Archive | June, 2011

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

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 grace to wear grundies).

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).

the wuc bytes – grosse pointe blank

Mondays mornings are akin to having my ass sand-papered after a long bike ride.

Insult to wedgie is the fucking two-hour management meeting which goes down first thing every Monday. Being coherent and upright really sticks in my craw. (I confess, I told the sun to fuck off this morning.) (It was shining right in my eye, your honour!)

Pause for photo of Ryan Reynolds’ undies and zen-inducing breath.

Ah, Grosse Pointe (turns to greet movie warmly), I love you as if you single-handedly nullify Baz Lurman’s existence. Blessed be those Cusacks, John or Joan. They make me happy in my John Hughes bone. Such is my joo-joo love that, while Minnie Driver burns my toast to volcanic lava with her prolific freckles and outlandish chin, just this once I’m gonna let it slide.

“You can never go home again, Oatman! But I guess you can shop there.”

It’s so frikkin on right now – Act 2

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.

It’s so frikkin on right now – Act 1

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 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


I saw Mary Poppins last week. I’ve always loved musicals, a by-product of my movie mania. Grease, Chicago, Oliver – I’ve seen ’em all, from West End to Broadway baby. But come Friday night, I had to admit that I’m either more cynical than a g-string in a retirement home, or I’m too old for this shit (to be said like Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon).

Not only was it more gay than Rock Hudson in a Doris Day movie, but it was how I imagine my insanity might look – maniacal, melodious and somewhat sinister.

Everyone is singing and dancing, tra lah lah, and a statue comes to life. Oh my! What wonder, to see it frolic and dance so! What magic! What joy!

Cut to: some dude in a nude body stocking, a fig leaf over his fragilistic … luring the pretty children to come out and play. Um … ex-squeeze me? Baking powder?

‘Mary, move yo’ passive-aggressive ass, before we have another court case! Spit spot.’

Meanwhile, I know all children are an alleged miracle, but that little girl was like an off-Broadway version of Chucky, with the mouth of Steve Tyler (cree-py). And they hacked the story like it was Steve Buscemi in frikkin Fargo; bringing in a new character and altering the songs. Don’t get post-modern with my Poppins, mutherfuckers. I aint down with it.

That being said, I quite enjoyed myself. Wucs. My mood was practically perfect in every way, and a part of me still responds to the existential acid trip. My mate NASA (a girl impervious to heat, cold or nuclear fall-out) and I then went on to our usual – a club with sticky floors, wanker DJs and endless 80s music.

Pause for warm joo-joo pleasure and Judd Nelson air-punch.

Which is where the pink wig comes in, mais oui. But wait, the post is ending… what the frik. Alas! It’s an anti-climatic tale for the morrow my friends. As the boss doth lurk, so shall it be.

Watch this hot-pink space, yo.

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