Sunday, May 31, 2009

Ayase Hakura Celebrity Photography Wallpaper

: : Wallpaper Name : Ayase Hakura
: : Creator Name : Actress
: : Category : J
apanese Actress
: : Resolution :
1024 x 768 Pixel, 1024 x 768 Pixel
: : File Size : 100 KB

Ayase Hakura celebrity wallpaper
Ayase Hakura Wallpaper 1024 x 768 Pixel

Ayase Hakura wallpaper
Ayase Hakura Wallpaper 1024 x 768 Pixel

Ayase Hakura bugil
Ayase Hakura Wallpaper 1024 x 768 Pixel

toket Ayase Hakura bugil
Ayase Hakura Wallpaper 1024 x 768 Pixel

Free Download Wallpaper
With Right Click in image then Set As Desktop Background

Saturday, May 30, 2009

Ashton Kutcher: Twitterholic

Ashton KutcherImage via Wikipedia
You all heard by now Ashton Kutcher's recent public declaration that he was done twittering if a new reality show centered around it came to fruition. I don't think it will be that easy for Ashton to quit. Like a smoker trying and failing to kick those cigarettes, he'll be back to get his twitter fix.

How do I know? Because a peek into the future reveals an abundance of future twitters from ol' Ashton. His TV and film career may be fading fast, but a lengthy twitting career is just starting.

Ashton Kutcher's twitter entry for May 30, 2012

1:30 am -- What up? I can't sleep, so here I am. Did U miss me? I'm sorry to say you will miss me even more. This is my last tweet. I'm giving it up. Because Demi told me -- er, um . . . I think it is the best course for our family.


1:37 -- @pcpbear, I told you I'm done tweeting! Leave me alone! Get a life you hoser! Stop looking through my window!!!

1:40 -- What do you mean you're not outside my window? Oh yeah? How do you know I'm not in Fullerton, too?

1:44 -- Damnit. I just tweeted. No more.

1:46 -- Damnit, I did it again. Last 1. I promise.

2:20 -- @pickledeels I told you I'm not tweeting or twitting any more. STOP PESTERING ME! And if you try to camp out on my front lawn again, I'll come after you. Bruce taught me how to do a mean John McClain impression.

Yippie Kay-yey Mother F*cker!

2:23 -- @ demicougar. Okay okay I'm coming back to bed.

2:29 -- @pcpbear Dude, she is not my mom! She's my wife. Stop telling me my mom is so hot! Demi is my wife. WIFE!!!

Damnit . . . another tweet.

3:45 -- I'm back. I can't help it. My hands are shaking. I can't stop tweeting. It gives me a rush like nothing else. Just one more and I'll quit.

Dude, when did my hands get so big? Wow . . . five fingers. One . . . Two . . .

3:53 -- Dude, where's my keys?

3:54 -- Dude, where's my car?

3:56 -- Which one of you dumbsh*ts stole my car?! I don't like you. NOBODY likes you. Give me back my CAR!

4:01 -- @ demicougar What do mean the car's in the driveway? I don't see ... wait. There it is. Changed colors on me for a sec. My bad.

Dude, there's a snowman in the kitchen. I could go for some ice cream.

4:02 -- or peanut butter cups

or a slim jim

or maybe a spicy slim jim

4:10 -- @uRcr8Z I told you I can quit anytime. I'm not a twitter addict. I am stopping to protect my family. All of you reading this are stalking us with your minds. I know you are. I just know it.

5:00 -- See I quit tweeting. I knew I could do it.
Shit! This is another TWEET!

7:12-- Demi tied me to the bed to keep me off the twitter. I was all set for a role-play, but she just left me there. I didn't stay there. I learned to chew through rope from the last time Bruce tied me up, dropped me off somewhere in Utah and told me to stay the f*ck out of Idaho.

11:30 -- My name is Ashton K. and I'm a recovering tweet-aholic. It's been over four hours since my last -

Dammit! I just tweeted again!

Enhanced by Zemanta

Britney Spears Beautiful Photography Wallpaper

: : Wallpaper Name : Britney Spears
: : Creator Name : Actress
: : Category : American Actress, Singer, Entertrainer
: : Resolution :
1024 x 768 Pixel
: : File Size : 100 KB

Free Download Wallpaper
With Right Click in image then Set As Desktop Background

Britney Spears celebrity wallpaper
Britney Spears Wallpaper

Britney Spears actress wallpaper
Britney Spears Wallpaper

Britney Spears photos wallpaper
Britney Spears Wallpaper

Britney Spears artis bugil
Britney Spears Wallpaper

Britney Spears born December 2, 1981 is an American singer and entertainer. Spears is ranked as the eighth best-selling female recording artist in the United States with 32 million sold albums certified by the Recording Industry Association of America. As of November 2007, Spears has sold over 83 million records worldwide, making her one of the world's best-selling music artists. Spears is currently the best selling female artist of the decade and the fifth best selling artist overall.



The Most Wanted Artists To Be Invited to University Festival

May is a period where there are a lot of university festivals held in Korea. Thus, (the largest music site in Korea) held a poll on May 21st to know list of artists whom the students most want to be invited at their festivals.

The Most Wanted Artists To Be Invited to University Festival


“even if they’re only sitting still, SoShi will be still a big show!”


“TVXQ has been active in international activities. Currently TVXQ is advancing a live tour in Japan until early in July and it’s expected that the tour will be sold out.”

3. Super Junior

Occupied by a group of 13 members. Super Junior’s songs “Sorry, Sorry” and “It’s You” also gained good responses in bugs site as it’s placed at 5th on charts.

SM Entertainment’s groups are sweeping 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place, showing its scary power in music industry.

4. Big Bang

Big Bang whose rating rose in a short time. Netizens said, “It’s an opportunity for Big Bang. Recently they’re popular as a group and not idol.”

5. Kim Hyeon-joong SS501

6. Wonder Girls

trans: sharingyoochun@wordpress

Thursday, May 28, 2009

[MV] SHINee-Juliette HQ


credits to tofuluv

SHINEe 2nd mini Album-ROMEO

Track List:
1. Talk To You
2. Juliette
3. Hit Me
4. Senorita
5. Please, Don't Go
6. Romeo & Juliette

credits to krishine

Mel's little ham-let

Mel GIBSONImage by startinghere71 via Flickr

You knew it was going to this. With the push to recognize gay marriage alive and well in Hollywood, it is only a matter of time before some kooky actor does their part to push the boundaries even further. Are you ready for the union between a man and his deli meats? Mel Gibson is -- as our twitter plucked from his future shows.

Just do us a favor Mel. Stay away from the Oscar Meyer processing plant.

Mel Gibson's twitter entry for June 29, 2011:

12:35 pm Following the push of the gay-rights movement and a slew of state supreme court decisions redefining marriage to apply to anyone “in love”, I've decided to marry the love of my life. It's not my wife, not the girlfriend I knocked up, and not even Joe Peshi, whos cigars I so lovingly stuffed in my ass during the filming of Lethal Weapon 2. It's my ham sandwich, which I have lovingly named S-Hammy. His brother, HS – al -ami, was unfortunately eaten about ten minutes ago. Death to the Arabs, eh? But S-Hammy is the love of my life, so tender, so beautiful, so fulfilling of my every desire. What more could a man ask for in life?

12:45 Called the county clerk to get a marriage license. B*tch laughed me off the phone! I thought about getting Perez to call her up and call her a c*nt and then blog about it, but then I decided that I would rather the can of dog food again from Mad Max than talk to that twit.

12:55 There is no justice for SH-ammy and me! Even the pastor of 15 minute marriage in Las Vegas said that he wouldn't perform the ceremony. I don't see why not. If a man and woman, man and man, woman and woman, or a woman and horse can get married, why can't I marry a sandwich? Is it so wrong to be in love with a sandwich? I was born this way. I didn't ask for this life. Why can't people just accept me the way I am.

1:35 I just got off the phone with the Bush-Cheney lawyers. They said that me marrying the sandwich was “a done deal” and that we just needed to whine to the Supreme court, the media, our moms, and fund multi-million dollar state ballot initiatives until everyone else gave in or ran out of money.

2:25 @BushCheneyLawyers We feel that you have the strongest civil rights case that we've handled since anti-proposition 8. Marrying a sandwich is a fundamental right of every human, as long as both parties consent.

3:00 Great news! Rosie O'Donnell is onboard. She's going to kick off Pres. Obama and his analysis of the war with North Korea to feature this story exclusively on her newly resurrected talk show.

3:15 @BigCheeksRosie Does your sandwich have a sister?

3:25 Found a gay ex-Catholic, dwarf, hairlip, Cuban refugee priest to perform the ceremony. He's also distantly related to Malcolm-X.

5:15 Just got back from shopping for a tuxedo. While I was out, I decided to take out some anti-Mormon T.V. Ads. They didn't actually oppose this yet, but, for good measure.

5:25 Called off wedding with sandwich. S-Hammy has aged a lot since we were first engaged. I feel that we've drifted apart. Also, the lettuce was really starting to look wilted, since I forgot to put SH-ammy in the fridge. So, washed SH-ammy down the garbage disposal. Goodbye SH-ammy! I will never find a love like yours again in this life.

7:15 Great news! My tennis rackets both proposed to me and I said yes! I love them both so much. We're planning a group wedding for the fall – somewhere in Spain.

She's available guys:

Enhanced by Zemanta

Tuesday, May 26, 2009


01. Sorry, Sorry
02. Why I Like You
03. Let’s Not...
04. Angela
05. Reset
06. Monster
07. What If
08. Heartquake (feat. U-Know, Micky)
09. Club No.1 (feat. Yeon Lee Hee)
10. Happy Together
11. Dead At Heart
12. Shining Star
credit to ryoutaro(at)bww2 + mrs.Pchan

AJ - First Episode A New Hero

First Episode A New Hero - AJ
Release date: 2009-04-03
Language: Korean
Genre: Hop / Rap / Dance

01. Intro
02. 댄싱 슈즈 (Dancing Shoes)
03. 2009(feat. 현아 Hyun Ah)
04. 눈물을 닦고
05. 댄싱 슈즈 (Dancing Shoes) (inst.)

credit:credit:credit to ledoquyen = mrs.Pchan

U-KISS --Bring It Back 2 Old School

Artist: U-Kiss
Single Title: Bring It Back 2 Old School
Language: Korean
Genre: Pop / Dance
Release Date: Feb 3, 2009


01. Intro (On Fire)
02. 니가 좋아
03. Talk To Me
04. 니가 좋아 (Instrumental)

credit to ledoquyen+Mrs.Pchan

Sunday, May 24, 2009

cassopeia community

made by:upaymomo

clickity clack & aoroi: don't look back

If the body is a landscape then the crotch is an intersecting space of desire and the primal urge. A muscular female dancer wearing skimpy negligee squats on a bench, her tense toes pointed toward the ground. Some distance to her left, a man lays splayed across the floor, his hips and groin constrained by a pair of ubiquitous Y fronts. Disconnecting the two dancers is a rolled out length of butcher's paper. Defying an expectation that this unfurled path should act as a link between the two dancers, the paper instead disappears into a scrim covered booth. The man engages in a seductive, backward crawl; his tumescent groin rubbing back and forth over the roll of paper as he and unfurled path recede toward the booth. He does not however enter the booth, for the allure of a frightened woman sitting on an isolated bench tempts the two performers into a masticating dance; during which there is much barely covered crotch readily exposed. Unrestrained sexual desire it would appear, is at once a pentultimate sin and a fertile release of wild fantasies played out in mental space yet to be experienced. A trapdoor into a dangerous world governed by one law: survival. As was the case in the Greek myth Orpheus, do not look back toward love already trodden, lest he or she with tempted gaze be forever condemned to burn in a bad love incapable of being extinguished. A fire that burns most fiercely in that intersection of lust, and that which might have been but never will, the genitalia of the soul.

And yet once this Pandora's Box is opened, it is never easily closed. Emanating forth from within the booth of fantastic shadows is a cavalcade of imaginative material. A second female dancer appears, wearing a red hooped dress; within which another women is concealed. A distorted shadow of bovine appearance is cast upon the scrim; one suggested by two flapping breasts that cannot be contained. A pair of red shoes - obligatory in any fairy tale - are then somehow suspended from the ceiling, before being slipped into by a dancer descending from the heavens. While all the time this imagery flushed from the back brain is casually observed by the same male dancer mentioned above, wearing a cardboard cut-out white tux, and carefully inclined upon the bench. What began as a tryst between two lovers becomes a competition for affection. The redolent imagery is at times so foregrounded by its contrivance that it becomes difficult to ascertain where the tryst ended, and its symbolic narrative begins. Perhaps though, Clickety Clack is a performance less comprised of a sequence of signs that contribute to a story, and more the presentation of images that bear no relation to events occurring in the actual world. Its motto appears to be be: this is a highly imaginative world within which the audience will make of it what they will... While the second show on this double bill, Aoroi, although more menacing in tone, is in effect not dissimilar.

Rats or cats, or perhaps, foxes hiding in the grass at night when terrified by the presence of spotlighting shooters, wade forward from beneath a curtain. Each animal's incandescent eyes are LCD lights propped on dancer's heads. Their mawkish movements exemplify exploration in the undergrowth; each searching for a golem who soon appears, dead keen on seducing all and every female into acts of profanity. Alongside his devilish demeanour, this manipulator of women outlines in tiny red candles a path leading nowhere else but toward and into his fiendish lair. Once again, the motif of the path is one of temptation. But unlike Clickety Clack, in which this path led toward a whimsical release of playful and gratuitous imagery, Aoroi's path is an express trip to the dark heart.

Considered together, Clickety Clack & Aoroi is a rumination upon the choice that confronts us when it becomes time to choose an appropriate partner. The show asks: who is right for me ? The devilish, carefree, reckless and often destructive spirit, or the safe bet that is the stay at home romantic who will see it through until the end. Of course, the same choice is rarely a simple one, as recent events in the Joseph Fritzl case confirm that the up standing, socially respectable individual can easily conceal a tortured and despicable secret. Important to note though is that Clickety Clack & Aoroi's manichean world is one underscored by a Christian dilemma. Adam and Eve, Good and Evil, The Garden of Eden and ultimately, a way of behaving that will result in judgement passed and an after-life in heaven or eternal damnation in hell. For the many people inclined to this manichean world view, catch Liquid Skin's double bill and you be the judge.

Direction & Choreography:

Rochelle Carmichael

Performers: Kathryn Newnham,

Caroline Meaden, Alice Dixon,

Michael Kopp

Illusionist: Ross Skiffington

Light: Thomas Lambert

Design: Andrew Thompson

Costume: Rochelle Carmichael,

Michael Kropp & Sarah Carmichael

May 21-31, Theatreworks, Melb.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

shhhh !: into the labyrinth

The bun in librarian #1's hair is as tightly wound as the knot in her intestine. The realm within which she at once stamps, decodes and stacks books is a floating world of ephemeral pulp; soft cover airport novels suspended in three rows from La Mama's ceiling. Her rodent like colleague, librarian #2, is just as retentive. But her cherished constipation is expressed in a manner reminiscent of comedian Jerry Lewis dressed in drag. Where as her colleague personifies Hitler's Third Reich, librarian #2 is all twitches and tremolo, fidgets and cowering; a mole with poor vision burrowing into this world of letters and the sadomasochistic relationship she shares with her tyrannical supervisor. Put your finger to your lips and do not dare utter a single word. Shhhh ! Welcome to the library... 

As a conceit constructed in a theatre, this library is a metaphorical representation of the infinite permutations present in the minds of its creators. Librarian #1, wearing smart, navy blue woolen suit, apparently dominates proceedings. She decides when she and her submissive colleague break for treasured ginger snaps concealed within a secret book. She decides when the flow of work must continue, and the two women must crank up their book collating trolleys and administer the ISBN numerical system. This library is her library and nobody is allowed to forget this; let alone question her authority and thereby subvert her sadistic pleasures. But history tells us that the oppressed peoples of this or any other world will only stand for so much tyranny. Librarian #2, dressed in pleated tartan skirt and so bespectacled that she innocently buttons her cardigan in reverse, is complicit in this power struggle. Like all people, she feels lost if not dominated by another. And is only capable of finding meaning in life by submitting herself to the cruel rule of her arbitrary supervisor. A strange dialectic, but one played out each day in workplaces of the world. The complex interplay between the masochist's desire to dominate, and the sadist's need to submit, is delicate. Unable to initiate a shift in this balance for fear of disrupting the status-quo, it is usually disrupted by the arrival of a third party. In Shhhh ! this force for change is librarian # 3, a male in a mauve coloured cardigan. Of course, the rest is history...

The theatre too, in its own sadomasochistic way, is dominated by languages. All too often, theatremakers submit to the verbal exchange as the primary means of communication when it comes to performing a play. When the word is deemed sacred, the theatre becomes sterile and empty because the various other languages there to be used, are neglected. Shhhh ! is a performance that completely rejects the verbal exchange and instead, uses bodies in space, in relation to objects that form a conceptualised design, to communicate its comedy. This is not to say that the verbal exchange does not have a place in the theatre but rather, that the verbal exchange is only one of several other modes of communication - space, time, body, light, design - available to theatremakers, and that the most satisfying performances are often an integrated presentation of a combination of all of these theatrical devices. As a matter of personal preference, what I would like to see in Shhhh ! is a trajectory of vertical descent. The labyrinthine libraries dreamed up by Eco and Borges are always places of extreme disquiet prompted by disjunctive extrapolations upon conventional understandings of space and time. People often get murdered in these libraries, and the thrill is in the subsequent investigation of the death. I did however enjoy the slapstick quality of Shhhh !  As a show that emphasised exploring the imagination, and the imaginative use of the elements that combined, contribute to a performance, I wonder what resides beneath its comic surface ? Infinite time, the death of the self... Shhhh ! In space, no-one can hear you scream...

Shhhh !

Director: Xanthe Beesley

Performers: Amy Dwight, Allen Laverty

& Ella Watson-Russell

Set & Costume: Yunuen Perez Martinez

Sound: Nedd Jones

Light: Anna Schoo

Stage Manager: Laura Harris

May 20 - May 31, La Mama, Melb.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Lance Armstrong: Miley's #1 Fan

Lance Armstrong is back in the saddle again for another shot at the Tour De France this year. But after he has tarnished his cycling legacy in Brett Favre-esque fashion, what will he be doing when next year's tour rolls around without him?

Judging by this twitter entry we pulled from the future, Lance will be watching a lot of Hannah Montana and scheming on how he can meet Miley Cyrus and rock the best of both her worlds . . .

Lance Armstrong's twitter entry for July 3, 2010
first year of Tour de France a.l. (after lance)

6:00 Nothing good on T.V. tonight and I'm sick of riding my bike around the block, so here I am on my twitter page. Win the “tour” too many times and they put you out to pasture. Ha ha ha! I just can't believe how funny I am! Seriously though, I need to find something (or “someone” maybe, huh?) to do around here.

6:15 Decided to make a milkshake. I would give you the recipe, but I don't really know what's in it myself. Mike (my lawyer) said it's better that way – the whole “lying to congress thing” that we all worry about from time to time . . .

6:45 I'm really bored, and Ashley isn't answering her phone, apparently. SICK OF THE LATE NIGHT BOOTY CALL, HUH ASHLEY? Truthfully, I can't even remember if it's her or the other one that I'm dating. They look so similar, and I'm pretty sure that I've gotten it with both of them before. I just remember feeling woozy one night . . . something about a “race of super soldiers”? It's a crazy world we live in.

Seriously though folks, have you ever wondered if a girl would have sex with a guy old enough to be her father (almost) just because he had millions of dollars and legs the size of tree trunks? I'm here to say yes, yes she would!

7:00 Cool! Hannah's on! I really never miss a show – I'm such a huge fan. Er . . . I mean . . . the story lines and acting are what I'm fans of. I mean, the problems that these girls go through in life I totally get what it's like to lead a double life – humble and underpaid athlete by day, Don Juan del Amor by night! I guess Hannah Montana and I have that in common. Seriously, we have so much in common! I'm so proud of the fine young lady that she's become! She's really grown up in front of the eyes of America, from humble beginnings as the underprivileged child of a millionaire singer to her blossoming as the underprivileged Disney channel star. It's almost like Slumdog. Almost.

7:10 Oh wow, Miley's a Sagittarius! I . . . just thought that was interesting. I . . . sometimes . . . randomly check out the signs of . . . random people . . . that I see on T.V. Oh look . . . Pauly Shore is an . . . Aquarius. That's equally interesting.

7:15 Just to clarify my last post, I'm really not into Pauly Shore. I mean, I think his movies were okay (Bio Dome kind of sucked) but, I respect him as an actor – nothing more! That's not to say that I'm into Miley either. I mean, she did look great in that Vanity Fair pic, and she's a funny, charming, full-of-life girl. Oh, Hanna is back on.

7:30 What I meant to say in that last post was that, when a friend showed me her picture, before I could look away, she looked very . . . artistic. I just wanted to give her a hug . . . as a father figure. That didn't come out quite right.

7:32 Alright, alright, I'll just admit it. I think Miley's sexy. I mean, what's wrong with that? She takes a very nice pic – not like that Carrie Prejean girl and her “man back”. And, besides, I can think a woman is sexy. It doesn't mean that I want to have sex with her. I can think anyone is sexy. I mean, I think that lots of women are sexy. For example . . . Judy Dench – very sexy woman. Yeah, very. I wouldn't date her – but someone should. I'M FRICKIN LANCE ARMSTRONG. I have like -2% body fat! Come on, which one would you make out with, Ashley (or whatever) Olson or an 85 year old woman? Still, I do have a broad range of girls I'm attracted to – Hillary Duff (kind of old but still hot), Megan Fox, Hayden Panettiere. I'll date anyone between the ages of 18 and . . . at least, like 24 or 25. I might even be talked into 26 or 27 (after a couple of drinks, lol!). Like Natalie Portman, yeah, I'd throw that, Vanessa Hudgens – probably, Dakota Fanning, why not!

7:40 That last one kind of slipped out. What I meant to say was I highly respect Dakota and I would like to work with her on any project. I – I couldn't do anything even if I wanted to anyway. It's . . . it's not like we're in Arkansas or anything. Yeah . . . I wonder if those rumors about Arkansas are true? Nah! At least, I'm sure they're not true. Probably, definitely, maybe not true. Nope.

Where's Mike's number again?

8:00 Well, yeah, just got the text back from Mike. Definitely NOT TRUE! So, we don't have to worry about that anymore! And here I was, worried for all the young hot Dakota Fannings there – worried that the Lance Armstrongs of the world . . . but we don't have to worry about that anymore. Now, if we were in Mexico, then we might have to worry about it. I mean, ANYTHING GOES down there! That's the rumor, anything . . .

Mike's going to earn his paycheck tonight . . .

8:30 Just heard back from Mike. No, it's not true there either. And, apparently, you can be “prosecuted” for things even if you're not in the U.S. at the time you do them. Who the F--- thought of that law? Not that I care or anything – just saying. I mean, there's ugly Betty down there. She's at least better than Sheryl “Crow-eyes”. I thought of that one myself!

9:00 WTF?! Phelps! Why are you trollin' my blog man? Just because I said your b* was ugly! Well, she is! Her breasts – mine are bigger than that, even after the implants! And, how many bottles of peroxide does she use a day, huh? And, I bet she has toe fungus! Yeah! Who's the one that got pwned this time, huh? How do you like me now, huh Phelps?

9:30 Just got through watching Sailor Moon, volumes 3 and 4. I really like the stories in Sailor Moon. I find the plots so suspenseful . . . and deep . . . and suspenseful . . .

Hey, I know what all my readers are thinking – it's not like that at all! It has nothing at all to do with whether Sailor Venus ends up with Tuxedo Mask or Starlight. I find that way more compelling than something like Schindler's List. When I watched volume 4, I literally cried. I really don't like Anime for all of the stereotypical reasons about teenage girl fetish and all that. When I first saw Sailor Moon, I was like, “Is this girl 40, or 55?” I didn't know. I don't really pay attention to things like that.

9:40 Reading online that there's a 5th volume out! Apparently, it was unrated in Japan – something about a scene between Mercury and Mars . . . not that I care . . .

Wow, I'm beat! OFF TO BED!!!

(video store closes at 10:00)

Enhanced by Zemanta

Sunday, May 17, 2009

Perez Hilton strikes back

The FinalistsImage by ve®onica via Flickr
Perez Hilton's showdown with Miss California may be history, but that doesn't mean he is done tangling with beauty pageant contestants. The only problem: there's nowhere to go but down after his last cyberspace hissy fit directed at California's most famous beauty pageant contestant (currently, anyway).

We've looked into the future twitter entries and seen what happens when Hilton calls the shots -- and fires them -- at the Miss USA pageant.

Perez Hilton's twitter entries for Miss USA pageant April, 2011:

6:00 pm Well, everybody, I'm BACK! And, it's such a FABULOUS time for a beauty pageant! I just have to throw the word FABULOUS into everything because, well, that's what I am (duh). I don't care if I sound like a teenage girl (because I feel like one on the inside).

The “Don” has let me run the entire pageant this year. It took a little convincing on my part. All I had to do was whine about it a few (hundred) times (on T.V., the phone, my blog, email, work, on the street, in gay chat rooms, and to my Mom), stage some demonstrations outside of his penthouse suite, threaten mass boycotts, and make a few death threats, and he suddenly gave in! He even told me so last night when I called him up at 3:45 am and threatened death and a voodoo curse from a gay Haitian priest when he told me, “If I give in, will you leave me the hell alone?” When I said that I would he said, and I quote, “Do whatever the %&#! you want with the pageant then, you $#%!ing psychopath!” I have it all on tape to, which makes it legally binding in every court that I care about! So, now, this is MY pageant.

6:15 Before the pageant even started, I managed to eliminate 42 out of the 50 contestants from the contest. I started by eliminating anyone with a “Christian” name, anyone from the South, or anyone who gaged when presented with a picture of Rosie O'Donell in a bikini. Their mangled corpses are backstage. As for the rest, I'm going to conduct the full interview MYSELF! I'll keep a live twit of all the pageant transcripts so that the 97% of all Americans who are faggies too can help me in weeding out the remaining bigots and Christians in the group!

6:25 The interviews have begun. For these transcripts, I will refer to myself as “God,” or “G” for short. My thoughts are in italics.

G: So, Miss . . . Wisconsin is it?

Miss Wisconsin: (weakly) yes?

G: A . . . a . . . a . . . achooo (sneezing)

Miss Wisconsin: Oh, God bless you!

G: What? Disqualified!

Miss Wisconsin: But, but, I was only trying to . . .


Miss Wisconsin: But . . .

G: Taser her!

Miss Wisconsin (screaming as she's tasered) Oh God! Help me somebody, please!

G: God ?! She's a Christian! Hit her again!

Miss Wisconsin: (screaming) Help! Help!


Guard: Sir, she's stopped screaming. I think she's dead.

G: Dead, eh? Well, give her remains to Rosie O'Donell.

Rosie: I'm hungry AND HORNY!


Miss Oregon: I . . . I really didn't even want to be here. I'm just here because they said they'd pay for college.

G: College girl eh? KILL HER! NEXT!

Miss Wyoming: I think . . .

G: She thinks, and now she's DEAD! NEXT!

Miss Michigan, Connecticut, and New Jersey all running for their lives.

G: Kill 'em. NEXT!

G: Miss . . . North Dakota . . . HOW NICE! What do you do in life?

Miss North Dakota: I go to college at Pepperdine.

G: A Catholic. A CATHOLIC!@! Break her on the wheel!

G: How about you, Miss Hawaii?

Miss Hawaii: I go to BYU.


G: Okay, Miss Arizona. You've got one chance. Are you a lesbian?

Miss Arizona: No . . . I mean YES! I'M A BIG, FAT FART SUCKING LESBIAN!

G: I'm not convinced . . . Okay, I'll give you your choice. You can either kiss Ellen Degeneres, OR eat a piece of lesbian toenail donated by the Queer Hero's League.

Miss Arizona: shuddering Do, do I have to?

G: cocking gun You've got to the count of 3. 1. 2. . .

Miss Arizona swallowing the toenail Oh God forgive me! I mean, oh Rosie forgive me . . . I mean OH PEREZ FORGIVE ME!

G: Okay, you've convinced me. So, who do you find hotter, Ellen or the prison guard from Abu Grave?

Miss Arizona: Ellen?

G: I caught you! Every one knows that both are uglier than sin. Even lesbians don't like them. KILL HER!

Miss Arizona: You're a sick, little, fat man who picks on women and turned gay because no girls would go out with him in high school! Ahhhh!!!

6:45 Now that I've weeded out all of the nonlesbians and Christians, I have found the only remaining candidate, the one who has been staring me in the all night! ME!!! I am beautiful, the most beautiful woman in the world – I mean man.

7:15 I looked absolutely stunning in the swimsuit competition! I saw a couple of guys laughing and one guy barfing into a trash can (they're all dead now) but I'm sure that the rest of American appreciates my beauty!

7:45 My evening gown was just gorgeous! I looked stunning with all of my sequins, my turquoise, my gold jewelry. I just couldn't stop looking at myself in the mirror.

8:15 So much applause, so much praise – all for me!

8:45 I won! I won! I'm the queen of the world, and President Obama even presented my trophy and asked me out. Of course, I'm too gay to even go out with guys anymore. I'm only in love with myself!

11:45: My name is Bob the janitor. I found Perez asleep in the back of the storage closet. I guess he got drunk and fell asleep before the pageant started. I thought about waking him, but he looks way too peaceful – and drunk – to wake up. I think that I'll ask Steve for some help.

11:50 Steve and I decided to play some pranks on Paris while he's asleep. We though about farting in his face, but we decided that he would like it too much. Instead, we've decided to write WWJD on his head and take pictures! Then, we might put a Bible in his hands and pose him like he's reading it.

Enhanced by Zemanta

Thursday, May 14, 2009

the delusionist: true lies

Where do you go when wanting your fair share of the truth ? Well, I'm in the front row at La Mama watching Curtis Fernandez descend the rear stair then prop himself in a leather armchair. Nattily dressed in black tux and cummerbund, I immediately suspect that this illusionist is also the delusionist of this show's title. Not mistaken, Fernandez rises to his left and performs a dance without music. It's an intentionally awkward moment; much like the surreptitious dance that occurs behind the eyes of a liar, as they pretend to tell you the truth. Dance complete, this delusionist then returns to his chair for a fireside chat; during which the audience is presented with a passing parade of dubious characters, beginning with that great salesman George W. Bush. 

As Fernandez's creations showcase his acting skills, it becomes clear that Bush, Ben Cousins, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Robert Farquarson and several other spinners of the unlikely yarn have much in common. Yes, each is a liar. But where Bush's deceit was a socially acceptable form of gentle persuasion for the purpose of invading another country, Robert Farquarson, the man who drove his children into a roadside dam, was lying to save himself from a lengthy  jail term. And while the permanently erect Schwarzenneger, notorious for his on-set sexual peccadilloes, was able to lie through his teeth and become the governor of California, Ben Cousins does a little coke and ice and in doing so almost became an object of human sacrifice. Significantly though, each of Fernandez's characters and their testimonies to clean living all have their claims to moral piety filtered through a medium of communication. Like the delusionist of this show's title, whether reading a paper or watching the news on television it becomes near impossible to substantiate the veracity of any story. Communications media will always filter content to suit its own purposes and if the global media conglomerates don't dumb an audience down then personal agendas and other forms of political spin ensure that the truth, if it ever existed, will forever be a complete fabrication. Intuitively, Fernandez understands Baudrillard's aphorism that "The truth is there is no truth". Weaving this paradox into a script, then using his acting skills to theatrically express this, is the next challenge for the creators of this show. 

At times, The Delusionist reminded me of American actor Eric Bogosian's early 70's creation, Ricky Paul. Manic and mad, Bogosian via Paul would delve into American masculinity for the purpose of exposing its inherent brutality. Communications also is inherently brutal. The media chews human beings up and spits them out at will. Fernandez's magician is the perfect character for achieving this same effect. As a master of misdirection, the magician willingly deceives people, but only because they themselves want to be deceived. I would like to see more of Curtis Fernandez in his creation. Actors place themselves in a miserable situation during rehearsal and the lead up to opening night. And yet, acting is also somehow a pleasurable experience. What could be more intimidating for an audience than a sadomasochistic magician ? One who imparts pleasure, but only in order to inflict pain. The same sadomasochistic tendency that characterises our relationship with the contemporary media environment. 

The Delusionist

Devised by Lo & Curly

Director: Lauren Clair

Performer: Curtis Fernadez

Light: Matt Barber

Music: Sweet Violetine 

Dramaturge: Mirra Todd

Technicians: Belinda Fitzpatrick

& Pru Montin

La Mama, May 7-17, Melb. 

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

garden of delights: vicious

Alice in Wonderland is an influential force in the theatre, and Spanish writer  Fernando Arrabal's play Garden of Delights is no exception. A woman capped by a pair of pink bunny ears lies prostate on a sofa, wholly immersed within a sparse set shaded dazzling white. Her name is Lais and apparently, she is a famous actress. Holed up in a vast castle for reasons unstated, Lais takes calls from a television game show; her undying fans desperate for a snippet of information in their attempt to make sense of a women they have never met, but idolise. Diametrically opposed to Lais, on the other side of the stage, is a glass cabinet covered by a sheet of white muslin. Lais removes this sheet to reveal three of the cutest white baby rabbits that a person could ever wish to see; the innocent Child externalised by a romantic vision of purity interpolated and connected to Lais by the presence of her pricked bunny ears. 

Beneath the glass cabinet and covered by a second sheet of muslin, there is however a grotesque, yet loveable troll who, because of his crude and unpredictable demeanour, is chained to a post. Lais is ambivalent in her feelings toward this incoherent beast whose head, neck and shoulders are wrapped in yellow fleece. Later, during a fit of pique prompted by Lais' perceived lack of love and affection, this hirsute troll slaughters each and every rabbit as they nestle safely in the glass cabinet. Between these two incidents there occurs a sequence of snappily directed scenes that shift in time and place. It soon becomes clear that Lais' Greta Garbo persona is a pipe dream she has constructed for the purpose of exploring motives unconscious, repressed memories, and a violent impulse that is a consequence of physical abuse packaged as religious devotion. As a convent schoolgirl Lais, or a figment of her innocent self, masturbates with a crucifix, is tampered with by a big, hairy purple creature and subjected to sadomasochistic acts where she is a willing participant. In Arrabal's chaotic world we are all complicit in the unspeakable acts perpetrated against us because, in the space occupied by the unconscious mind the external world's superficial moral order is no longer recognised. Roughly approximated within the Modernist project, Expressionism was replaced by a desire to further explore the wild dreams of the individual, and so it is the case in Garden of Delights.

Pipe Dream's interpretation of Arrabal's difficult script is a pretty decent effort. Confronted by a multitudinous melange of ideas and images, strange sounds, anonymous voices and the mad landscape that was the modern, industrialised mind, how does the theatre articulate that which defies explanation ? Director Paul Terrell has ambitiously chosen to go after the lot. In doing so, this production raises two interesting questions. Are conventional theatrical structures such as clear character delineation, dialogue, and the actor's craft, adequate for communicating to an audience the maelstrom of the unconscious mind ? And how important is it for a non-naturalistic play that is open-ended and explorative by impulse to be characterised by an overarching spine of vertical descent, such as in the work of Jenny Kemp ? These are questions not easily answered, as Arrabal's play was written with conventional theatrical structure in mind. Even so, like many plays of this type, the cathartic moment occurs as a ritualistic death. And always after death there is once again life; blade of grass, flesh, blood and consciousness only ever decompose so as to reconfigure elsewhere in the external world, and so it is in the Hieronymus Bosch inspired Garden of Delights.

Garden of Delights

Writer: Fernando Arrabal

Director: Paul Terrell

Performers: Jono Burns, Austin Castiglione, 

Marita Fox & Julia Harari

Set: Yunuen Perez

Light: Katie Sfetkidis

Sound: Keith McDougall

Costume: Chloe Greaves

Stage  Manager: Amelia Jackson

Theatreworks, May 1-16, Melb.

*image: ben landau

absent again...

annyeong...baru sekarang bisa isi blog ini lagi...
cz sibuk kuliah masalah ini itu,apa lgi sekarang speedynya di cabut gr2 makenya over load..wkwkwkwk *sekarang make telkom net instan, bayangkan betapa lambretanya*

huhuhu...ujian kmren not bad lah...udh berusaha dengan keras dengan sekuat tenaga, tinggal tunggu hasil IPK nya...T.T moga ga mengecewakan

yg bikin deg2kan itu ujian finance ma intl marketing...huhuhhuhu..aduh ga tau dah...
padahal da kerja keras *apa kurang keras ya??!!*
ini yang menjadi beban pikiran...apa bisa lulus tuh 2 mata kuliah..T.T *moga lulus* AMIN...
presentasi intl marketing yang rada ga bener neh...moga ja ga da apa2 *amin*
sekarang lagi libur selama 2 minngu trz lanjut ke kelas summer yg bakl mulai ntar tgl 18 may...hwahahahaha...moga ni kelas bisa menyenangkan ga neko2 nyantai..dozennya ga macem2..udh cukup stress..

ada temen yg pergi ke Belgium buat kelas summer...*hwaitting teman* moga pulang dengan membawa oleh2 yang bayk..hehehehe

trz apa lai ya yg kelupaan buat ditulis...hmmm...*thingking*
im tired..uhuhuhu...

aku mw list daftar apa yg udh aku lakuin minggu2 ini:
1. daftar FAC (fan asian community) tapi nih masih bru bgt..byk yg baru..termasuk leadernya ato pencetusnya masih SMP..yah..yah...salut2..buat pencetus..moga panjang umur dah..byk member..dan segera bikin waiting..
2. still thingking....T.T

kenapa yah akhir2 ni memory otak da mulai ilang..kadang kala sepet lupa..males ngapa2in...sepet marah..sensi..kdg cuek..hwa!!!!ga tau dh..

mungkin mang butuh refreshing nih otak..makanya pas ol inet..langsung deh buka tuh web db..xxixixixi...
sekian dulu...

YG, Unaware of GD’s Cameo Appearance in 2NE1’s MV

With the release 2NE1’s ‘Fire’ MV, many fans pointed out the cameo appearance of Big Bang member GDragon.

There were 2 versions to the MV revealed on 6th May – space and street version, which got 1.5 and 1 million views on GomTV as of 9th May. While on other portal sites, the MVs were said to have attracted more than 2.5 milion views.

With that many netizens and fans caught the 2 seconds cameo apperance of Big Bang GDragon for the street version of the MV, doing his comical act behind member Gong MinJi.

But YG Entertainment said, “We did not know of GDragon’s cameo comic act behind member Gong MinJi for the street version of the MV as pointed out by Big Bang fans. It was because he was behind Gong MinJi and his appearance was so short.”

“But with the release of the MV online, Big Bang fans were fast to spot him in the MV. And it quickly became a topic amongst netizens and fans on the internet.”

The YG representative said, “GDragon went to the filming spot for the MV filming to give support to the 2NE1 members whom he is close to. And with no earlier plans for it, he went directly for a cameo appearance to show support to 2NE1.”.
K bites: + lautanindonesia

AJ (new comer)

Highly anticipated newcomer AJ (이기광 Lee Ki Gwang) from Cube Entertainment finally made his debut today on M! Countdown. He's debuting with the song "Dancing Shoes." Even though he and his dancing buddies were accused of copying in their teaser video, AJ himself is a pretty good dancer. AJ's song is pretty catchy and he looks like a mix between Tae Yang and Rain / Bi. With the right moves, I think he has the potential to become very popular.

AJ’s first project album ‘First Episode A New Hero’ features the works of the famous composer the Brave Brother, and the title song was set to be hip hop number ‘Dancing Shoes’.

Stage Name: AJ
Real Name: Lee KiGwang (이기광)
Birthday: March 30, 1990
Height: 174cm
Weight: 58kg
Set to debut: April 2nd, 2009
Single: Dancing Shoes

credits: Rain3000 + allkpop + lautanindonesia

Sunday, May 10, 2009

haul away: death at sea

After a portentous dimming of light there appears in the raised, levitating shadows musician Fiona Roake. She beats a solemn drum as a herald to the beginning of Haul Away, a devised performance illuminating one story contained within another; that of a cancer victim's final days as told by a whimsical Scottish narrator. This impish, eternally charismatic narrator arrives stage left. The large bundle she carries on her back is simultaneously a psychological burden she will relieve herself of, and, as she sets the burden down and unbuckles its clasp, the cancer victim's story about to unfold. 

First though, we are presented with a tour de force of comedic performance that sits uncomfortably alongside the grief stricken conceit previously set up. The narrator informs us her name is Ms Fortune. But there is no heaviness in her heart as she completely occupies a cleverly wrought design of rostra concealing hidden trapdoors, a kitchen floor and a peeled back section of artificial grass. Meanwhile, Fiona Roake's musical adventure upon a diversity of instruments first accompanies, then attempts to counterpoint, the all dancing, joke telling Scottish narrator. But even when the cancer victim's presence is first revealed, inventively indicated by the above mentioned burden unpacked as a pink chair, Roake's emotionally charged musical presence rebounds of Ms Fortune's slick technique as a raconteur. I would have thought the first role of a storyteller is to convey to an audience the emotion embedded in a tale. Grief has a funny side, and so to does cancer. But the cusp between humor and pathos is a difficult one. Sometimes, and I believe this to be completely unintentional, Haul Away becomes a satirical tale. Consequently, the apparently disemboweling effect it had upon its audience during the show's 2006 award winning season, is by turn, disemboweled. 

As Ms Fortune, Glynis Angell steps in and out of a variety of characters with consummate ease. She uses accents, sometimes Scottish and Kiwi, sometimes broad Aussie brogue, to delineate time, place and character. All situations are clear and precise; especially so when Angell uses her body to create images that illustrate the telling of the tale. The cancer victim's name is Kay. Toward the end of her troubled life Angell as Kay is prostate in her pink chair, stricken by chemotherapy and the narcotic effect of excessive amounts of the pain killer, morphine. With hands clasped into claws and her legs raised, Angell's partially opened mouth is a brilliant repose to Roake's use of a squeezebox to indicate the final short breaths of a woman subjected to the lonely delirium of death. Surrounded by loved ones when she dies, Kay does not escape the awful realisation that death will never be anything but a solitary experience. Like it or not, when we die we leave behind those who love us, and those we love the most, during an inevitable confrontation with that which must remain unknown, and this is unavoidable. 

Often a lost opportunity in many independent performances because of economic constraints, vertical height finds a metaphorical use in Haul Away. Musician Roake is situated on rostra some four metres in the air. Enwrapped by transcendental shadows, while plucking at the foreboding strings of an ominous yet inviting black bass guitar, she attempts to coax from the earthbound, scurrying Angell the dying character of Kay. With death fast approaching via a funereal fugue between earth and heaven, Angell's Scottish narrator slips into an eruptive analysis of the relevance of God in his or her many guises. Islam, Christianity and Buddhism are given a solid working over and in her frantic attempt to stave off the seductive allure of an afterlife expressed via Roake's heightened lyricism, there occurs a curious impression that Kay's inevitable demise will also be the death of her mischievous Scottish mythographer. This partially explains Ms Fortune's restrained, if not cold attitude toward the subject of her story. Without a character, there can be no story to tell. Consequently, Ms Fortune appears desperate to avoid her character's departure, as this will mean the narrator's death as well. Although not explicitly stated in Haul Away's script, this may be where the performance is heading. The idea that Kay's death is also the death of her story's teller would provide Angell's charismatic narrator with an obvious and powerful reason for not wanting to let go of her central character. 

As it stands, Haul Away is an impressive night in the theatre. During a brief forum post show, several members of the audience talked freely about the emotional power of the production, and the comments made in this review must be tempered by the glowing response of others. But as a matter of preference, I very much look forward to a third iteration of Haul Away; one which integrates the raw, disemboweling effect of its Green Room winning 2006 season with the cool tone of disquiet pervading this 2009 production. If a third iteration of Haul Away succeeded in an attempt at communicating gut wrenching emotion in a clear and precise manner, then its audience might very well leave the theatre having experienced a virtuoso performance. 

Haul Away

Writers: Glynis Angell & Vanessa Chapple

Director: Vanessa Chapple

Performers: Glynis Angell & Fiona Roake

Music & Lyrics: Fiona Roake

Light: Richard Vabre

Set & Costume: Marg Horwell

La Mama, April 30 - May 16, Melb.

Friday, May 8, 2009


Driving through the streets of Fitzroy at night you become obsessed with streetlight and the sound of an imagined disturbance occurring in flat thirteen on the twenty fifth floor of the Brunswick St. commission flats. In daylight, there is little to see but a urine stain on a tram shelter seat. An old stiff with a grey beard named Jimmy calls to you unintelligibly from the other side of the street. You wish that you were somewhere else; perhaps wandering along a path beneath a mountain in the bush...

But no.

You are up against a brick wall. Forever waiting to be released from the pain that is synonymous with the stiff named Jimmy who sits the day out on Death Row while trams travel along gentrified Gertrude St. 

Jimmy isn’t a bad man, but he’d snip you for twenty dollars if he could. He sits in his tram shelter, one foot across a thigh, digging splinters of glass out of the soles of his bare feet. The memories emanating from the grey hair covering his scalp are all he has for company. Nobody bothers about old Jimmy, so he creates imaginary friends in order to deflect the pain circulating in his head.

Jimmy once drove a cab at night. One morning, when the encroaching daylight had washed another junkie’s brains into the gutter, he drove home and  had breakfast. While sitting at the kitchen table he saw what he believed was a worm wriggling in his buttered toast. He placed a finger in the marmalade jar and dabbed a touch of ginger in the direction of the worm’s mouth. It promptly slurped the marmalade off his finger, smiled, and in Jimmy’s mind, thanked   him for the secretion. The worm then crawled beneath his fingernail and entered his bloodstream through a crack in his skin. Jimmy quietly explained this to his mother; she blessed herself, kissed her son between the eyes, then made him a dish of pear and pineapple pieces hoping that something fruity would prepare her son for the nightshift.

After breakfast Jimmy read the Neos Cosmos. As the heat of the afternoon drew near he retired to his bedroom and studied an old high school history report. He dropped off to sleep riding the gratification obtained from reading a comment his teacher had made:

‘Jimmy is a very bright boy who does no work’.

As he dozed the worm that he believed had earlier entered his bloodstream fused with the memory of Mrs. Logan’s words until a further sentence was tacked onto the end of the history report:

‘Jimmy is a very bright boy who does no work. For punishment, he must clean up the streets’.

His mother woke him at 4.00 pm. She knocked on his bedroom door then marched into his room and checked him for dysentery. (Her husband had been killed fighting the fascists in the mountains of Northern Greece. He had been a Greek resistance fighter, who, when captured by the Italians, had been forced to sit unchecked in a cell for nine months until an Italian soldier had walked in one morning unannounced and asphyxiated the prisoner using Jimmy’s father’s own excrement. Since the knowledge of that foul act had reached Jimmy’s mother she had remained petrified by the presence of faecal matter. She sensed it everywhere: under the stairs, in the  refrigerator, hiding out surreptitiously under the model bridge Jimmy had constructed in the backyard of their home and which acted as a monument over the fish pond he had built in memory of his dead father). 

Jimmy was free of dysentery, but the worm that he believed had burrowed beneath his fingernail earlier that day had increased in size during the five hours he had been asleep. He now heard and felt Mrs. Logan’s command circulating in his arteries and forcing its message through veins, onto blood vessels; which then pumped her command into each muscle of Jimmy’s body until his arms, legs, head, toes and feet were ready to put this command to work and quote: 

‘...clean up the streets.’ 


Later, Jimmy sat at the kitchen table, bread crumbs clinging to the sleeve of his shirt, gazing at his features in a hand held mirror his menopausic mother had once used when plucking her eyebrows and waxing her bikini line. 

His mother entered the kitchen through a rear door with orange worry beads ensconced in her left hand and muttering ‘Hail Mary’ in unorthodox Greek; this was Jimmy's cue to hit the street. He placed the mirror on the kitchen table and dismissed the furrowed brow that now followed him through the flywire door - Jimmy unaware of its presence between his black kalimata eyes - and into Vere St. 

Outside, a local street urchin dangled the entrails of a ginger tom cat on a bamboo stick, saw Jimmy, twirled the mess several times, and released it. The entrails slapped on  the driver’s side windscreen of Jimmy’s Silver Top Holden Kingswood.

Jimmy could have murdered the child; indeed, should have murdered the child. This kid, along with all the other kids that played in Jimmy’s region, who refused to play anywhere else, was a constant reminder of his semiconscious desire to kill off ‘The Child’. If Jimmy wanted to achieve this ambition he would have to transcend himself and become a red eyed battalion of tungsten, human protein, and simple stainless steel, put together and integrated with various weaponry, some obvious, some not so, into a two tone, white hot, come as you are to the party killing machine.

The sun slithered across the roofs of houses and all its grace and splendour was lost in sawtooth alcoves and sheets of rusty corrugated iron. Jimmy held the ginger tom’s entrails in one hand while its pancreas remained lodged between the taxi’s wiper blade and windscreen. He hurled the entrails after the retreating child then lunged for the pancreas with the intention of removing it. Unluckily for Jim his intellectual faculty kicked in and he was quietly impressed by the proud pancreas’ emanating theoretical value. As the saying goes, and this is not one I would use in any other context I assure you, Jimmy was about to ‘Bust his Pooper’. 

The worm which that morning had slipped beneath Jimmy’s chipped fingernail and manoeuvred its way into his bloodstream permeated his mind. He now believed it had receded, recidivist worm that it was, into the compartment in his brain that contained traces of zinc, iron oxide, lead, sulphur and bauxite, and which had been secreted there by the monumental amount of illicitly made amphetamine Jimmy had injected in a previous attempt at killing off ‘The Child’. With worm and heavy metals in tow - and an undissolved preservative attached to a jelly crystal he had eaten as a child - Jimmy was ready to inflict harm upon the nearest pederast he could find.

The sun was completely hidden in alcoves and side streets as the nightshift began with ginger tom’s pancreas flapping insistently on the windscreen. A constant reminder to Jimmy of the fun filled days he had been forced to spend with his mother. All of which culminated in a desire to whip the blade of his paint scraper across the carotid artery of ‘The Child’. 

A voice cackled into life on the two way radio. It was Mary Kyrikilli, the depot manager’s wife. The job involved picking up an elderly couple in Surrey Hills wanting a lift to the over seventy five’s dance in Canterbury. What Jimmy heard was this:

“You have a function to fulfil at 666 Fitzroy St. St. Kilda. Be quick, for the scum is sliding off the street and receding into drains then catching the first train to outer Elsternwick. We applaud your meticulous preparations for performing the task of killing ‘The Child’. We respect your commitment to cleaning up the streets and replacing unredeemed low life with flesh powered by pink spark plugs. We recognise your brain’s ability to assimilate organic material, heavy metal, and static electricity. We admire the organism you have become Jimmy: your quilled fingers, tungsten breast plate, metal teeth, and plumber’s worm for a tongue. We implore you to unleash this flexible spike from your mouth and reach into the decadent minds of the scum who surf Fitzroy St. You are the future Jimmy... Do you read me ?”

Mary’s voice fractured into an orangutan’s outraged scream that pierced Jimmy’s skull, ramming the shears into the soft skin beside his forehead. His eyes crackled with green intensity. He pressed the cab’s accelerator to the floor, picked up the receiver, and responded to Mary’s call: 

“Clear as the night sky seen from the planet Venus”.

His cab rocketed past a sex shop in Smith St. just as its pot bellied, red moustached proprietor stepped out for a breather.

“That’s odd”. The proprietor lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

“There’s a cab without its lights on”.

Excessive exposure to the Kuma Sutra, jet propelled semen, and pink pelvic interiors pierced by nuts and bolts, wooden pegs, and surgical steel curtain rings eventually overwhelm the most sophisticated thinkers. The proprietor stepped back inside, but not before carelessly flicking his half finished cigarette into the sky - and there it remained, frozen. The city skyline wheezed while in St. Kilda, Fitzroy St. seethed with discontinuity and shallow breathing as Jimmy’s murderous thoughts sharpened the shears.

Number six hundred and sixty six Fitzroy St. was a Malaysian Hawker’s joint. The restauranteur and a Labrador-Deerhound cross he kept in a kennel in the kitchen both studied Jimmy with similar expressions when he walked into the restaurant and proclaimed he was on a mission from Mary. The restauranteur shrugged: 

“Sorry. Not on the menu here”.

Then resumed tossing squealing noodles, broccoli, and tofu in a wok. In his left ear Jimmy heard the depot manager’s wife and temporary radio operator Mary Kyrikilli. She sang a song he remembered singing in primary school. The words were unfamiliar: a jumble of disconnected nouns, verbs and present tenses, but Jimmy recognised the tune. His mother had hummed the same tune while sitting in a chair as she tried to conceal from her infant son the homesickness and accompanying despair she felt for the mountains of Northern Greece. 

Jimmy’s vision of the Labrador-Deerhound’s curling upper lip, revealing pink gristle and canines capable of inflicting a serious incision, was blurred by melancholic feelings rising through his gullet and intersecting with Mary Kyrikilli’s pursed lips whispering in his ear. The restauranteur slipped his hand beneath the dog’s frothing muzzle, grabbed its leather collar, and demanded Jimmy exit the premises post haste. Instead of ramming the shears as he had planned, Jimmy turned and stepped onto Fitzroy St. 

Next door, a fight erupted in the bar of the Prince of Wales Hotel, and spilled out over cascading chairs and tables onto the footpath. 

Jimmy became involved in the fracas. 

The bouncer, a bald headed gorilla, stomped up and down on Jimmy’s head until a member of the Scottish clan celebrating St. Andrew’s Day in the bar intervened, and hit the bouncer with a Bowlo combination that cracked the bouncer’s rib and broke his nose. 

The other Jocks drinking portergaffs at the bar broke into a chant for Glasgow singing:

“Here we go... Here we go... Here we go...”.

But their striker’s score on the bouncer was soon equalised by a door bitch well versed in Zen Do Kai, sadism, and the cultivation of azaleas. 

In retaliation, she KO’d Jimmy with a Liverpool Kiss. 

Jimmy sat cross legged amid the chaos, losing blood from his right ear, and pleading for help to find his glasses. He was unable to do so, and feeling rather discontent, until one of the Scottish celebrants finally bought him a beer.

“There you are my good man...”, said Jock to the unremitting Jimmy.

“Drink up, for you are about to meet your maker”.

He walked down Fitzroy St. dressed in his stove pipe suit. When he reached The Esplanade the sound of waves breaking on St. Kilda beach accumulated in his mind. He sat down on the dirty sand, stared across Port Phillip Bay, and saw a silhouette of the You Yang Range in the night sky. He pulled his beanie over his eyes and saw an image in his mind of a man not unlike himself. That man wore a tungsten breast plate that contained a moving image of the Serengeti Plain. Jimmy now believed that he was wearing a tungsten breastplate that contained a moving image of the Serengeti Plain. Then, in spite of the worm beneath his fingernail, and the cat entrails on the windscreen, Jimmy murdered ‘The Child’.

He had wanted to go to the milkbar and buy another ice cream, but his mother had disallowed it, so he had placed a chair beside the window in his bedroom, stood on the chair, and beat his little fists upon the pane of glass until it smashed. He had seen the ice cream stick in his mind, sailing through the sewer beneath the suburb he had grown up in, while hiding under the bed and staring at his mother’s bare legs as she tried to coax him into the open. But Jimmy had refused to come out from under the bed under any circumstance for he knew this meant a beating, so his mother had sent the straw broom under the bed in an attempt to dislodge him. He felt the scratch and tickle, the rip and sickle like feature of sharp straw upon his bare thigh. He squeezed further into a hole between the bed and the wall and slashed his elbow open on a protruding bed spring. He cried and his mother screamed, while the real culprit leant against the wall. The straw broom, diffident, composed,  quietly calculating the amount of blood the boy’s wound had sprayed upon its handle.

On the night of his breakdown Jimmy struck fourteen people on the head with an engineer’s hammer. When his cab sideswiped a telephone pole in Richmond he ripped a piece of metal from the cab’s rear door and tried to dig that worm out of his ear. A gardener found him in the Botanic Gardens at 8.30 am with the metal shard protruding from the wound in his head. The worm was nowhere to be seen, but Jimmy had mumbled something about a bloated maggot wriggling down Batman Ave. toward Flinders St. According to Jimmy, his extraterrestrial partner had boarded a train, gained six kilograms on the trip by eating leftover packets of potato chips, then alighted in Ringwood.

Jimmy was sentenced to three and a half years in jail, during which he was raped by one inmate, beaten by two, and poleaxed by a screw. Upon his release into the community he lived with a fervour only countered by the ecstasy derived from watching an Old English Sheepdog urinate against a pole. Yet Jimmy did not complain, or if he did, then it was a complaint directed inward - to that black hole he has remained in for the past twenty years.

Jimmy sucks hard on a cigarette butt. A tram stops alongside his shelter in Gertrude St. He is preoccupied with swatting flies in and around his beard, but the combined stare of the tram cuts him to the quick and he is invigorated. 

“Come ‘ere...”, Jimmy says.

He waves an alighting passenger in his direction, hoping to score a fag or some coins for a bottle of turps, but the elderly woman blows disgust at him then disappears into a Voluntary Helpers shop to do her bit for charity. Jimmy’s moment of clarity dissipates in his air of lost connections. 

I watch Jimmy from across the street, sitting in his tram shelter, one foot across a thigh. 

I am aware of a certain similarity that exists between us. 

Turpentine is not my poison, but living is.

His mother is asleep in the bedroom of her commission flat. She dreams of water sliding over rocks that cascades into a silent pool. Alongside one another Jimmy and his mother sit waiting for the Achilles Laura to sail back home to Greece. Outside, she can hear Jimmy’s voice, or another voice belonging to one of the hundreds of stiffs on Death Row, sitting in tram shelters on cold nights, sleeping beneath the All Ordinaries Index printed on daily newspapers, or simply fighting off the demon  that  is  Mary Kyrikilli emanating from a microchip Jimmy believes has been implanted in his cerebellum.

From the twenty fifth floor of the Brunswick St. commission flats there is only the night sky. The stars try and force the clouds apart but it is the clouds that contain the pain scintillating in Jimmy’s mother’s mind. She lies on her back in the dark, listening to an alarm clock, along with her son, sitting in a tram shelter in Gertrude St. He shouts obscenities that are directed at nobody in particular, yet she feels are reserved for her. She cannot go out and embrace him or invite him in for moussaka; the lights are on in Jimmy’s head but nobody’s home. He screams:

“Come ‘ere gamissou.... La, la,  la...”. 

His mother takes ear plugs from the draw beside her bed and inserts these into her ears. 

All is quiet at 3.53 am. 

This is the son she was unable to love who has returned to torment her. 

When the early birds rise the squeak they make is an expression of ornithological glee at the penetration of a starling’s beak into the green heart of a cicada. Jimmy’s mother wakes, hurries to the kitchen, and prepares a Turkish coffee.