckily, it was in my handbag, which was still on my passenger side seat. It was YEARS before I was allowed to forget that).

On the plus side, I (like to think) I’m a pretty good driver, just a little vague with the specifics - blown tyre incident notwithstanding. The accidents I’ve been involved in thus far have been at the fault and insurance concerns of the other drivers involved and I’ve only ever gotten one speeding infraction in my 11 or so years behind the wheel, so my record is pretty blemish free and (knock on wood) will hopefully remain that way.

The brilliance of new car GiGi is that she's fairly idiot proof, as not only does she beep at me if I leave my lights on after I’ve removed my key from the ignition, she also beeps at me if I open my car door without removing my key from the ignition. However, she has no such warning beep for when I neglect to correctly utilise the parking brake. So I waltzed merrily out of the house Tuesday morning to find that she was not in her usual spot, but was instead nosed up against our backyard gate. By the grace of the parking gods, she had less than half a metre to roll and didn’t pick up much speed, therefore she only bears a tiny paint scrape as witness to my complete and utter stupidity, my total lack of car sense and the fact that when it comes to automobiles I am a wee bit ‘challenged’.

Oh, and math. Yeah, I don’t get that shit at all.

Stuff n nonsense

Stuff that is currently totally harshing my gig hardcore and sending me into a batshit crazy ass frenzy of Global Proportions versus stuff that I freaking love which is making all the above stuff easier to handle so that I don’t walk into Mickey D’s and put a cap in yo ass:

Sad? That I already know who wins this season of Survivor. DAMN you to hell Channel Nine Programming Team. Your blatant disregard for the viewer and the fact that you don’t seem to realise that most of us HAVE THE INTERNET and that CNN and Yahoo and other sites I innocently click on, broadcast the name of the winner with scant regard for those of us who don’t reside in the US or Canada and are several episodes behind. Oh, and also who blew up the bus and several high school students on Season Two of Veronica Mars (although that is mostly my own stupid ass fault, but still - damn you, I say. DAMN YOU.)
Glad. The CW network in the States announcing that they’ve renewed Veronica Mars for a third full on kick ass awesome season. Seriously, this show is The Shit. Buy it, borrow it, download it* – I don’t care, just get your hands on seasons one and two SOMEHOW. And Arrested Development. And Deadwood. And if you haven’t seen Firefly yet, what the FUCK are you waiting for??

(*Downloading is bad m’kay?? I do not condone the illegal downloading of music or movies at all. Please don’t ask how I’ve seen Season Two of VM. Allegedly. Ooooh, look at . . . that pretty sunset . . .)

Crappy? My body’s pavlovian response to finishing a play – to whit, coming down with a cold that hasn’t really established itself in the snot filled capacity so much, but has nonetheless ensured that I’m not getting terribly great sleep, that I seesaw back and forth between “Wow its warm in here today” and “Does anyone have a jumper/hat/scarf/gloves/thermal heat pack/know the quickest way to get to Hades?” and that every bone in my skull aches.
Happy. The fact that thanks to the detox, I am now a fully functioning capable adult who only has (needs**) one weak skinny latte a day. Don’t need any more coffee at all, no siree bob, not this little black caffeine addicted duck . . .

(**craves/thrives on/would kill you all for)

Sucks to be me? The fact that I got Foxtel Digital last weekend which I self-installed in my bedroom, making me feel very proud of myself and causing me to puff up my chest and strut around in front of Fosse and PGiddy all “I am so the man in this house, for my next trick I’ll kill a spider and then put together a product from Ikea without reading the instruction manual or using the allen key” until last night when I realised that I’ve obviously missed a step because I can’t get my VCR to tape House on free to air at the same time that I’m watching America’s Next Top Model which I used to be able to do with analogue.
Not so bad? Because I have Foxtel Digital I watched House at 8.30 and then watched America’s Next Top Model on Fox8 2 (Fox8 channel repeated two hours later) at 10.30. Love!!

Bah. That a film based on The Worst Book I’ve Ever Read Seriously, is going to be the biggest thing in the cinema this year and will pull people away from seeing X-Men Three, The Last Stand. And Tom’s hair. Could someone PLEASE explain Tom Hanks’ hair to me? Anyone?? ANYone?? And if Hanks or Opie get themselves Oscar nominations out of this shitfest I will fly to H’wood and smack some bitches upside the head, TallulahB style. And can we cut it out with all the advertising brainwashing Go And See This Movie Or You’ll Have No Idea What Everyone Is Talking About And Maybe Die Alone and Friendless tie-ins please? I don’t want to have to solve some stupid puzzle to buy a burger or have a ‘clues’ to a ‘code’ banner across the bottom of my tv screen while House is on just so Joe Schmuck can win a grand on the radio the next day. I don’t CARE about your film, please stop shoving it down my throat, even the bullshit for MI:III was less annoying - Tom Cruise come back, all is forgiven, I have a couch here that you can jump on as much as you want!
Heh. This review. And this. Heh heh.

SOB! I got ridiculously over excited after finishing one play recently as thoughts of multi coloured, boy short haircuts flickered through my head (there may in fact, have been a dance of joy performed in the foyer of the theatre after the final show - witnessed by Purps, Tormy, Cruel Tutelage, Red, Jbird and Phoenix), only to show up to rehearsals of the next play to realise that my character needs Heidi style braided pigtails, therefore it must stay long and boring. And that my drivers licence needs renewing and my photo will have the boring hair. Fuck.
Wheeee! The knowledge that the Heidi hair is only for five more weeks (two weeks rehearsals, three weeks production). And I can always ‘lose’ my drivers licence and get a new one when I have my hair back, right? Sing a chorus of ‘You’re So Vain’ with me??!!

Ugh. Michael on Big Brother.
Sigh. Jamie on Big Brother. Shutup.

Hate. Having to read manuals because I’m a total luddite who really only just recently worked out how to hyperlink and post photos on this damn blog, let alone understand how to format this and reset that.
Love. (or at least total and utter lust) My new and totally hot mobile phone which has a video and a camera and plays MP3s and has a fabulous Sex and the City ring tone. Which I’m sure I’ll eventually work out how to programme so that I can use it. I need to really read the manual.

(Damn.)

Ten is the prettiest number that you've ever seen!

Ten whole fricken' days sans caffeine, sugar and fatty foods. I am ALL astonishment. I'm going to celebrate tomorrow with one coffee. Just one.



(But it will be a BIG one . . . heee heeeeeeeee)

Nein Nine

Today when the coffee van came I may have gotten a soy decaffe latte.

. . . that's not cheating, right?

Eight/Ate

I'm hungry.



That is all.

On the Seventh Day . . .

And lo, the Detox sayeth that there shall be trembling and a dryness of mouth. There shall be faint rumblings of thy tummy and thy temper shall be shorteth, ay, and there shall be a wont for chocolate that has not been witnessed since the Great PreMenstrual Blowout of Nineteen Ninety Three. But thou shalt not crumble, no! Falter, thou shalt NOT. Thy step will remain firm and steadfast as thou sees the light at the end of the long and dark tunnel of your journey.
And on that day, lo, there will be celebration.

(And you will not smack upside the head those who decided that seven days into your detox would be the PERFECT time to bring a coffee machine and filtered coffee into the office and leave in the kitchen with what I'm sure they thought was an incredibly generous offer for anyone to use it, but which actually makes you want to spontaneously combust with need every time you walk past it.)

Day Six (four more to go!)

The tiredness isn't as much of a factor anymore and I seem to be sleeping better. I am literally counting down the days when I can have coffee again but I will curb my intake now, maybe only two a day instead of the usual four which is sometimes five . . .

My usual Monday morning gut wrenching urge to rip people's heads off would appear to be . . . absent. My co-workers appreciate this, but I don't know if this can be attributed to the whole 'no coffee' thing or the fact that viewing American Dreamz on the weekend has sapped the very will to live from my bones.

Seriously. Detox combined with crappy low par film about tired reality tv show starring Hugh Grant and Stifler's Mom? Oy to the suck. Well, at least my mum enjoyed it. And the tickets were free - thanks Red!! Kisses!!

(And we did get the teaser trailer for Superman Returns and it looks stupendous. Great visuals - I do love director Bryan Singer. Marlon Brando's bit from the original Christopher Reeve version where he says how he has sent them - being, us earthlings - his only son? I got a little verklempt, I don't mind telling you. Tears were welling.* And he's no Chris Reeve - may he rest in peace - but nonetheless Brandon Routh looks a hell of a lot like he could be his son. The chin, the eyes, the Superman kiss curl in his hair. Gorgeous. They didn't show Lex Luthor but I am really looking forward to seeing how hammy Kevin Spacey gets playing Lex - Gene Hackman's turn as 'Mr Lutor! Mr Lutor!' is one of my favourite Hackman performances, closely followed by his turn in Mississippi Burning - but I can wait several years to see Kate Bosworth as Lois Lane, I think she's woefully miscast and a terribly boring actress.)



*That's a REALLY bad pun that you'll only get if you know that Tom Welling plays Clark Kent on Smallville. So basically, that was for Shaneequa.

Day Three

The detox? So far, so okay. I've been drinking a herbal drink that's meant to be a caffeine replacement. Its called dandelion root herbal tea or something. I don't know, it resembles coffee once you add soy milk to it and it tastes reasonably okaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay . . . but it's not coffee.

But I'm okay . . .
I am. I'm fine.

Except I'm constantly tired at the moment which I am blaming on the lack of caffeine and the newly discovered fact that like most humans, I do require more than five hours of sleep a night. I am NO Winston Churchill - who existed on four hours a night. The big showoff. I don't know that I could run a country and make all those awesomely stirring speeches and defend freedom on four hours a night. Although he also used to take an hour nap every afternoon. That? Would be sweeeeeeeet. I could do that. I could make up a little bed below my desk like George Constanza in that one episode of Seinfeld. I loved George. I thought that Jason Alexander was the best thing in that show, Kramer was too showoff-y, Jerry couldn't act and Elaine's hair was too high. My dad says I remind him of Elaine. I also randomly push people and have been known to dance like a kook. I like that word. Kook. Say it out loud with me . . . kooooooook. It clicks in your mouth. My mouth is a little dry, I need some water . . .

I'm a little punch drunk right now.
Am . . . am I . . . babbling??

*breathe breathe*

THERE IS CAKE IN MY OFFICE. CHOCOLATE CAKE.

I have had THREE people ask me if I want some. I am thinking of getting a sign, or a t-shirt that says "I am currently DETOXING, please do not feed me".

I gave up coffee today . . .

. . . for the next ten days while I'm doing a Blackmores 10 Day Detox.

Don't fuck with me, I will get medieval on your ass. The slightest provocation will inspire yelling, screaming, the reckless pointing of fingers, tanties of a nuclear nature and spazz attacks the like of which have not been seen since Tonya Harding's iceskate laces came undone during the winter Olympics. (And the word 'fuck' may appear a teeny little bit more in my posts over the next ten days as I have given up coffee.)

Coffee.
Given up.
Nooooo coffee.
Nada caffeine.
Less latte, heaps herbal.
Cappuccino? No-a-thank-you.
Espresso shot? Not.
No Nescafe, no International Roast (although really, who would miss International Roast, right?) no decaffė, nuttin'.

Oh, and it hasn't even opened yet and I am already officially OVER Mission Impossible III.
OVER.
So fuck off Tom Cruise.

AND the Da Vinci Code. Yes, you can fuck off as well, Tom Hanks. And take your serial killer hair with you.

Bah.

Booyah

Do y'all remember my previous post regarding the Green Room Awards ?

Well kids, in lieu of actually getting to give him a big hug personally, everybody give it up for Fosse, whose production of The Laramie Project won Best Production (Fringe/Independent Theatre) this Sunday in the 2005 Green Room Awards. A thoroughly deserved win for an incredibly moving and beautiful play, performed and directed with clarity, insight and a pleasing lack of heavy handedness (as are all his plays).
Kudo's to Fosse and the company on their win.

(cue massive amounts of squeeing from the theatre whores who read my blog - which is pretty much just . . . Shaneequa)

Say it with me everyone, loud and proud (and in manner of overexcited US Marine cheering the President)

. . . for Fosse . . .

BOOYAH!!

That Brokeback Got Me Good

I'm sorry, but the bunnies are at it again . . . just awesome.

Go away

Go away Simone Warne.

Yes, I know you stiff upperlipped your way through the hideous freakshow that was your very public marriage breakdown to that cheating scumbag and I admire you for sticking by him the first time because you didn’t want your children to suffer (although I would have left his wandering ass, because you get ONE chance. One. And by one, I don’t mean you get to cheat on me and then you get another chance after that because that, my friend, would be your SECOND chance and . . . no no no no and no.)
I commend your willingness to try and make it work, at the same time that I don’t think anyone should stay in a shitty situation ‘just because of the kids’. Believe me, the kids hate the shitty situation as much as you do (although most kids parents marriage breakdowns aren’t splashed across the New Idea sitting on their best friends coffee table for all to see before her mum hurriedly whisks it away muttering about stupid rubbish magazines and she doesn’t know why she buys them and you shouldn’t pay any attention to them anyway and how about you kids watch that M rated movie she never lets you watch but will now because she’s desperate to distract you from the picture of your dad texting some British tramp who appeared in Hello magazine in a French maid costume designed to make her look ‘saucy’.)
Regardless of your 'bravery in the face of tragedy and national ridicule', I am OVER seeing you on any show that has the word ‘Celebrity’ in the title, because other than Nicole Kidman, when did the rule get passed that your husband cheating on you makes you more famous than you deserve? And even if you hogging the space inside trashy weekly mags does mean less stories on the latest chapter of Paris Hilton Did Another Dumb Thing, I am still heartily sick of you.

Buh-bye.

Oh, and go away Paris Hilton.

(Seriously. Read the above linked Paris Hilton story, is it still April Fools? It . . . can't be for real, right?)

The King ain't dead

(and Randall Flagg is the devil)

“Nobody was really surprised when it happened, not really, not at the subconscious level where savage things grow.” Carrie, 1974

I was going to write about Stephen and another author Laurell K Hamilton but I got started and realised I loved/loathed/had SUCH an opinion on so many of his books and his writing that he had to stand alone. Fair enough, especially when you consider that King has also written as Richard Bachman, whom I have reviewed here separately - I think King would approve, I mean the man held a mock funeral for Bachman after he was unmasked and his book The Dark Half is a thinly veiled ‘spookier’ version of how the pseudonym affected his life.

(The) King . . .
No-one is perfect. This is true of everyone. Even The King.
Dude has had a LOT of misses (The Tommyknockers, The Dark Half, Dream-PfftDon’tYouMeanNightmare-catcher which was, and I don’t think this is coincidence, the last King book I bought but that may change because I kind of want to buy his new book Cell – mmmmmm zombies . . .) but he has had sooo many hits, so very very many hits.
The Stand, Carrie, IT, The Shining, Christine, Misery, The Dead Zone.
Classic American literature.
Classic.
And also? Scare the pants off you scary. I can’t read The Shining unless I have checked under my bed, made sure the doors and windows are locked and that there is someone else within audible screaming distance (should Jack Torrance – who of course in my mind wears Jack Nicholson’s face, damn it – leap out of my closet with a mallet and chase me up some stairs *shudder*)
The first time I read IT, I couldn’t walk past those grates in the side of the road for WEEKS, I caught a cold the first time I read The Stand (I’m very impressionable) and Christine has meant that I am SUPER nice to my car. Love my car. LOVE. (Just in case she’s reading my blog although I don’t know how she would get the internet connection. But she could! She’s very smart! Smart car!)

I feel like he drifted for a while after Misery, like he got bored writing good stuff and thought he'd give crap a good solid try. The Tommyknockers and Needful Things were written then, and both novels have always felt more like they were written by Dean Koontz (don’t get me started. Hack.) And yes, Dolores Claiborne is in there as well (and might I add, that ‘sometimes being a bitch is all a woman has to hold on to’ is a GREAT line) and The Green Mile, but so is Insomnia. Which actually put me to sleep. Honestly. I have NEVER fallen asleep reading a book in my life, except when I was reading Insomnia. In 1999 King was hit by a car whilst out walking – his injuries included a shattered hip and collapsed right lung that kept him in hospital for several weeks and bedridden for even longer and I personally blame whatever drugs he was on at the time for the utter fucking shambles that is Dreamcatcher. Ugh.

His novel on writing called, not terribly imaginatively ‘On Writing’, is actually a pretty damn interesting read for anyone who isn’t a professional writer, ie us. He’s taken on new forms of media for his novels, ‘publishing’ a couple via the internet and reinvented the old, releasing The Green Mile as an ‘olde tyme’ serial (I bought each book as it came out and hungrily devoured them, desperate to know how he would save John Coffey from the electric chair . . . *sob*)
He is inarguably the most prolific and well known American writer in generations. If you haven’t read one of his books, then you’ve seen one of his films – even if you didn’t realise it at the time. I remember many arguments trying to convince people that The Shawshank Redemption and Stand By Me were Stephen King stories. Currently they are filming Nightmares & Dreamscapes in and around Melbourne – a friend has hit the acting jackpot and has scored himself a role (he was astounded to discover he was actually allocated a TRAILER on set) - Desperation was made into a feature movie for US ABC starring Ron Perlman (Hellboy/Alien Resurrection) that’s apparently on there sometime in May (God knows when we'll be able to see it) and The Talisman (I completely heart that book and its sequel The Black House, both co-written with Peter Straub) is currently still in pre-production hell.


Richard Bachman : I haven’t attempted to reread any of the novels he wrote as Bachman in recent times, but I do recall reading The Bachman Books, a collection that includes short stories The Running Man, The Long Walk, Road Work and Rage in the car one summer - we must have been driving from the Pilbara down to Perth to visit my grandparents. I remember that The Long Walk and Rage had me in tears. In retrospect Rage is even sadder, dealing as it does with the story of a student bringing a gun to school and holding his classmates hostage. When the massacre at Columbine occurred, I recall I commented to someone that it was just like a book that Stephen King had written. It did not surprise me at all to read a few years later that King had advised his publishers not to do any further printings of that story or the Bachman Books and you can now only find them at secondhand bookstores. His writing as Bachman seemed . . . simpler. A lot more . . . accessible? But not as good, not as well written, not as seep-into-your-bones and definitely not as psychological as his work as King – Bachman stories were less about creepy things that go bump in the night or lurk in the minds of men, and more about futuristic possibilities. As a teenager they were fun. As an adult, I don’t know that I’d enjoy them. A little like going back and watching Degrassi Junior High - still a pretty good show but it hasn’t held its age the way say, Press Gang has. Put Running Man or Long Walk up against IT or The Stand and they suffer quite badly in comparison. They’re King’s middle children, they’re Jan Brady.

In short, he is still The King. I suspect he always will be. I immediately flick to his fortnightly column on Pop Culture in Who Weekly before I read anything else (yes, even before the stories on the state of Britney and K-Fed’s marriage or how Tom Cruise is annoying everyone this week). I return to the worlds he has created in his books regularly and I eagerly await the day Cell is released in paperback* . . . . seriously, zombies!!

Long live The King.

*(A real fan would buy it in hardcover, you say? Sod off, I have tiny wee child sized hands and hardcover books make them owie . . . )

Eat your fucking vegies.

A still from a student film I did with the lovely Zara who would appear to have dropped off the face of the earth . . .

Its a fake gun. Which I yelled at the many many passers-by who stopped to watch us film but didn't necessarily notice that there was a crew with a camera, hence I wasn't actually about to shoot Zara's brains out . . . this time . . .

*evil cackle*

(Yeahhhhhhhhh, it ain't a particularly flattering angle . . . chipmunk cheeks anyone??)

Reason number 5,325,684 to love him

Sigh.

The tux

He should wear a classic Armani tux always.
When he gets up in the morning, he should take off his night tux and put on the day tux.
When he swims, (because I hear that swimming is really good for your back) he should wear the tux.
When he goes grocery shopping (although, who are we kidding, right? But nonetheless, if he did his own grocery shopping) he should - say it with me . . . wear the tux.
When we meet for coffee in that charming little cafe near his Italian house where he arrives early and pre-orders me a skinny latte with a touch of caramel because he knows that's how I like it, he should wear the tux.
When he meets my parents, whom will love him because my mother always liked him on that ER show and because my father will just be happy I've made a decision on whether or not I'm a lesbian, he should wear the tux. (Even if he will be hideously overdressed because my dad is a shut-in and thinks a wifebeater and stubbies is appropriate for meeting potential son-in-laws.)
And on the day that he falls to his knees and asks me to marry him (thereby causing him to have to pay scads of money to Brad Pitt and Julia Roberts who have bets with him that he'll get married again, breaking the hearts of women and gay - and straight - men everywhere) he MUST WEAR THE TUX.
Always.

Enjoy.

Please please please

I refuse to get excited or worked up about the Oscars. I quite desperately want George to win but I will NOT get my hopes up (Paul Giamatti, I am trying not to hate you, its not your fault you didn't get nominated last year for Sideways when you should have and I think you know that if you win today that you're winning for that film and not Cinderella Man, so we are cool. Its the Academy I'll be pissed at.)

Basically most of the Big Awards are two horse races with Fairly Clear Favourites :

Best Supporting Actress - this is really between Rachel Weisz and Michelle Williams but Weisz has won everything except the Bafta where she was inexplicably nominated for Best Actress instead of Supporting and lost to Reese Witherspoon. Expect her to come away with this as well.

Best Supporting Actor - oh, it hurts. He's nominated for three - THREE - Oscars and this is the one he should have been the shoe in for, but the race between George Clooney and Paul Giamatti is ridiculously close, too close for me to call without potentially breaking my heart. (And yes, we see you there in the corner in your tux, Jake Gyllenhaal and we think you were WONDERFUL in Brokeback Mountain but darling you're not in the race. But kisses!! And I will see Jarhead, I promise!)

Best Actress - Felicity Huffman versus Reese Witherspoon. This is a tricky one. The smart punter would say Reese has already made space on top of the tv at home for a certain gold, sexually ambigious statue but don't be surprised if Felicity's dusted off the top of her bookshelf as well. They've shared enough of the other awards for this to be Annette Bening/Hillary Swank 1999 redux. I haven't seen either film so can't comment on who deserves it more, but I think Felicity is an amazing actress and Reese is just kind of coming into her own and will have plenty of time to win another one. I would like this to go to Felicity but its too close to call.

Best Actor - there is a possibility that Heath Ledger will take this away from Phillip Seymour Hoffman, but only in the same way that there is a possibility that I was on that grassy knoll and shot JFK. Also? Apparently Phillip made a bet with some friends (including Capote writer Dan Futterman) when they were young and this kind of thing was just a dream, that the first one of them to win an Academy Award would bark their acceptance speech. That? Would be awesome.

Best Director - Not really going to be anyone else but Ang Lee. If George wins this (which would be fantastic but highly unlikely) I will buy a hat just so I can eat it.

Best Film - Based on other film awards (Directors Guild, SAGs, Critics Association, Golden Globes, Bafta's etc) this is between Crash and Brokeback Mountain. Now I loved the shit out of Brokeback, I haven't been that moved by a film in a long time, I mean I saw it twice in four days the week it opened, I really really liked it and I've also seen Good Night and Good Luck which is also about as perfect a film as you can get, but due to my *ahem* alleged adoration of the director and co-star of GN&GL, my housemates Fosse and PGiddy have disallowed any and all opinions I might hold about that film. They think I'm too biased. Ridiculous. Regardless, as FUCKING BRILLIANT as GN&GL may or may not be (it is, I promise, it IS) Best Film will be Crash or Brokeback. My money is still on Brokeback, although there is talk of a backlash against the film which could see Crash win. Which would make me unhappy. Very unhappy.

So, thems the biggies. Tis a strange year - there are some wins that seem obvious but the Academy has been known to do some bizarre things. How else can you explain that Forrest Gump won best film the same year that Pulp Fiction, Quiz Show and The Shawshank Redemption were nominated, except that quite obviously the cocaine in Hollywood was especially badly cut with generic brand baby powder that year?? Who knows what the coke is cut with this year.

We can but wait and see . . .

(and avoid the internet and the radio and news broadcasts until 8.30 tonight when the telecast starts on Ch9)

Cock a doodle doo

In lieu of him beating his own chest and standing on top of our house and proclaiming that he is indeed King Of The World, let me take this opportunity to pimp Fosse. A play he directed last year (The Laramie Project) has been nominated for Best Production (Fringe/Independent Theatre) in the 2005 Green Room Awards. For those who don’t live in Melbourne or frequent the independent theatre world, this is pretty big. Fosse is already a highly respected director within the world of amateur theatre and this is (fingers crossed) the start of some recognition outside of that – leading to paid directing work, bigger and better productions and parts for me.
And this is I think, especially exciting for Fosse, because one of the Patrons of the GRA is Rachel Griffiths* whom he swoons over. So massive props and a little raising of the roof for Fosse!

*Aside
Channel Nine? Hello? May I speak to Eddie Macguire? Thanks.(mmmmmmbopadipadabawhoobopadiddyyabammmmmmmbop**) Yellllllo, oh hey there Eds, how goes it? Condolences on Kerry’s death but congratulations on being given the head honcho possie at Nine, dude. Sweeeet. Yeah. So who is taking over Millionaire . . . really? Interesting choice, I mean I was available and all but . . . you didn’t get my CV? No, no, no, I understand completely, I mean you can’t be expected to read everything that crosses your desk, right? Nah man, s’cool. You want to make up for it? Okay. Um. Well, HOW ABOUT YOU AIR THE FINAL FUCKING SEASON OF ‘SIX FEET UNDER’ HUH, EDWARD? Just a small request, you know, when you have time. Anyway, congrats again on the new job. Best of love to the wife. Take care.

** I love it when hold music is cheesy nineties pop . . .

(My continuing post of my favourite authors is coming but the Stephen King one is currently a five page essay and needs to be culled. I mean, you don’t care about the ongoing themes of absent parental figures in his earlier works or the way his books lost their edge after the birth of his third child or his use of parentheses, right? Exactly. It comes.)

Smell THIS greasepaint

From an email conversation betwixt myself and Shaneequa about the incredibly unreliable people you can meet doing a play during which I let loose in a nasty but thoroughly deserved way . . . ( this is a play that I was asked to step into six rehearsals out from opening, its not a huge role, it is of middling size but six rehearsals - or just over a week - is still a BIG ask and I only agreed because I admire and love Fosse and desperately want him to cast me in something he directs at some point. Ahem. Sucking up portion of today's blog completed. Continue . . . )

Oh, and Fosse is not the director mentioned, he is acting in the play . . .

Email : DUDE. Do NOT even get me started. Woh, too late . . . at the tech run for (current play Tallulah is in), people actually thought they would be able to leave at FIVE o'clock because that's when they normally finish rehearsals on a Sunday. Members of the cast had made other plans. WTF??!! Apparently none of them have ever done any theatre before, ever. EVER.* And the director was all ready to let them leave (and please bear in mind that at this point, ONE rehearsal before we opened, I still hadn't done a full run-through of the play. There were still scenes that I hadn't done at all. We had Monday rehearsal left and that was it, audience in on Tuesday, thanks very much).
It was only the fact that one of the committee members was there and could hear Fosse and myself rolling our eyes in disbelief and clucking our tongues for all we were worth - and basically losing our shit - that he stepped in and overruled the director and said I'm sorry but you shouldn't have made plans on a day when you're doing a tech and dress rehearsal, you have to stay, cancel your plans (causing one of the girls to burst into tears and the others to bitch furiously in the dressing room at the director, the committee and us for having the temerity to want to do a FULL FREAKING RUN two days before we open, I mean can you believe the rudeness of wanting a full run, its crazy talk!!)
If we hadn't done that I'd have had one full run. One. I was freaking out that they were all going to leave and we'd have only half the cast for the dress rehearsal.
And the bitching, oy the bitching.
And the bint who came and talked to us who Fosse can't stand? - she threw a massive hissy fit because the company wouldn't organise a BABYSITTER for her. She wanted to bring her son to each performance and have someone look after him and the company said I don't freaking think so lady**. And she threatened to walk out. Gah.
The director was apparently thinking of getting her to play the character I'm doing and Fosse nearly died and I think it was at that point that he threw my name into the mix "she's not the right age but at least she can act . . . " And bint is another 'professional actor' and she's fucking useless on stage. Training RUINS some people. She's also the kind who constantly says "well, I've done professional theatre and I've never known a tech run to run so overtime" to which I responded "well, I've been doing amateur theatre for over ten years and this is what its like when people WHO DON'T DO IT FOR A LIVING AND ARE UNPAID VOLUNTEERS GIVING UP THEIR OWN LIVES TO PUT ON A SHOW muddle their way through things, and yeah, sometimes it takes a lot longer than you think it will, I've know tech runs to still be going at midnight princess.***"
End Email

So I say kudo's to Shaneequa for resisting the urge to smack people upside the head at her own recent tech/dress run. Tech runs are THE BEST!! 'Cause yeah its 'just' amateur theatre and people have lives outside their current production, but if you agree to take the part, then you agree to a certain amount of time waste-age. And seriously. No director I have ever known (and this includes you Shaneequa) has ever been able to stick to a timetable for a tech run - they're extremely complicated and frustrating things. So actors? When you are required for a tech run - which is not always - keep quiet, listen to the director and stage manager, move when told, speak when told, shut up when told and stop fucking around with the props because the quicker the techies get the lights and sound completed and ready, the faster we get to get into costume and makeup and get to the fun bit. Its all just common sense really. Sigh.

* and to look at their bio's in the programme, I know this is not so. They've all done a lot of theatre and should have known better.
** there are potential insurance liability issues here.
*** only I said it nicer. A bit.

The fish turned towards shore.

I am greatly saddened by the death of Peter Benchley a week ago. Regular readers (yes, you three) will know about my deep abiding love of his most famous novel and its subsequent blockbuster of a film, Jaws - I have talked about The Best Movie Spielberg Ever Made In My Opinion Thanks almost as many times as I've mentioned The Clooney . . . . well, maybe not as much as I talk about The Clooney because lets face it, I don't think I've done a post recently that hasn't mentioned George, but I digress.

Peter Benchley is dead. So sad.

But that got me thinking about his other books - most of which I've hated - which has lead me to ponder, who are my favourite authors? Could I do a Tallulah's Top Ten Inspiring Ink Slingers? The answer is yes and no. Yes, I could. And in fact have . . . please read on . . . but not a Top Ten, I could only manage a Top Eight . . . ( and a caveat here - whilst I love the authors I will discuss over the next week, I hasten to add that I don't love all their works unconditionally. For instance, I loathe Austen's Emma - the selfish little cow - and think Benchley's White Shark is easily the worst book I've ever read . . . oh hang on no it isn't, yes Stephen King's Dreamcatcher I am looking at you. So I adore these authors most of the time, but do admit that, like any writer, they can sometimes be a tad hit and miss. *coughLaurellKHamiltoncough* . . . and also that they are in no particular order.)

Douglas Adams . . . aaah Douglas. Douglas of my heart. There are two things I would save if my house was burning down (this is assuming that there are no human shaped things still in need of saving) and they are : my cat Giles and my signed copy of HitchHikers Guide To The Galaxy. This is the only other book (along with Jaws) that I have owned multiple copies of - I actually currently own two, the one I can read and the signed one. Shut up. I got it signed when Douglas was here for a Science In Film convention about seven years ago and it represents one of my most cherished possessions.

I discovered his books only after falling in love with the TV series of HH and along with Pratchett, he is one of the few authors whose books I reread on a regular basis. His death upset me greatly and I sobbed openly when I saw the film of HH and the incidental music from the TV show started playing. And yes, I was one of those geeks in the cinema with you who was quoting along with the film. We should all love this man, if only for the Art of Zen Driving, the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster and the fact that he surmised that the love of the British for cricket is the reason Earth has been left alone by aliens. His dissertations on the stupidity of sheep are completely hilarious.

Terry Pratchett . . . Tezza. I have quite a few signed copies of Terry's works. In fact, I once played Nanny Ogg in the first Australian production of Wyrd Sisters and at a book signing when I told Terry I was in the play, he looked me up and down and pronounced that I must be Nanny Ogg. For those who don't know her, she's a short, dumpy witch with an unfailingly cheerful disposition, a tendency to get drunk and sing at the top of her lungs and who owns a particularly mean and nasty tomcat (Greebo) whom she babies ridiculously.
The only real difference between the two of us, is that my kitty isn't mean, nor nasty and is in fact only slightly dumber than the nearest box of hammers. Bless him.

The Discworld books are a triumph.
It must be said that for a while there I did think Terry had gone slightly off the boil, to the point where he was recycling the same storyline ad nauseum. I am delighted to announce that he is right back on track and his last couple of books have been quite good. I just wish he'd get Carrot and Angua married. Or at least get them talking again about the fact that he's (just quietly) the heir to Ankh-Morpork's crown (strawberry shaped birthmark, sword and all) and she's a werewolf who doesn't want to lump the (potential) King with furry children. Also, the Patrician and Ridcully and his merry band of Wizards - the Bursar, the Dean, the Chair of Indefinite Studies etc - are some of the funniest characters ever created. I'd just like a teensy bit of closure for some of them. Other than that, carry on Terry. Good work, that man.

Authors still to come :

Stephen King, Laurell K Hamilton, Jane Austen, Jasper Fforde, Peter Benchley and Sarah Bunting. (Sarah who? You'll see . . . )