Every Day For A Year #3

If you're asking the classic Gary Coleman question right now (I mean "What you talkin' about?", rather than "How did I die falling from this height?"), then catch up on the dealio here.

Yep, it's time to drop in on Frosty and his camera and see what they've been up to. We started having a conversation today about how, due to the greyer-than-usual weather and diffused light in Sydney of late, his photographs have taken on a European, Cartier Bresson-esque quality. But then we got distracted by a picture of the Starship Enterprise made entirely of meat, and that conversation was pretty much over.

So anyway, here's some architectural bits of Sydney, a couple of musicians, and some other extemporaneous miscellanea. And also some stuff. Enjoy.

Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series Six - Self-Censored Preview

Like a fat girl with a voucher for a free pair of Spanx, I'm bulging with excitement and anticipation for the new series of Australia's Next Top Model, which will be galloping onto my telly exactly a month from now.
My excitement was given an additional camel-toe this afternoon, when I attended, along with about nine thousand other people an eighth my age, a filming of one of the upcoming model challenges. A full report is below, however since I so thoroughly respect the confines of confidentiality associated with pre-filmed television, I've taken the liberty of censoring all the parts that might give the game away. I hope it's still as enjoyable and enlightening as I find you all. Especially you there, with the pert nostrils. Nice work.

The Thing At The Thing With All The Things.
On a bright, cool Winter's day, my fashionable and sophisticated friends and I queued up outside ____ on ____ Street, just around the corner from ____, where I once ____ed an effeminate yet unbelievably hirsute English gent until he ____ his ____. Twice.
Once we made our way past security, we were each handed a bottle of lightly carbonated ____, and found our places amongst the crowd. Shortly the entertainment started, mostly consisting of a performance by ____, who used to be sort of okay until they got ____ and sort of ____ up their own ____.
I surveyed the VIP area, where we weren't, and saw ____, ____, and most surprisingly ____, who looks to be much happier now that the ____ seems to have cleared up.
Eventually the modules appeared, resplendent in ____ with accessories that mostly looked like they'd been ____ from ____ and then dipped in the ___, which despite some unkind and badly-researched reminiscences was a really good decade.
The scrags ____ed and ___ed wildly, although one of them seemed to have misread the brief and was instead ____ing like her life depended on it. The afternoon really took shape when my friend Yassy pointed out that one girl's ____ seemed to be clearly visible, until she noticed and tucked it briskly back into her ____ as if nothing had happened.
We came away from the ____ with a couple of choice new nicknames for the modules, like ____y-Mc___-___ and ____-Hate-My-Life. There was definitely some excellent module potential there as well, though, particularly ____ and ____, the latter of whom was ____ing like her life depended on it.
All in all, it was a hugely enjoyable afternoon, even though the venue was hotter than a ___'s ____, with or without pubic hair.

For even more useful information, check out the promo on the official website, in which Saint Sarah Murdoch surrounds herself in crimson satin, Charlotte Dawson fans herself with a fat wad, Jez Smith doesn't show anywhere near as much of his chest as I'd like, and Shiny Alex Perry busts out his first "expensive". Oh, and the modules run through the mud, pull each others' hair and stack it face first, because this is the best show in the history of the Universe and I would like to kiss it right on the lips.

Stay tuned, as soon I'll be making snap judgements and grossly inaccurate predictions based purely on the girls' profile pictures and inane ramblings. Because I can. And also because I am a sad, bitter person with a distinct lack of hobbies and stupidly impressive buttocks.

Sigh.
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Every Day For A Year #2

Welcome to the second installment of my mate Frosty's take-a-photo-every-day-for-a-year project. Fanfare trumpet noise and stuff!

If you're anything like me, you'll laugh. You'll cry. You'll smile. You'll go "hey, that's a fountain!".

And you will probably have lied about the crying thing.

Enjoy, my lovelies.

Terror, With A Bit Of Screaming Mixed In.

I’m only truly afraid of two things in this world.

I use the term “afraid” not in the “would rather avoid” sense, but in the “run screaming with hands flapping and the distinct possibility of involuntary wee” sense. I don’t think anybody truly likes the two things I’m afraid of, but most people probably wouldn’t go to the same lengths I do to avoid them.

Now, there are rational fears and irrational fears.
Rational fears are usually aversions to things that can potentially and realistically harm you, like spiders, snakes, sharks, and other things starting with S. Steve Irwin, for example.

Irrational fears are things like… well, vomiting and grasshoppers.

Vomiting.

I haven’t thrown up since 1989.
I steadfastly and unreservedly refuse to. Even my twin sister went through two pregnancies without so much as a wet-burp, and my mother has only upchucked once in my entire life. The females in my family find the concept of reverse-digestion not only abhorrent, we avoid it at all costs.

I would rather feel sick for three days than throw up.

Even when I’ve eaten something dodgy, I can think my way out of a vom. It’s a simple case of mind over splatter.

If I see someone hoiking up a beige rainbow, I feel substantially traumatised, and will see an instant replay any time I close my eyes for the next three days.

Yes, I’ve had food poisoning. Yes, I’ve dabbled extensively and at times excessively in the alcoholic arts. I. Just. Don’t. Vomit.

Grashoppers.

I’d like to put this one down to the preponderance of grasshoppers around my childhood home, being as it was surrounded by leafy hidey-holes conducive to the development of six or more legs.
But if that were the case, then I’d also be terrified of Huntsman spiders, cockroaches and gangs of toddlers. And I’m not.
I think instead, I’ll have to peg this fear onto the Hills Hoist of JUMPING GREEN DEMONS OF SURPRISE CRUNCHY HORROR.
Did you know that grasshoppers like to hide in the fingers of washing-up gloves?

Or in the buttock-nook of jeans you’ve just taken off the line?

Or just outside your driver’s-side window, waiting for you to wind it down so they can JUMP ON YOUR FACE?! Okay, that happened to my sister, but the blood-curdling horror travels.

If there’s a grasshopper in my room, I sleep on the couch.

There was a grasshopper in the front hallway of my house for a week, so I came and went by the back door. My housemates had to collect my mail.

For as long as I can remember, grasshoppers have epitomised mortifying evil all the way from my brain, straight through my pancreas, directly to my bowel.

Until one of my Kiwi mates made me aware of the Weta.

The Weta is New Zealand’s answer to the grasshopper. Presumably the question was “Have you got anything straight from the armpit of hell available for nightmares and screaming?”.

Seriously. Check it out.

SWEET KILT-WEARING MINIONS OF SATAN, GET IT AWAY.

If that thing vomits, my life is over.

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