hottegories

another of my favourite parlour games is hottegories. it is not in any way shallow. it requires you to engage with the complexity of the human condition by attempting to quantify desire. in other words, what makes ____ hot?

exhibit a:





following on from audrey's expose, i might say zach braff is hot. he's funny jewish hot.

jon stewart is funny jewish silver-fox smart hot.

woody allen is funny jewish old creepy hot. who else is creepy hot?

ah, prince. creepy androgynous hot. back to funny jewish hot...

safran. but he's also quite obviously geek hot. geek hot is a large hottegory including this guy.

and as elaine alluded to yesterday, our kevvie may be termed lefty intellectual old hot. i think so.

it's hard to find a good picture of him. unlike this fellow...

david marr is lefty intellectual old gay hot. on the other side of the coin...

right-wing hot is a small hottegory so far limited to p.j. o'rourke [who is also funny intellectual old hot].

consider now those who qualify for inclusion in many hottegories at once, like james gandolfini. he is, of course, wog hot, like

,

and

de niro is old wog hot [menacing hot may also be accurate]. but gandolfini is old fat balding wog hot. notice that some of those traits may be considered handicaps in other people but are part of the appeal of gandolfini.

over to you...

it's [about bloody] time

i had a vague idea of never posting again, and leaving that last one up forever so we could all play digging the dirt together til the end of days. perhaps i'll introduce another parlour game soon.

in the meantime, don't you just love reading the paper/watching the news/hearing about your friend's dad this week? i got an excitable text [YES, THAT'S RIGHT A TEXT, FROM HE OF THE NO MOBILE PHONE, til now] about kevvie's performance on lateline last night. when i think of all the inroads he's made, all the wins of the last few weeks and months, i do get a bit tingly. i'm annoyed because i think we could've had someone better than kelvin thompson handling the hicks case for the opposition, and peter garrett has faltered, but tanya plibersek recently rocked my world by shredding mal brough live on air, and joe hockey most often looks the prat he is against julia. all in all, i think team kev and jules is on fire.

but more importantly, howard is on the back foot. increasingly frequent gaffes, out-and-out mistakes, and that general look of anxiety and confusion, are all very good signs. if you remember last time, latham had very good days, but howard didn't have so many bad ones on the trot.

he's rattled. and we like it.

digging the dirt

those of you who know me will be aware of my penchant for parlour games. this is one we have been quite obsessed with lately. beware its power to take over your brain. you've been warned.

it's rather like the 'love/hate', 'would you rather?', or 'death is not an option' amusements, where the only way to explain the rules is to play by example. here goes:

gary busey is the dirt nick nolte.

naomi watts is the dirt nicole kidman.

lawrence fishburne is the dirt samuel l jackson.

you see how, in making these assertions, i am unconstrained by logic and rational deduction. some things just are as they are. this is not to say that discussions don't become heated. in the best tradition of its 'love/hate' cousin, 'digging the dirt' can expose our tastes in a brutal way, opening us up to all kinds of shame. it can also, on occasion, cause great offence. for example, ruby was so upset by my nicole/naomi comparison [hopelessly in love with la watts that he is] that he conjured up an absurd notion that ryan adams was the dirt bruce springsteen. this is, of course, patently untrue. because if you wanted to be factually correct as well as nasty, you'd have to say he was actually the dirt gram parsons. but i digress.

we've had some controversies. i was howled down for suggesting that hugo weaving was the dirt sam neill. i also believe that russell crowe is the dirt jack thompson. and is anna nicole smith the dirt marilyn monroe? does this give her too much credit? is it too soon to ask this?

and in a stunning rhetorical manouevre, the android postulates that some people are the dirt of themselves - he tendered mark hamill, we agreed on william shatner, i'm now wondering if we can call "dirt-on-dirt" status for madonna, bono and michael jackson. he also insists that there is a dirt continuum, on which variables may be plotted in a hierarchy. i would venture that tara reid is the dirt kimberley stewart is the dirt mischa barton, for example. i'll let him tell you about the non-hierarchical taxonomy that is sometimes in evidence.

also, in playing this game, you 'll find that some people [cool or not] are the platonic ideal and all others will be the dirt version of them [unless they are inimitable]. johnny depp is a case in point. many others [yes, i'm looking at you, orlando bloom] will be the dirt johnny depp but he'll never be the dirt of anyone else. sometimes you have to admit that a platonic ideal exists even if you think they're awful. witness paris hilton.

remember, this game includes in its purview, but is not limited to, digging the dirt on celebrities. but the possibilities are endless. northcote is the dirt fitzroy. crunchie is the dirt violet crumble. coldplay is the dirt radiohead. if sydney is the dirt los angeles, then surely melbourne is the dirt new york [i think we got the better deal]. the wedge is the dirt comedy company, just as surely as home and away is the dirt neighbours.

i must stop now. over to you...

the weight of expectation

you know how some disappointing things can seem even worse because you thought they would be so great? new year's eve is usually a case in point [though mine was lovely, thank you], or when you throw a party without sending out proper invites, or you plan a massive night on the tiles, and it's not as good as you thought it would be?

i also make this mistake often with films. i wait and wait to see them, somehow believing that they'll be EVEN BETTER if i hold out. but what usually happens, is that i hear so much about how good they are, that when i see them, i'm disappointed. i've often wondered if this is because a period of even a few months can see a mood changed, a zeitgeist in flux - so what others felt moved by in january, may leave me cold by august, or the next year. of course, it may be a matter of taste. or is it just the weight of expectation?

because some things can be quite ordinary and still tickle you. that's cos you thought they'd be rubbish/average and you're pleasantly surprised. there's nothing quite like the feeling you've made a discovery, or that you've been let off the hook [and those hours you thought you were wasting were actually nicely spent].

in the last week, i've seen a history of violence [and been sorely disappointed] and the last king of scotland [and was verily impressed]. the latter we saw on a whim, cheap movie night, and thought it might be interesting. i wonder if i liked it so much because i had no expectations of it. the cronenberg, on the other hand, had been on a must see list for months, and i nearly booed at the end [i might have hissed a little].

of course, i think this phenomenon plays out with all sorts of things, not just films. books, plays, nights out, people you meet, holidays, birthdays, conferences, lectures, gigs - they can all buckle under the weight of expectation, or soar because they're unfettered by it.

grey skies are gonna clear up

good day sunshine

good lord, so this is what half past early in the morning looks like? it's quite nice, though i think it would be a bit drastic to do it every day. despite the fact that few zees were caught last night, i feel much improved today, so thank you for all the buck ups, 'sokays, and virtual chucks under the chin.



ruby, you'll be pleased to know that i dug out a favourite book and began reading it last night. the healing commenced immediately. and davethescot has reminded me that we need to get the massive signed up at the local bowlsie, so we can forge a champion team and compete under the name "ghetto of hate".


so some news for your friday morning: i hate the new blogger. HATE. the internets made me do it. but it did prompt me to add some more links to your right. those there are the ones i visit most days, but i've left off things like the age and the guardian cos i got bored and tired.*


oh dear, i just saw that anna nicole smith died. that actually is quite sad. is it too soon to ask if anyone backed her in celebrity death sweepstakes? who would've thought she'd go before pete doherty, eh?


*clears throat*


um, in happier news, we have a new coffee magic maker.







it was quite dear but good gracious, what a difference it makes to the house/our mental health. if you'd like to come round for cafe au lait, just let me know and i'll stock up on the almond fingers and cat's tongues [have you ever had those? they are delicious].



this weekend will be rather busy. over on the splinter, rach has continued her one-woman campaign to share the goodness of aleks and the ramps with all and sundry. they hit the rob roy this friday night and they are MENTAL. mentally good, that is.



and speaking of one-woman campaigns, mel has invited us to join in the hilarity that always ensues at an is not magazine gig. here's the lowdown.





i'll be there, fo shizzle. maybe you will too?


*i've also left off go fug yourself and the sartorialist cos i'm very thoughtful and serious and i never procrastinate.

what's with today today?

i'm having a blah non-descript kind of day. it's not depresso, exactly, just nothingness.* i guess it might officially be termed a low-level depression by some sort of professional - it's like a haze, or a fog, or a dirty window through which life looks dull. i honestly don't feel sad, and i'm also aware in a disconnected sort of way that my life is actually fantastically good. i love, and am loved, truly. i'm smart and healthy and i'll probably never run out of money [not really]. i'm immensely privileged but i've also done some stuff to be proud of, which is to my credit.

i know it's all because i'm having trouble doing my work. i don't do enough, then i beat myself up a little about that, then i feel shitty and don't want to do my work. you know the drill. when i started this blog, it was such an incredible thrill - i worked better than before, and i was writing entries [and working on chapters] every day. i guess alot of blog peeps became real life peeps [um, one of them is my now my mister!] and inspiration suddenly became thinner on the ground.

i still find excellent new blogs that i like, but now i find it harder to comment cleverly, or relevantly. so i usually abstain. even on friend's blogs, i can read comments and be really amused, or moved, or engaged, and still find it very hard to communicate that. know what i mean?

a few of us have posted laments for the good old days when we all seemed to have the blogging mojo, and i do think most of my linked blogs [and mine] are posting less and less. i guess this post is just about wanting to say something. and not really being able to.


*i used to think if i ever wrote the great australian novel, it would begin with the lines: "it was the kind of day where nothing means anything and everything meant nothing." but then i read birmingham and mcgahan and realised there was no need to unleash my inane ramblings on the reading public. oh wait...shit.



edit: i just wanted to say that when i wrote 'blogging mojo', i wanted to call it "blo-jo". but then i realised it sounds like a colloquial name for "blow job", an expression i HATE and have STUCK IN MY HEAD thanks to christopher fucking hitchens. is there no end to the pain he can cause me?

anyway, weelie calls it "blogspiration". others call it blogging fodder [hmm...blodder?]. what do you call it?

mea culpa

my dear bonnie has long tried to convince me of the guilty pleasure contained within these pages. i resisted for a long time. "how can you stand to read such vacuous claptrap?" i would ask. "i know there are some good articles but they're flanked by such obscenely shallow rubbish." i would say. "CHRISTOPHER HITCHENS IS THE DEVIL!" i was known on occasion to remark.

but of course, this is the end of the line. i officially love vanity fair. LOVE. i long for an australian publication that would say 'to hell with bias, the guy you elected is wrong [and so are you]'. and while i realise that green left weekly is right on that, and overland and arena are also quite straightforwardly anti-howard, there is nothing of the calibre of vanity fair asking why we have a criminal and a coward in charge. some of the fluff is also bitingly funny, and even the out-and-out fawning over ingenues and new boys on the block has its own sardonic charm. graydon carter, you done good.

i honestly think that the magazine has become more militant in its political stance. the last time i read it regularly was during the clinton administration, when there was far less need to be stridently political, which left more room for such questions as "why is _____ so hot?" and "why are we so terribly envious of the british aristocracy?". not to mention alot of rubbishy coverage of bill and hillary's foibles. but it seems that as the situation has become so much more urgent, vanity fair has risen to the challenge. from the world trade center, to hurricane katrina, to iraq, they have exposed the corruption and decay taking hold of their country. and they're not scared to say the rot starts at the top. carter is a cosmopolitan patriot, with a deep love of america, and an abiding respect for republicans who love it too. vanity fair imagines a party system where good men and women take up the concerns of republican and democrat alike. they're demanding better behaviour from everyone.


okay, so i just realised that the link to the vf homepage [provided in my first paragraph] carries a load of stuff about the oscars. that does not my case strengthen. READ BETWEEN THE LINES, PEOPLE. there's gold in them there hills. here's what you want.


n.b. please ignore all articles by christopher hitchens. especially the one in the current issue in which he discusses why women aren't funny. by quoting kipling. cock.