Every Day For A Year #18

(Dammit. I can never remember if you're more of a "what's the background story here" person or a "zombie garden gnome" person. If you're the former, check here. If you're the latter, check here. Frankly, I'm both. Then again, I'm awesome).

I'm particularly excited about this batch of photos from camera chameleon Frosty. You might think that's because there's a photo in there of our mutual mate Threadrock singing up his reproductive organs.
That is exciting, but no.
Then you might think (and you're really doing an unnecessary amount of thinking about this, by the way) that I'm excited because of that shot where you go "oh, look, it's a flame OH MY GOD THERE'S A FACE BEHIND IT AND IT CAN SEE DIRECTLY INTO MY SOUL".
Wrong again.
You might think I'm excited because I have an unnatural and very private shoelace fixation.
Nup.

I'm excited because one of these photographs is totally of my handbag.*

Enjoy. And yes, you can borrow it.

*No, silly. Frosty isn't my handbag. He's more my bitch.

I'd Call It Mama Mia, But That's The Name Of Another Blog.

I've been crap, haven't I.
Inconsistent blog updates with eons between them. I know. I know.
And I'm sorry.
Well, as sorry as a self-indulgent brat with delusions of grandeur can be, anyway.
The kind of sorry that could kick your arse in a cage fight, if it could be bothered getting off the couch and into its cage fighting... what, leotard? I don't know. But anyway, my sorry would be wearing a cup. And a leotard. And hell, a glitter-wig, because my sorry RULES.

There's some good stuff coming, but. Rumour has it that Australia is apparently looking for its next top something something, so I figure I might take a mild, back-seated interest in that eventually.

In the meantime, feel free to join me listening to the sound of my own voice on Twitter and also see what Mrs Woog from Woogsworld and I look like when we're being Agnetha and Frida. We made it as authentic as possible. They have martinis in Sweden, right?

Every Day For A Year #17

(This is that bit where I express shock that you don't know what's going on here, but offer a link for you to catch up. And this other sentence is the bit where I link to something fleetingly awesome on the internet. And then I say "you're welcome" or something, because I feel like I've done you a favour because I'm a bit up meself).

Now that that bit's over, I go on about how cool Frosty's photos are, especially that one with the wings in it (but if there was one with something else in it better than wings, I'd mention that one). I'd spend a short while announcing that the year is nearly done, that Frosty's nearly taken three hundred and sixty-five photographs, and we'd all have a think about time, and maybe visualise a clock face.

And then I'd stop talking about this blog post in the third person, because it's irritating.

And then I'd say "Enjoy!", because I'm nice.

So, so nice.

Those Magnificent Bastards

Everybody’s got a friend in a band.



When you have a friend who’s in a band, you’re pretty much obliged to go to their gigs.


When you go to their gigs, regardless of how awkward or clumsy they are, afterwards you generally need to tell them they were great. And then get drunk and talk wank until dawn. Pretty sure that’s standard. Pretty sure.


A few years ago, I met my mate Russ at work, and we became good friends. He told me he was in a band called Sierra Fin, and that they had a gig at the Annandale coming up, and that I should check them out. Here we go, I thought. Another friend gig, I thought. I’d better get my auto-impressed face on, I thought.


Jesus nappy-wearing Christ, I thought. These guys are goddamn fracking AMAZING.


Over the ensuing handful of years, I watched them grow (quite literally – they added a bass player) and write and play and develop and drink and eat and argue and perform and record and endanger their kidneys, and I can truly say now that I love this band.


Russ is the singing guy who does most of the writing. A hilarious bastard who happily laughs up his own pancreas, he likes it when it’s time for gin, and has about three favourite t-shirts that he rotates endlessly.


Frosty is the drumming guy who, as overheard by a punter one night, “hits the skins fuckin’ hard, ay”. Outlandishly good at drumming, he likes meat and photography very much and has excellent posture.


Joel is the keyboardy guitary guy. He can kick your arse in any general-knowledge-related realm, has fetching red swimwear, and is working on copyrighting his signature wiggle.


Oli is the bass guy, and sometimes gets thrown out of pubs for pretending he’s been shot. He’ll always, always surprise you, especially if you ask him about underpants.


And now, today, they’ve released their debut album, Cautionary Tale Of The Beautiful Blackout.


They recorded it in five days after an outrageous amount of preparation, planning and orchestration (seriously – there’s a twenty-six piece goddamn orchestra in there), and it’s beautiful.


It’s fucking beautiful.


I’m tearfully proud of them boys, and thrilled, honoured and delighted to have been hanging around while they got there.


Congratulations, me lovelies.

 PS: You’d better buy the album, huh. It seems like the right thing to do.

Cirque Du So-Lame Part 2: The Lamening

Update: Being fifteen different kinds of idiot, I posted a link to this blog on my facebook page. It didn't occur to me that Gemma the absent-but-on-her-way-home-whose-room-has-just-been-turned-into-the-most-pissweak-circus-in-history might see it on her phone.

Dammit.

Flex Chong and I received a polite text from Gemma exclaiming that it looked like we had a busy long weekend (lol) but that she wasn't feeling great and if it's not too party-pooperish could we tidy her room.

ALRIGHT FINE.

Welcome home, Gemma. Please be as quiet as possible when approaching the front door.

Cirque Du So-Lame

So it's a rainy public holiday, and housemate Flex Chong and I are bored.


We've never even been to acting school.

When suddenly we suddenly had a sudden idea!

Seriously. Never had one lesson.

Of course! While our other housemate Gemma was away, we'd turn her bedroom into a circus! It was all  so clear.
In the past, whenever Gemma had declined joining Flex Chong and I on a night out, we'd always make sure we brought her home a present to show her that we'd missed her. This is almost certainly the reason she once found a bag full of leaves, menus and real estate flyers outside her bedroom door. Rumour has it that it also has something to do with the shopping trolley that rumbled swervingly down our hallway one evening.
So now, with Gemma away for four days, we had to do something special. Sort of more special than the big piece of bark and number-six-painted-on-a-board that we'd already brought her that weekend, anyway.


Although to be honest, it could be a number 9.

In case I've never made my feelings regarding discount stores known before - I frickkin' fricky love discount stores. If it wasn't for discount stores, how could I possibly sustain my lust for plastic crap I'll never use again? Come on, now. You're not using your brain.
Now, the availability of circus props is unpredictable in discount stores. We expected to find clown masks, but failed.

Carnival and Big-Bird's-About-To-Eat-My-Soul masks, though? No problem.

We didn't expect to find gigantic novelty clown shoes, but voila!

You should've seen his underpants.

Granted, we had trouble justifying the purchase of window-rat...

But we more than made up for it with a line of questionably-positioned circus animals...



They're all in a 'lion'. No, wait! That one's riding 'bear-back'. No, wait! I've got a billiion of these...


A foam head and a clown hat...



And, of course, your nightmares taken care of for the next fortnight

...a welcome home banner...



As seen in circuses across the nation

...and plenty of that garish multi-coloured popcorn, the thought of which makes you gag like you're a python swallowing a tractor.



And you always get a bit stuck in the back of your throat like a pu... er, like a church hymn.

But, whether or not the rest was circus-y enough, I think where we really excelled was in the balloon department. One hundred and fifty of those static-charged bad boys. Seriously, I've never been that puffed out around that much latex before. Shut up. Keep going. Shut up.




Like the prettiest and most severe case of bed-hemorrhoids ever.

Gemma gets home tomorrow. I'm pretty sure she'll be delighted. Who doesn't love a lame, half-arsed circus?