The Flat Earth Society

Okay it is rare for me to post pictures on mz blog - I am too lazy - but I think I have to make an exception for the NZ Flat Earth Society. Read below.

I heart Lady Ga Ga

I heart Lady Ga Ga, for bringing a much-needed Warholian touch back into pop music. With her fashionista style, kooky lyrics, catchy hooks and crooked nose, what's not to love? Her clip to Poker Face is especially impressive - any good diva knows how to make an entrance, and Lady Ga Ga rising out of the water in some futuristic black outfit with eyepatch betwixt a pair of dalmations is certainly an entrance.

Beyonce is certainly trying to be a diva too (she even has a song called diva) and is often succeeding. The clip for Put a Ring On It revives the classic white background video clip format from the eighties, which perfectly suits the iconic choreography.

And who else but Britney can complete this trio of contemporary divadom. The tiny amount of self-journey in her lyrics is mostly manufactured, indeed with her father making her grits each morning there is something very automated about her artistic process. Not all of the musical criticism is fair and indeed some of it is sexist - at the end of the day Britney has a star quality. And all the personal drama in Britney's life is turning her into a contemporary Judy Garland. Circus and If You Seek Amy are both instant camp classics.

A bad joke

I preface this joke by saying I made it up myself.

Q: What sound do German turkeys make?
A: Goebbels, Goebbels, Goebbels.

What is funnier than the actual joke is the fact that I told someone who found it hysterically funny, although it was later revealed he had never heard of Goebbels.

Some suggestions to avoid swine flu

1. At all times, keep seven degrees of separation from Kevin Bacon and his swine-like upturned nose.
2. Avoid overeating (pigouts), high-maintenance fashion divas (in particular, miss piggy) and oinking.
3. Avoid the police.

Was God´s finger a laser beam?

This was something mentioned to me in a letter from Royce and Annette Allen, PO Box 5498, Frankton, Hamilton, 3242, New Zealand.

"The letters were definitely burned into rock", says Professor Ludwig Sales from Berlin University. "I´m not ready to say it was a laser beam, but some sort of cutting ray was used - something far beyond the skills of the ancient Hebrews."

The letter also included "A true photo of the lord jesus christ" - standing on the wing of a plane, no less. The phot was taken by a lady "who was a born again Christian".

the bubble burst

ooh maybe it was just a soap sud after all

Hamilton: the musical!

I am working on my third unfinished musical. This one is imaginatively titled "Hamilton! The musical." In the opening scene a tumbleweed rolls across the town centre, devoid of people. The plot, entirely fictional, is about a cosmopolitan gay who finds himself stranded in a new zealand country town.

I have already penned the first song, entiled "There´s nothing to do in a small town". (It owes a little to mellencamp.)

I baked a cake,
I live in a small town.
I played "Risk",
I live in a small town.
I hung out with friends,
I live in a small town.
I put air in my tyres,
I live in a small town.
There´s nothing to do in a small town.

(More verses to follow as something actually happens to me in Hamilton.)

Macabre Hamilton

I was at my local scrabble club, when the dictionary was consulted. You might think this is a commonplace enough event in a scrabble club, but think again - the scrabble scene involves learning many rare English words but only few of their meanings. At the end of the day, who cares what ekpwele means when it can score you a fuckload of points on the board. A wordlist, containg every word and all its possible derivatives, suffices to check validity of play.

Anyway, as I recall someone wanted to know whether a zek is an animal (it is not). The dictionary was revealed to be the property of a former member of the scrabble club.

"He was murdered," someone told me. "And we all know who did it, though there wasn´t enough evidence to convict him."

Desecendancy

I visited my 96-year old Grandma this weekend. She is sprightly for her age; her abilities including fetching me apples, picking up things from the floor and catching enough key words to maintain a conversation. I am hoping to become this able by the time I am 96.

She showed me a photo of her parents: her mother was Irish and her father German (both Catholic) - it is through her that I get my 1/16 German blood, which explains why I am on time 1 out of every 16 occasions.

I'd like to hear more about her parents and the past - instead Grandma has given me, as long as I have known her, endless verbal diarrhoea which is mainly contemporary gossip about people I have never met.

Bless her.

Sex

I was thinking last night, whilst in a sex-on-premises venue, how having sex with a stranger is a bit like watching a stranger make a sandwich at a make-your-own-sandwich-on-premises venue. In that no two people make a sandwich that is exactly the same.

There was the guy who didn't want to kiss but instead made repeated tiny but innocuous bites. Or the guy who, when I asked if he wanted to kiss, said to me "How's this for a kiss" before giving me a kiss that was full of energy but no passion. Or the guy who wanted to kiss and kissed rather well but tasted too strongly of an ashtray. (I don't mind a bit of smoked tongue, but not too freshly smoked.)

I felt this strange inclination last night to flee, flee, flee from the sex-on-premises venue. I persisted, however, for my own good. Until I find my husband (I am now emotionally ready to exchange random anonymous sex for security, bickering and subtle mind-games) - I need to be regularly reminded that sex is essentially a behavioural rather than a visual pastime.