Goddamn Pisces and Our Inability to Make a Final Decision!

I am trying to throw the most fabulous birthday bash our block has ever seen, one problem, I am a fucking Pisces. Which means that I am naturally fabulous and creative, if only I could make a fucking decision.

My dilemna is; Should I serve:

A. Sangria & tapas

or

B. Margaritas & chilli prawns

And please, please do not add to the mix and suggest martinis & stuffed mushrooms. I do not need any further confusion!!

Because I Have Nothing Better to Do

A few months ago, I credited the soundtrack to the movie of my life by taking a list of life’s events, putting my computer’s music player on random, then as each song came on, putting that song with the events on the list (in succession, of course).

I thought I would make it a bit more challenging, so using the same “movie” premise, I put my music player on random, wrote down the title and artist of the first 15 songs that played. Here is the list:

1. 5 Months 2 Weeks 2 Days – Louis Prima
2. Somewhere – Tom Waits
3. C’est si bon – Eartha Kitt
4. Cherry Bomb – The Runaways
5. Superhuman – Gus Gus
6. My Own Best Friend – Chicago Broadway Show Soundtrack
7. It’s a Raggy Waltz – Dave Brubeck
8. Chocolate – Kylie Minogue
9. Ruby Baby – Gling-Glo (Bjork)
10. I Could Write a Book – Ella Fitzgerald
11. A Question of Honour – Sarah Brightman
12. La Conga Blicoti – Josephine Baker
13. Tangerine – Herb Albert & the Tijuana Brass
14. Hurry Home – Sarah Brightman
15. Free Man in Paris – Joni Mitchell

I will now attempt to write a movie plot that corresponds to the song list, in the same order as they were randomly played.

…er, or maybe not. As I review the music list, I cannot see how I would ever be able to make a coherent movie from a soundtrack that consists of The Runaways, Josephine Baker & the ‘Chicago’ - 1996 Broadway Revival Cast Album?

Oh god! Now how am I ever going to back out of this post? What did I get myself in to? Oh god! Oh god! My career’s screenplay career is over!!!! Oh god! Oh god!!!

There Is Only One Conclusion...

Last week, as I was walking through a carpark, my eyes were attracted to shiny silver coins laying on the ground. Of course, I wanted to lunge down to scoop them up and shove them in my pocket before anyone noticed, but I stopped myself. I thought, "It is only about 45 cents, and you don't know where those coins have been."

As I stood staring at the coins out of the corner of my eye, I noticed there were other objects in the pile of coins. A well used eye shadow brush and a bunch of pink sequins... in the middle of an office car park.

There is only one logical explanation... someone mugged a drag queen.

I'm a Sucka for a Fella in Pearls

Do you know what I love about jazz? Or jazzed-up standards anyway?

No matter what year it is, no matter where I am located, no matter what I am drinking, no matter what I have in my bank account, When I close my eyes and listen to Ella crooning a Gershwin tune, I am without spatial time or place.

When I close my eyes, I am dressed in a sophisticated timeless glamour, saying only the most perfect and witty anecdotes… Life is simple, without consequence.

Can that feeling ever be produced when the music is off and my eyes are open?

"Little House" Withdrawals

I have finished all of the Little House on the Prarie episodes which you can buy on DVD in Australia, which is only the first two seasons. I am grumpy, depressed and walking around feeling a little bit lost in life. I believe I am serious withdrawal symptoms.

I have searched all of the DVDs in case I accidentally skipped an episode, but no, I have not skipped any of them. This realisation made me bedridden for about three days. I went on a hunger strike.... well, I would have if those potato chips didn't keep screaming "EAT ME!!! You know you want to."

I have tried to replace this addiction with musicals, a genre which normally cheers me up and gets me dancing around the house. I watched Fame, A Chorus Line, Dreamgirls & Chicago. All great movies, but it just wasn't the same.

Seriously, is there any one else out there going through the same issue? Can we form a support group?

Poetry is the Una-bomber.

I fucking hate poetry. What I hate more than fucking poetry is being connected to my fucking feelings as I fucking feel them. In a “situation” (note the quote/unquote), I have no fucking feelings. It is not until a few days later when I process my fucking feelings and react to them. The unfortunate part about this is that three days on is usually too late to respond accordingly without looking like a psychopath who has been festering in a remote log cabin writing manifestos. Which of course I am, but I don’t want to appear as such.

So what does this have to do with fucking poetry? Nothing.

Mid-Week Vent

So fucking what? You're boring.


...and you know who you are.