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?)