TOSSER OF THE DAY: Gorillaboy Damon Albarn sayz, "With cap and stupid jacket, you too can become gangsta rapper type"

"The back brakes are shot, I mean really, it's a wonder you're not dead. And the rear shocks are completely stuffed. You'll probably get another 10,000 k's from the front brakes if you're lucky. Your two front tyres are kaput, they'll need replacing. If I use reconditioned parts, then add labour, plus 10% for GST, you're looking at about $2,200..."

Just the words I wanted to hear this morning at the garage. Golden Boy™ has been declared "stuffed". Hurrah. After a brief period of hyperventilation, I did what any motor-savvy intelligent independent woman would do – call her father. "Jesus fucking christ Daaaaaad! I don't have two thousand dollars! I wouldn't even get two thousand dollars if I sold the car! I only asked for a service and look what's happened!"

Granted, I hadn't had it serviced since September, and I'd been ignoring that faint crunching sound coming from the rear for a week or two, but I didn't think I could have inflicted that much damage on a car that was in brilliant condition when I bought it just on a year ago. Dad told me that the mechanic must be "a shonky fuckwit" and asked me to put him on. Much grunty blokey talk followed and finally they agreed to just replace the brake pads for now and Dad (a former mechanic) would check out the rest him to ensure I wouldn't be swindled into getting unnecessary work done.

(As a kid I used to ponder the question, what would be the most convenient occupation for ones parents to have? Aside from Completely Rich Bastard, of course. I used to envy kids who's folks ran corner shops, coz they'd get free icecreams and lollies all the time. Or the kid who's dad ran the local pool, coz you could swim for free all the time, you could do bombs and run on the concrete and never get in trouble. Plus free icecreams and lollies.Anyway, people used to say I was lucky to have a teacher mum, coz she could do my homework for me, which of course she never did, she wouldn't even help us if we asked her how to spell something, "I didn't spend $50 on that Macquarie for it to gather dust! Look it up!". I'm now convinced that having a mechanic for a father is really quite nice, he's saved me from being ripped off about a dozen times, he's patched the car up on the sly when I crashed it so mum wouldn't have to find out. Etcetera)

$400 later my car is serviced and the brakes patched up. Still got to fork out for two new tyres. Needless to say my Get The Fuck Outta Dodge fund is non-existent now. And of course all this happens at the same time the electricity, home contents, and three phone bills arrive, not to mention physio fees. Being an adult SUCKS, I tells ya. I long to be 16 again, earning $4.65 an hour at KFC and having no bills and my biggest responsibility was remembering to feed Lenin, my goldfish. I hate maturity! I hate responsibility! I hate being in debt! I hate having a car!

AAAAARGH! AAAAAARGH!

Okay, that was fun.

Meanwhile, it's been pouring rain here for four days straight. Our backyard is looking very third-world-slum-after-a-flood-ish. Harry, illustrated below, is absolutely filthy. His arse is brown from sitting in the mud, his fur is clumped together with chunks of dirt and leaves, he's been moaning and whimpering for twenty-four hours straight. But please, no sympathy for the little bugger. He has a perfectly dry kennel with cosy blankets that I forked out $110 for, and he stubbornly refuses to go near it.

I'm not entirely mean though. I set off to Supabarn just now to buy him some posho dog food, to try and ease the pain that comes from being perpetually soaked. I eventually went with that old chesnut, My Dog - Beef Strips In Sauce With Spring Vegetables, but noticed they're stocking some new varities. And damn dodgy looking ones, which is saying something since it's dog "food" we're talking here.

As endorsed by some cartoon down with a crown.

Bounce! Now with 50% more bounce in every can. What is the "bounce" in Bounce, anyway? Amphetamines? Pig trotters?

Chappi. Hehe. Chappi.

I hope someone else finds those amusing. Please say it's not just me. I might go back to Supabarn and stake out the display and see if anyone else laughs.

Mixed bag of a weekend. Friday night was Bridget Jones Diary with my sister and Miss Emily, much laughs and scoffing down of snakes. Nice to discover that Mr Darcy still butters my muffin like no other. Ooh er. What a tasty treat he is.

Saturday the Mothership touched town. I guess we've been lucky, she hasn't been for about six months. She arrived early, right in the middle of our mad housecleaning preparations. During her mercifully brief stay she managed to squeeze in the following complaints:

1. The kitchen windowsill. "Urrgh! grotty!"
2. The kitchen floor. "Don't you own a mop?"
3. Just about every other thing in the kitchen. She prowled with a chux and a bottle of Jif generally pissing us off. Many sentences beginnning with, "When was the last time you cleaned the....?"
4. My bra. "You're flopping all over the place. I think you need a smaller size."
5. The front door step. "Don't you own a broom?"
6. Rhiannon's sheets on the clothesline. "Shouldn't we go out and bring those sheets in? It's getting cool, they'll get damp." Well Mumsy, little do you know that those sheets had actually been out there for a week, they'd survived three frosts, torrential rain and Harry nipping at them.
7. Our peg bucket. "Don't you bring you bucket of pegs inside? Oh god! There's leaves in the bucket! You haven't brought this inside for months, have you? Have you!?"
8. Harry's water bowl. "Good lord! Don't you ever fill that up?"
9. Harry's coat. "He's filthy! Don't you ever bath him?"
10. Harry's toenails. "They're too long! Don't you ever clip them?"

Also got to hear about her upcoming Quilt Til You Wilt Night, the organic vegetables craze sweeping the town, the crooked church pew she bought for her hallway, and thorough recaps of the past weeks Oprah episodes.

The rest of Saturday and Sunday I spent either crying or sulking because I somehow managed to aggrivate my stupid shoulder, despite being good and sitting up straight and gentle stretching and yoga-ing and pilates-ing and left-handed-mouse-ing. Note to self: find new, non-computery job.

Last night I sat on the back step hand-feeding Good-O's to Harry in an effort to get him to sit still long enough for a huggle. As soon as Good-O's were gone he took off. Dumb mutt. Why does everyone else get those doting, loyal companion types and I get a insane little bastard who only wants me for the food. It's true. I asked him. "If you only love me for the food, bark twice." Woof Woof! Little shit.

During moping watched a lot of crappy cable music videos. Men in lipstick and eyeliner, oh those were the days!

Whenever I arrive at amazon.com and see that greeting, I get a little excited. Not about the recommendations in store for me, but by the line itself. There's something rather saucy about it. I think it's all in the full stops. Hello Miss Shauny. *lingering pause* We have recommendations for you. *significant look*

Recommendations? I say breathlessly. Do you really? Oh my. Show me your recommendations. Please. Hurry now.

And this book, spotted at the physiotherapists office yesterday. Tee hee, tee hee!

Following Mememaster Graham et al, Ten Things Things I Wakarimasen.

1. Japanese. Despite five years of study, the only Nihongo I understand is wakarimasen, which means "I don't understand". So if you didn't understand what wakarimasen meant in the title of this post, you wouldn't have understood that this is actually a list of ten things I don't understand. Is that understood?
2. A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius. Like a neverending paperback weblog.
3. Star Wars. Luke, I am your overrated piece of crap.
4. How to dress nicely. None of my socks match. I always spill food on my clothes. And yesterday, I didn't realise til 10am that my top was on backwards.
5. Parallel parking. How the bloody hell do you swing back in and not end up being three bloody miles from the curb? I just can't do it and it shits me no end!
6. The smugness of university students.
7. My father's penchant for psychotic girlfriends.
8. Calculus. Arrrgh! Get it away from me!
9. Why every man on the planet seems immune to my endless charms.
10. Laurie Oakes. So rotund he looks like he has a baby seal stuffed down his shirt. There could be one hiding in his chin too. It's okay for a male journalist to be an eyesore but if a female presenter on Channel Nine weighed more than a lettuce, she'd be out on her arse.

Furthermore, I don't get Buffy either. It's seems Graham has sparked admissions from other non-followers. And Sarah-Michelle Gellar's face bears a haunting resemblance to a racoon.

I know this incredibly stupid girl who run away from work yesterday. She told a whopper of a lie, saying that her appointment was 2.5 hours before it actually was, so she could nip off to the cinema to see one her most favourite movies ever.

She nicked off at midday feeling mildly exhilarated and trying to ignore the guilt nibbling away at her stomach. When it took her half an hour to find a park in the school holiday frenzy, she should have realised it was not meant to be. But she found a space so far away from the cinema she may as well have parked on the moon, and had to hobble along in the too-high heels to make the movie on time, tripping over stairs and people, but she made it.

She teetered into the theatre and chose one of those aging vinyl seats that go "ppppphhhhssssst!" when you sink into it. She slumped low, heart racing, wondering what the hell am i doing here. The lights dimmed and she stupidly decided she'd like a souvenir screen shot of the occassion! Her teeny tiny digicam, bought specifically for it's spycam capabilities, was cleverly disguised inside her makeup bag, with just the lens poking out. Unfortunately she forgot to switch off the flash, and her anominity was destroyed in a blazing gust of light. But at least she got a great shot of the opening credits.

Soon she was lost in the film, despite having seen it a hundred times before, including the previous Saturday. But it was on at the cinema, and how often do you get the chance to see classic movies on the big screen? They were screening it for one week only and 1pm was the only session! So her debauchery is entirely justified! If only she could ignore the guilt clanging away in herr gut like maracas.

It saddens me how desperate this girl has become, when the only excitement in her life is a covert trip to the flicks, and for romance she has to live vicariously through a movie almost 50 years old. I mean, there's no hot action in that movie, there's a kiss or two, but in 1953 all they did was press lips in the general direction of the other, no movement, nary a hint of tongue. Just significant looks and teary eyes and a whole lot of longing. And how can she lust after Gregory Peck? Sure he had the most fantastic eyebrows in cinematic history, but he'd have to be 90 by now, and those eyebrows have become that horrid steel-woolish feral caterpillars, and with the same kind of hair now unfurling from his ears and nostrils and god knows where else.

At the end of the film her eyes are salty and stinging and she's gulping and hiccupping and honking into her aloe vera tissues, coz she hopes maybe this time Audrey Hepburn will turn around and say "To hell with this damn pampered princess life! I want to live with a underpaid hack and eat gelato and shag on the Spanish Steps!".

She'd float gracefully over to him, as Audrey never had a problem with high heels, and Gregory would raise his crazy eyebrows in a significant manner and scoop her right up...

But no. It was the same bittersweet ending. So the pathetic romantic girl gallumphed her way out of the cinema and back to her car, was terribly late for her appointment, but felt so daring after her adventure. For about 5 minutes before the guilt came marching back.

When no British Lion would do a post-match jersey swap with Wallaby star Justin Harrison, his mother took swift action, penning a scathing letter to The Australian. In reference to the Lions skipper, she wrote:

"Johnson . . . showed the epitome of ignorance and arrogance, as displayed all tour, by refusing rudely to swap jerseys with Justin," Mrs Harrison wrote. "I'm tempted to write to his mother, if I could be assured he has one that would lay claim to him."

Ooh er. Go Mumsy!

Be sure to rush out and get Lego's very special Steven Spielberg Moviemaker Set. As endorsed by the bearded one himself. Complete with teeny tiny digital camera and teeny tiny movie set, you'll be making a teeny tiny Jurassic Park XXXVIII in no time.

And here come the excuses! Our season's too long! We play too many games! We had too many injuries! We were too English! Shut up, and go home. Aaaaaaaahahhahaha! Okay, no more rugby. I promise!

Update: Oops! I lied! Here's some more excuses.

Spam Blogging is 2001's answer to last years unfortunate Post Your Wacky Referrals phenomenon.

Dear Texaco Customer,

P.S. We now have the actual picture of this year Christmas Truck #18 from Texaco. Be sure to order your early to get the pre-order price. Also there is a special edition truck this year and we also have that picture available! http://www.jambros.com/Texaco1SpecialTruck.htm

Oh come on, people. You know you want a tugboat.

Can you believe that tennis? I nearly had a little cry. I'm watching it again on Fox Sports. It's bloody amazing, I tells ya. Woo.

One bone I have to pick concerns the commentary of Pat "Has Been" Cash. Sure, you won Wimbledon in 1987 but that begs the question, whaddya done lately? Nothing but sit on your arse, blathering into the microphone, your pathetic commentary barely veiling your jealousy and contempt for the new generation of players. At one point Rafter pulled out an impressive smash to win a point, but no congratulations from Patty Cash: "Oh not one of his best smashes!" he says. "In fact one of the worst! It was a nervous little smash! But I guess it will have to do for today!"

I'll give YOU smash, Patty Cash. How's about we chain you up to the net and Ivanisevic serves some 307 km/h balls in your direction? Or if he's unavailable, I will just thrash you myself with a great big chequerboard headband.

Went and saw the Australian Chamber Orchestra last night. Being the ignorant clod I am, I had never heard that kind of music live before so it was just amazing. They played bits of the Farenheit 451 score and I was gobsmacked. I've heard Bernard Herrmann's wonderful scores in dozens of movies: Taxi Driver, Psycho, Vertigo, Citizen Kane, blah blah blah, but it's so familiar that you forget there's people sawing away at violins and cellos and things to make it all happen. Fantastic stuff, though I wished they could thrown in the screechy shower scene bit from Psycho, just for a laugh.

The second half of the performance was called Parables, Lullabies and Secrets, a strange little collaboration between the ACO, the national children's choir Gondwana Voices, Neil Finn and Michael Leunig. Parts of it were baffling and bloody annoying really, but you can't go wrong with Neil's amazing voice and Leunig's odd, bittersweet words.

I ignored the glares of the well-coiffed grannies around us to take the photo below. We were sitting eleven miles from the stage, my zoom is crap and no flash of course, so you get this shaky old thing. Lovely.

My sister would like to verify the authenticity of the aforementioned Tight Arses, including the Ice Cube Incident. She also added her own tidbit: one of the Righteous Sisters had a birthday party, and my sis won the game of Pin The Tail On The El Cheapo Donkey. And what was her prize? Half a fun-size Mars Bar. Yes! They actually unwrapped the tiny bar, sliced it in two with a butter knife and handed over her reward. Oooh. Tiiight.

The hound is feeling the cold.

I got my brown envelope! Woo!

A few weeks ago Miss Fran asked her readers if any of them would like a brown envelope? YES MA'AM I'd love a brown envelope, I thought. So I asked Miss Fran could I please have a brown envelope. True to her word, I got my brown envelope today and it contained a nice letter and a nice sticker.

It's so rare to get a real live letter these days, especially one from someone you don't even know, really. Thanks Fran! :)

Fire engines in Canberra are yellow. One just swooped down Northbourne, sirens squealing. That shade just doesn't scream "Emergency! Emergency!" to me. How disappointing. It's not even a nice, glowing sunshiney yellow. It's putrid fluro yellow. It's like the ACT government couldn't afford to buy the nice big sexy red trucks and said to the firemen, "Here's a generic craphouse white truck, and here's a jumbo pack of yellow highlighters. Now get colouring!"

If I was a fireman, I'd be a bit annoyed. I slaved for years at Fireman School so I could ride round on a nice big sexy red truck and wave my hose around everywhere, but all I got to ride was this silly yellow thing. And noone takes you seriously when you turn up to a fire aboard a yellow truck. "You gonna fight this inferno with a yellow truck? Get out!"

I spose I could move back to New South Wales. They have red trucks there.

Mmmmmm. The smell of chlorine on your skin is so.... bloody revolting. But I do believe I am quite taken with this gym caper lately. My sister and I are hooked on the rowing machine. The gym has two of them at opposite sides of the room, so we'd look over the river of stepping machines that seperated us and wave, "I say, lovely day for a row, eh chum?". It's really quite difficult if you really get into it, your shoulders tend to scream in protest, but it's fun to test your limits. I yelled at my sister to pick up her pace a bit and she yelled back, "I can't help it, I've got a slow boat!"

After that I soaked my aching muscles in the spa. The spa is set upon some lovely wooden stage-type construction, flanked by plastic plants, with charming wood panelling for that porno set ambience. From this secluded position, you can watch people come and go in the change rooms. I'm always amazed with the ease and indifference that patrons shed their stinky workout gear and parade around starkers. I always turn up to the gym ready to start, and either go home stinky or run prudishly to the showers and change there. I expose not so much as a lily white toe to anyone!

I found myself unable to resist peeking at other chicks' boobs from the safety of fake plastic ferns in that critical, comparitive, scientific kind of way. Being largely of the heterosexual persuasion it's not like I see naked breasts very often. It's bizarre to see how different they are! I am so used to the ones that I lug around, that I never fully appreciated that there are also little ones and pointy ones and bouncy ones and wacky nipples and all sorts of crazy shit. They're so diverse, but each with their own charms!

Really! It made me realise how silly I am to waste so much time being paranoid about how I look, think that this bit or that bit of me wasn't perfect or looked funny or should be smaller or bigger or tanner or whatever. Who's to say what's normal or perfect? I really should just love the bod I've been given and just get comfortable in my own skin like the gals at my gym seem to be comfy in theirs. Paranoia is just far too exhausting.

Such a painfully obvious revelation that most people figured out eons ago, but for a fretting dork like me it was all new. I got out of the spa and danced in front of the mirrors in my cozzies for a minute while George Harrison appreciatively crooned My Sweet Lord over the radio...

Saturday afternoon was spent at the NPG, (as in the National Portrait Gallery, not Prince's New Power Generation. Spending time with them lacks any real appeal for me) for the absolutely wonderful Tête à Tête - Portraits by Henri Cartier-Bresson. Subjects include Albert Camus, Truman Capote, Marilyn Monroe, Picasso, Coco Chanel, William Faulkner, blah blah blah. Great stuff that leaves you thinking, "Oooh I'll have to go get his/her book/movie/whatever". I lack the art wanker brain to wax lyrical about how good it was, but if it's possible for you to get to Canberra by July 15, I heartily recommend it. And it's only $2 to get in!