Archive | extra extra RSS feed for this section

What’s the upchuck factor on that?

November 28, 2011 by the wuc 26 Comments

I’ve been rediscovering my Thirsty Merc (kick-ass Aussie band, don’t ya know).

And by rediscovering, I mean chair-dancing like the lousy, legless dude from Forrest Gump. Like the wicked witch o’ the East with Dot’s house resting on her lower extremities. Head banging. Torso tossing. Rockin’ that shit like I’m drowning at a seated event.

I’m sad to say my love of the Merc has grown dusty in recent years, eclipsed by flashbacks of a tradge trip to Barcelona in 07. I’d been living in London shy a decade and the Merc was on special needs repeat (in native nostalgia). Then came the Barce. Like a monocled moustached moth, I was drawn to its architectural flame.

It shoulda been grandiose. Instead, what followed were days of great beauty and greater apathy. I couldn’t put my pulse on it, but the finger was off. Then. On the final day, to serenade of The Hard Way, I was groped by some Charlie on the train. Of all the gropes in my life, this was the lewdest ‘n’ longest. All the way from Girona to Barceloneta, baby.

For the record, if I was gonna let a meaty mid-life man lather my ladies – it’d be the actual John Goodman, not his fragrant vagrant look-a-like. But I guess you don’t get to choose your groper (she says wistfully, staring off into the mischance). Plus, how often do you find a Downey down on his luck? (Don’t answer that.)

The greatest tradge of this tit tale was losing the use of my Merc. I couldn’t listen to their songs without recalling my musical molestation. Until recently. When, in an effort to evade GP songs, I stumbled upon this past love like a carousing clown on my doorstep come 2am.

Result.

As such, I feel the need to share my lascivious lurve. And so, herewith my murky favs. Consider me your Goodman, rubbing my Thirsty Merc all over your coquettish and virginal ears. How you like them hairy apples, little one?

  1. I Wish Somebody Would Build a Bridge
  2. In the Summertime
  3. Claude Monet
  4. Wasting Time

They make me happy in my Aussie bone, unlike Baz bucken Luhrmann (insert hissing like a cat). Meanwhile, you’re gonna have to go old school on this puppy (iTunes, baby). Is your attention span better than a Bieber’s?

extra extra
, , , , , , ,

You’re an adult. Just cope.

July 8, 2011 by the wuc 75 Comments

I’m as sick as a dog, man. I look like Snuffal-fucking-uffagus. Or Jeff Goldblum in The Fly – my body slowly disintegrating as I transform from human to insect.

(Pause for trauma and flashback to: the fingernail scene. Ewww.)

I suppose this makes you Geena Davis, the witness to my festy - someone who moderately cares but will ultimately leave me, if my appendages don’t stop falling off.

Before you go, let me take a moment to depict just how disgusting I’ve become. I have Britney Spears neck because my glands are so swollen (seriously, that girl looks like a pro-wrestler, it’s as thick as her head) and my sinuses are now manic depressive, one minute flowing like Dylan lyrics and the next, becoming more clogged than a Dutch folk dance.

Such was my desperation, last night I googled home remedies and the recommendation came back: squeeze the ju-ice (to be said like Pauly Shore) of a spring onion into thy nasal cavity. Job done. Fortuitous then, that I didn’t have any spring onions in the house.

In the space of a day, societal conventions have all but broken down. I’ve become a Gollum cave-dwelling creature who cowers from the light through yonder window break and calls the delivery boy “precious”. Occasionally, I’ll limp into the next room to make tea, leaving a trail of used tissues in my wake (like a festy mucus-Gretel marking the path back to good health).

Any semblance to my former self was irrevocably lost early this morning (during a barrage of twitter nightmares) and I now resemble my hermit uncle living amidst piled dishes, tissues and discarded clothes (though at least I have floorboards, yo).

How did it take only 24 hours to reach this level of debauchery? Is that all the time it takes to become culturally homeless?

extra extra
, , , , , , ,

I’m ready for my close up, Mr De Mille.

June 29, 2011 by the wuc 107 Comments

Upon arriving home every day, I strip down faster than Gordy “leech-on-balls” Lachance (of Stand by Me lore). It’s over quicker than a superhero relay, my friends. Shoes, jewelry, clothes; everything in its place, pyjamas on.

If you happened to be with me, as you turned to close the door (very well-mannered, thank you), you’d hear a soft whoosh and feel the air shift ever-so-slightly (as if a flea had suffered an embolism). You’d turn, questioningly, to discover that I’d transformed from haute to hobo.

The only suggestion that anything went down would be the wardrobe door, slightly ajar, and the gentle rocking of coat-hangers (my recent outfit hung as beautifully as a British racehorse). If you weren’t there, I’d resemble my 4-year-old nephew: nuded-up from the waist down (though at least I have the good grace to wear undies).

It’s with this naked premise that I tell you, when it came time to put my garbage out tonight, the problem of clothing rose up to haunt me like the Titanic in Ghostbusters. Despite consensus, I have pride. That, and my elevators move slower than an independent film, I’ll inevitably become stuck in a fashion nightmare the likes of which Celine Dion has never seen.

Do I go down in my kimono? I stand in front of the mirror and ascertain that no, I do not.

I look like a Japanese hobo. The real bind (pardon the pun): can I be assed putting on a bra? Somewhere in the distance, I hear strident laughter. Mmm, quite right poignant-and-well-timed stranger. It’s only the grace of humanity and gravity which inveigle women into bras.

The task therefore becomes to look like I’m wearing a bra. I begin rifling through my wardrobe, to select appropriate camouflage. The result is a ridiculous concoction which makes me look like an eccentric artiste, circa 1927. Motley green scarf wrapped around my neck and down my front; flowy cardigan which (why do I own this?) one only wears to take out the fucking garbage; flourished with MC Hammer pants and flips flops.

I look like Norman fucking Lindsay, for sobbing out loud.

I’m at a loss as to how this marks progress, but. Entirely too much time has been spent on this endeavour. And so! Into the breach I go! My garbage in tow (figuratively and literally, yo).

extra extra
, , , , , , ,

It’s so frikkin on right now – Act 2

June 26, 2011 by the wuc 25 Comments

We exit the mall, like Batman and Robin sans budget, jumping into a nearby taxi. The driver gives us the whatever once-over and we head to the club (which I hereby crown, Loserville) (just so I can stop calling it the fucking club). The chick on the door eyes our disguise.

“Where’d you two come from, Supernova?” (aka Aussie Comicon)

“Mary Poppins.”

NASA and I have been to Loserville so often, we’re honorary citizens. The bouncers and DJ give us the nod like rodeo favourites, our sometime metaphorical (one time literal) spurs clinking as we mosey across the dance floor, tipping our metaphorical (one time literal) hat.

If you could splice together every dance movie ever made, throw in epilepsy and partial blindness, you’d see how we rip that dance floor a new one come Friday nights. Our dancing edict? Never surrender to one style, good taste or gravity. We cut a swathe through those two-stepping chumps with an array of backflips, twists and shouts.

We built our notoriety one leg-split at a time, my friends.

Probably our finest moment was what I fondly refer to as UN (United Nations) night. We were golden on that fateful day. NASA is a gymnast so, while she wowed the crowd with vaulting somersaults, I threw down a cocktail of Travolta, Astaire and Footloose. Most nights begin with the requisite ‘who the hell are these idiots?’ stares. But. Slowly. Surely, whispered asides of ‘what the fuck?’ are replaced with the wish to be One of Us.

Such was the power of UN night. Idiots from every nationality and walk of life came together in a glorious melting pot of drunken derangement. People who didn’t know each other, didn’t know us, were suddenly dancing as one – doing the conga, hopscotching across the floor, dancing on the graves of our smashed forefathers. I burned a hole clean through the sole of my right shoe that night. Through the very sole of Australia, compadres.

Pause for silence and awe at THE POWER OF DANCE (hangs head).

The night of my bir, NASA and I seized the dance floor – a pink duo of hero. We worked that dance floor like a couple of hookers on Sunset Boulevard. I got my Jack Rabbit Slim on and NASA was soon dancing with her cape over her head (I like to think, in a fitting tribute to Casper the drunken ghost). We danced as we always do: til they kicked our heroic asses out.

extra extra
, , , , , ,

It’s so frikkin on right now – Act 1

June 24, 2011 by the wuc 12 Comments

Where was I? Ah yes, pausing for warm joo-joo pleasure and Judd Nelson air-punch. So, following the technicolor hurl that was Poppins, NASA and I went into superhero mode.

Context. A month ago, we were invited to a costume party of superhero proportions. And on that decidedly traumatic Saturday, we sat over lunch musing how to achieve social awesomeness – finally landing upon the notion to go as super versions of ourselves.

I went as a villain (which basically meant adding a mask) and NASA as a hero (in spandex, pink-metallic mask and cape – springs of hair punching the air in victory).

We rock up to this gig lookin’ like comic strips on a night off, anticipation and six-pack in hand. We’re going in, cover us. But wait, what? Lo and be-fucken-hold, every single person is in a fucking toga. Kiss my Ikea, you bastards. What the frik.

“Hey everyone! I’m in a BED SHEET. Come see how good I look!”

By this time, they’re 3 fitted-sheets to the West. And there we sit – two masked comics in the corner; corkscrew hero and brooding villain. Good anti-climatic times.

Cut to: NASA and I exit Poppins, our hopes and dreams violated, but in surprisingly good spirits. Wucs. Time to kick this puppy up a notch. We head to our haunt, a club with themed entry and 80s joo-joo. The theme? Superheroes, bitches! It’s a sign. Totally psyched, yo.

Time for a costume change. We duck into an empty shopping mall, passing a little geek parade of geisha and wizards. (O-kaay. Guess we aint the only ones getting our freak on.)

Into the toilets and suit up. I don my pink wig and Elvis sunnies (don’t ask for logic), and NASA assumes heroic form. We eye our reflections in the mirror. I look like a candy-dipped Uma of Pulp Fiction proportions. Accidental, but I’m feelin’ it.

Upon exit, the mall is deserted but for a lone security guard. He tips his hat, as if to say …  ”we get heroes in ‘ere all the time, no big deal.”

go to … It’s so frikkin on right now – Act 2

extra extra
, , , , , ,
Older Entries

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 1,798 other followers