10.4.05
Still Life with Fuckwit
Took Mallrat’s mum to the flower show at the Exhibition Gardens. What a waste of time that was, even though we had freebies. She thought it was much better when she went a few years ago. Free samples were thin on the ground, it was hotter than Andrew Bolt in a bikini, the coffee was, predictably, senior-citizen strength, and Jamie Durie was nowhere to be found.
There were some great sculptures and vegetation installations by RMIT fashion students and others, using seed pods, and recycled soft drink bottles as vases. Pretty impressive, but probably Not the Sort of Stuff You Want To Try at Home™.
Good to see the gardening show on 3cr getting a guernsey at the experts’ marquee. My mum approached one guy there asking why her greengage plum tree had never once flowered. He tried to convince her that she needed another expensive plum tree close by. I said hang on – something in a brain cell stirred – shouldn’t I just go to a nursery with a paintbrush, dust a bit of pollen into a paper bag and cross-pollinate manually? He finally admitted that yes, I could do that.
That sort of summed up the completely commercial nature of the event for me. I'd rather avoid the hype & crowds and go to a good nursery.
All in stark contrast to the garden at the house I’m minding for another month, which is tumbledown woggy charming – lots of cacti, overgrown roses, an enormous bay tree, parsley and mint growing in every conceivable cranny, lots of couch, fences made from old gates and stakes and fencing patched together with telephone cables and twine, red-and-white piebald chrysanthemums, and even now, in early April, rich red tomatoes. I like it, but it’d be nice to prepare a bed full of flowers for the owner's return from respite care.
*****
Went to a really poor show at the Comedy festival last night with May Contain Traces of Nuts (known in the early days of this blog as Jamie Durie’s Water Feature).
I think it’s called Hell’s Angels Sent Us Here but I can’t be arsed looking it up. Two wannabe-bogans (now there's a concept) from Beenleigh (don’t worry, it’s in QLD, that’s all you need to know).
One guy with a mullet did all the talking and couldn’t stop touching his dick (yeah, we get it, ok!) and the other played the guitar and pretended to smoke a rollie, which I thought was pathetic, but also because I hadn’t brought my fags, I really wanted to jump up and shout, “are you gonna smoke that already? Cause if you aren’t, give it to MOI”. The guy was more wooden than a still life.
The basic problem I have with the these shows aboout bogans is that they’re just sneering, patronising pisstakes. Utterly lacking in interest, or surprises. How about taking us a on a journey with the character? May Contain’s work brings him in contact with these sorts of guys occasionally – smackies who are in and out of the corrections system. He observed that one of the real McCoy on stage would be far darker and far more interesting than these bozos.
A sample of the “humor” – mullet man talks about a chick he once knew, who wante to go to university and do feminist studies (he stumbles over the word). A few years later, he says she’s flashing her tits to bikies. “That must be post-feminism, ha ha.”
I couldn’t understand why a Trades Hall audience was laughing at that one. Your point, sir?
We walked out after the third song, I with a guilty dash to the door, while May Contain just sauntered, silently defying Fuckwit with mullet to challenge him. No such luck.
I would rather have spent that money being overcharged at the petrol station.
BTW, will there be paparazzi won't be getting a topless on the beach with g-string shot, cause the honeymoon's in Scotland.
Thank the Lord for small mercies.
There were some great sculptures and vegetation installations by RMIT fashion students and others, using seed pods, and recycled soft drink bottles as vases. Pretty impressive, but probably Not the Sort of Stuff You Want To Try at Home™.
Good to see the gardening show on 3cr getting a guernsey at the experts’ marquee. My mum approached one guy there asking why her greengage plum tree had never once flowered. He tried to convince her that she needed another expensive plum tree close by. I said hang on – something in a brain cell stirred – shouldn’t I just go to a nursery with a paintbrush, dust a bit of pollen into a paper bag and cross-pollinate manually? He finally admitted that yes, I could do that.
That sort of summed up the completely commercial nature of the event for me. I'd rather avoid the hype & crowds and go to a good nursery.
All in stark contrast to the garden at the house I’m minding for another month, which is tumbledown woggy charming – lots of cacti, overgrown roses, an enormous bay tree, parsley and mint growing in every conceivable cranny, lots of couch, fences made from old gates and stakes and fencing patched together with telephone cables and twine, red-and-white piebald chrysanthemums, and even now, in early April, rich red tomatoes. I like it, but it’d be nice to prepare a bed full of flowers for the owner's return from respite care.
*****
Went to a really poor show at the Comedy festival last night with May Contain Traces of Nuts (known in the early days of this blog as Jamie Durie’s Water Feature).
I think it’s called Hell’s Angels Sent Us Here but I can’t be arsed looking it up. Two wannabe-bogans (now there's a concept) from Beenleigh (don’t worry, it’s in QLD, that’s all you need to know).
One guy with a mullet did all the talking and couldn’t stop touching his dick (yeah, we get it, ok!) and the other played the guitar and pretended to smoke a rollie, which I thought was pathetic, but also because I hadn’t brought my fags, I really wanted to jump up and shout, “are you gonna smoke that already? Cause if you aren’t, give it to MOI”. The guy was more wooden than a still life.
The basic problem I have with the these shows aboout bogans is that they’re just sneering, patronising pisstakes. Utterly lacking in interest, or surprises. How about taking us a on a journey with the character? May Contain’s work brings him in contact with these sorts of guys occasionally – smackies who are in and out of the corrections system. He observed that one of the real McCoy on stage would be far darker and far more interesting than these bozos.
A sample of the “humor” – mullet man talks about a chick he once knew, who wante to go to university and do feminist studies (he stumbles over the word). A few years later, he says she’s flashing her tits to bikies. “That must be post-feminism, ha ha.”
I couldn’t understand why a Trades Hall audience was laughing at that one. Your point, sir?
We walked out after the third song, I with a guilty dash to the door, while May Contain just sauntered, silently defying Fuckwit with mullet to challenge him. No such luck.
I would rather have spent that money being overcharged at the petrol station.
BTW, will there be paparazzi won't be getting a topless on the beach with g-string shot, cause the honeymoon's in Scotland.
Thank the Lord for small mercies.
