Say It Now

I think sometimes you can carry around a lump of pain in your chest for so long that it becomes something that feels like a part of you. Something that you just learn to scoot around, ignoring and trying not to probe, until it becomes second nature and you almost forget it's there.

I was channel surfing on Friday night, through the newly expanded set of channels afforded me by my new digital set top box (aka The Miracle Machine), when I found a repeat of the Belinda Emmett episode of "Australian Story" on ABC2. Belinda died in November last year after a long struggle with breast and then secondary bone cancers, being first diagnosed in 1998 when only 24 years of age. You'd probably be hard pressed to find an Aussie who doesn't know the bare bones of her story, a fairly successful career in tv and music, and then her marriage to well known young Aussie comedian and chat show host Rove McManus. Over the years it became clear that things were not all well with her, as she looked increasingly thin and frail during public appearances.

Anyhoo. I had avoided watching the show for a whole raft of personal reasons, but primarily because having lost both my parents to cancer at a fairly young age I thought it would probably be far too close to home. Too likely to probe that tender place, the one so frequently avoided. As it turns out, I was glad to watch the show but, oh man, it slayed me. It certainly was close to home, and at one point I wept so hard I wasn't sure I was going to be able to stop.

I was doing ok until I got to the part where her father was talking about saying goodbye to her, and being with her as she passed. Which was an opportunity I missed with both of my parents, and I think that the pain of grief is maybe easier to live with than the pain of regret. Of lost opportunity.

The important thing I took away from this, and a lesson I'm thankful for being reminded of, is that it's best to say NOW the things you need to say, because one day you may miss the opportunity forever.

The Ubiquitous Semi-Frequent Monday Morning Weekend Recap

Hola!

I spent the majority of Saturday afternoon on my hands and knees with my ex. Fun times! Nail punching, sanding, taping and painting his skirting boards. Mikey (the lovely ex) had all new floors put into his glamorous apartment high above Darlinghurst a few months back (think pale grey washed timber, very swish) and with new floors come new skirting boards. Only in plain unfinished MDF (not so swish).

Painting together highlighted one thing about Mikey (tle) and I. Mikey is very result oriented. I'm very detail and process oriented, and enjoy the journey. Mikey manifests this as what's the shortest route to an end result? (ie let's slap the paint straight on). Where I manifest this as you do know that these need to be nail punched, filled, sanded, taped off and undercoated, right? Oh, and by the way, that tape isn't straight. The Virgo nature runs deep to the bone, people. I'm not saying Mikey's approach is wrong, at all, in fact Mikey kept the end result in sight. I can get too bogged down in minutia. A blend of the two meant that we got all the prep work done, and about three quarters of the undercoating. Neatly.

Afterwards my ancient knees and lower back were protesting, so I spent the night in with David Tennant. First Dr Who and then David's appearance on Parkinson. Who knew he has such a lilting Scots accent? Oh my gawd. Maybe it's my Scots heritage, but don't ever bother to dirty talk me, or whisper flattery in my ears, just pretend you're from Glasgow. Or Edinburgh. Och aye.

Yesterday I saw the latest Harry Potter film with my friend Stephen who was visiting from Brisbane for a few days, and a couple of other friends. The film was lots of fun, slick and lush as expected, paced fairly well, engaging and one of the most fun cinema experiences I've had for a while. All the films have a consistent look to them, but some of the design elements of this film (the headquarters of the Order Of The Pheonix and the Ministery Of Magic in particular) were stunning. And not in a predictable way. I think the design team on this film, and the groundwork laid by the previous films' teams, really should be commended.

Afterwards I headed into Woolloomoollo to meet up with James O'Brien and attend the Gay Bloggers Meet. I was supposed to then go and do a photoshoot with a band after the Blogger meet, but I got a message to say that it was cancelled, so I was free to stay on at the meet and have a few more beers. I had a great time. James describes me as far more social than he is, but there were times last night when I felt unaccountably shy and it seemed like the shoe was on the other foot. I certainly met a nice group of guys, and suddenly have a whole lot of new blogs to check out. So afterwards James dropped me off in his neighbourhood, and as it was quite a mild night, I walked the rest of the way home.

A nice end to a fun weekend. How was yours?

Passionfruit Toes

I mentioned a while back that I was going to join The Cult Of Sock Knitting, and well, I did! I'm knitting the basic simple ribbed sock from the last issue of Interweave Knits Magazine. Toe up and with a short row heel. (Non knitters - if that means nothing to you, don't sweat it because a few months ago I had no idea what any of that meant either!) My only adjustment was to add some stitches to the width to accomodate my EEE hobbit feet.

I cast on last weekend using the most cunning seamless 'Middle Eastern' cast on, and after some schooling up (and some talking down off the ledge when things got hairy) by the Knit Whisperer, our very own TOA commentor Cecilia, I'm now powering along. The yarn is lovely, a hand dyed fine merino from The Knittery in the 'Passionfruit' colourway (apropos?).

Here's the proof:



It's early days yet. Once finished the sock will be blocked (dampened and stretched on a form) to give it a more traditional sock shape. The pattern results in a slightly pointed toe, but once on this should stretch out into a more regular shape. The yarn is beautiful, both in colour and feel, and should result in a handsome pair of soft, warm socks. Passionfruity ones.

I PR Things, Sweetie!

I had the pleasure of being Mr James Charles O'Brien's Plus One to a CD launch last night at the very swish Hugos [sic] Bar Pizza in King's Cross. (Yes, James, as you mentioned I still hold my ground on the apostrophe issue. It even burns me to write it.) This was the pink drinks function I wrote about a few days ago. The pink drinks were thematic you see, as the CD being launched was Hey Eugene! by latin lounge 'genre bending' 12 piece outfit Pink Martini.

Cameraphone Photo by Mr James Charles O'Brien, Esq

What a fun night!

As James mentioned in his blog entry, we were probably the oldest people in the room by at least 10 years. Having both come straight from work, we probably also looked like the only people in the room with serious jobs. Industry execs style.

I don't know what I was expecting, but it was kind of a fabulous but strange event for a launch. Maybe this is the way things are PR'd in this day and age? Hire a swish and expensive venue. Put a 'door bitch' glamazon on the door who takes her job very seriously. Spend a fortune on free nummy nums cocktails, stacks of free CDs on every table (I took a few, natch), free gourmet pizza, dim the lights, strew rose petals all over the venue (and even in the drinks) fer Chrissakes... and then invite a bunch of (almost) teenagers who look like they could hardly afford a CD, let alone work in the industry. That's sort of it. Have some free drinks, and some free pizza, and help yourself to as many free CDs as you want.

I guess it works though, I had a great night and I have been playing the CD all morning... and I love it.

I'm TOA, Fly Me

Up, up, and away,
With TOA,
The friendly, friendly waaaaaaay! *

It's an homage to air travel here today. Not boring humdrum discount air travel, but the days of highballs, smoking sections and Pucci miniskirted 'Stews'. Glamour. When people dressed up to travel, the food was real food, the flight attendants were glamazons and the young Brioni blazered exec in 12B was a likely candidate to join the Mile High Club with.

• Braniff International were one of the first luxury airlines. Vibrant sexy uniforms by Pucci (and later, a more subdued Halston) were just one of their trademarks. Sadly the days of shag carpeted aircraft and upstairs bars on 747s are a thing of the past. Look back in awe on the Braniff International official site, and a Braniff tribute site and the Braniff pages.
  
• Gail Salenius runs a customised Barbie doll site, but was a Braniff hostess back in the day and has kept all her Pucci designed uniforms.

• Speaking of uniforms, Cliff Muskiet is a purser with Dutch airline KLM, and has a huge Stewardess Uniform Collection.
  
• Look back on the glory days at The Airchive, a comprehensive museum of commercial aviation, old and new.
  
• Search through AirlineMeals.net and compare the plastic wrapped lunch boxes of today with the Wedgewood china Chicken Kievs with Chef Salad of the past.
  
• Remember Pan Am? Here's a fab Pan Am tribute site (with a sobering list of accidents).
  
• Eero Saarinen built a fabulous one or two, but check out some other beauties at Old Airline Terminals (shield your eyes, the webpage design is a little horrendo and bright.)
  

There are some passionate collectors of airline memorabilia out there. Both fabulous and strange:

• The Airline Bag Lounge has a great collection of vintage airline carry-on bags. (I'm ancient, and therefore remember some of these.)
  
• Speaking of bags, Anan has an Airsickness Bags Collection. No, I don't know why. Nor do I know what this says about their ability to travel.
  
• Dieter the kleptomaniac collects airline spoons of the world and posts them on his Flickr photosets.

* With apologies to the late, great Aussie airline TAA.

The Number 1 Song In Heaven

It's a funny old thing, memory. A comment over on Thombeau's fab blog Fabulon about a song being 'disco heaven' reminded me of the phrase "the number 1 song in heaven". Which of course can only lead to one thing... Sparks! Here's another big love of mine from a time (and galaxy) far, far, away. 1979 in fact. A place and time when as a budding homosexualist I used to think the lead singer, all curly brunette mullet and all, was kind of cute.

"The Number 1 Song In Heaven" by Sparks, 1979:

The Big Question

While I'm all about the questions, answer me this:

Who in this building has a mobile phone ring tone of Celine Dion singing "I'm Alive"? And further to that, how do you define justifiable homicide?

Pink Drinks

What do you think it says about me that I scored an invite to a function that advertises complimentary pink martinis? Discuss.

It Is, Indeed, In His Kiss

Here's a quickie post I had sitting in my Drafts folder for the past few days. I didn't want to overload you all with too much YouTubey goodness, but in lieu of time to write anything with a high fabulous quotient today I present this for your edification. The two clips are "Torchwood" related montages set to music by fans. Both feature Cap'n Jack heavily, and pay more than lip service to snogging.

"It's In His Kiss" an hommage to Cap'n Jack and the art of kissing, created by the very talented misanthro.



"Filthy/Gorgeous" - a tribute to the boys of Torchwood by claritylore. When the text graphics kick in on this one it really gets fun!



Oh, and both feature a degree of man-on-man action so depending on where you work might be considered NSFW. If that's the case, get yourself a new job stat.

Work, Work, Work

Sweet Jebus H Cripes on a cracker, it's nice to sit a spell and have some me, me, me time with The Internetz. Which is to say that yesterday I was actually doing work people. I know! Mark that one on your calendars. On the upside, my work day entailed me whoosing out the door at 3.45 in the pm to run an errand for the boss. Nice work if you can get it. It would appear that I'm going to need to manage their expectations though. I mean, more work today.

Sorry for this less than average blog service. You'll accept my apology, right? You're kind and generous, and I really don't deserve you.

There's An Army On The Dancefloor

OK, so the server at my new office doesn't block YouTube like it used to and frankly I'm like a kid with a new puppy. Excitable, much? You know what, I don't even care if alarm bells are ringing all over head office because I can get my 80s music clips on! Expect a tour through my youth for a while.

So, here's my big love The Psychedlic Furs. I own this album on vinyl, and even saw these guys live once in the 80s. As a reformed French Horn player I was beyond excited to see they used one on stage. It's the little things, right?

"Love My Way" by The Pyschedelic Furs:



My local pub The Newtown Hotel has this on the video jukebox, and every time I play any songs (3 for $2 - a bargain) I include this in the set. If you are in Sydney and visit The Newtown Hotel, and this comes on, well look for me in the crowd.

Can I Mop That For You?

On my way into the office I usually stop off and buy a coffee, and every once in a while I'll swing by the bakery to grab something if I didn't get a chance to have breakfast at home. Even though I'm trying to stay on the path of righteousness and rectitude, this morning was a bakery trip morning. I know, I know. Sheesh.

Anyhoo. Moments after wandering into the bakery, I put my coffee on the counter but I misjudged the distance somehow (elderly confusion, I think) and my coffee ended up all over their nice black & white tiled floor. I was mightily embarassed. I get all English embarassed, you know? Not just regular embarassed but all can I mop that for you?, here let me pay for a new floor or at least give you the entire contents of my wallet, I could stop by the ATM too, and I'm a big 'mo but otherwise I'd offer to give you my first child in compensation...

Mortified. In fact so embarassed that given that I was the only one in the bakery, and there were no staff at the counter when it happened, for a brief and unconscionable moment I considered just fleeing. I know, bad right? But I didn't.

I just bought the most expensive danish they had.

Treasure

I caught the end of the movie National Treasure on tv last night. I saw it at the cinema a few years back, when it was first released. It's an ok film that mines a similar vein to The Da Vinci Code et al, Freemasons, secret codes etc, and at the time I quite enjoyed it despite all the 'as ifs' the film engenders. (Lanterns still filled with oil that light first try, after 200 years? Oh-kay.)

What really sold me on it at the time though (and I was pleased to be reacquainted with this fact last night) was the presence of a certain compact, blue eyed, most handsome of nerd sidekicks, Riley (as played by my next future husband, Justin Bartha).





Can I get a Hell Yes! from all the boys in the house? Sweet Jebus H Cripes on a cracker.

If you need to see more, and join the Justin love, check out his fansite. Lots of yummy pics. Oh, and the good news is that the sequel to National Treasure is currently in post-production and Riley returns. Le sigh.

The Body Electric

Today has been one of those days where I seem to be leaping around all over the place, unable to settle on just one thing, one idea, one task. I'm quite busy at work, but I'm feeling charged, fired up, almost like electricity is about to shoot out of my fingertips. (PS. How cool would that be?!) Not in a bad way, but I do feel a little unsettled.

Aside from work I've been thinking about a big pre-Spring clean out at home. Maybe listing a bunch of the things I never use on an email and circulating it amongst my friends to see if any of them could use any of it (note: include the Breville Health Grill that's been languishing in its box for, oh, probably a few years now!), or giving it to charity. Thinking about buying some new furniture, maybe even trawling the second hand shops for funky pieces I can restore or salvage.

It's a cool but clear and sunny day today, so it could be that there's a hint of Spring in the air. I think that maybe the new job has lit a small fire in my belly, making me think about planning, about to do lists, about simplifying, about streamlining and organising. It's not the first time I've felt like this of late, but it feels like the momentum is building. I've been kind of in limbo the past few months, uncertain about future income and coasting along without making any plans. Time to change that I think.

I Don't Know When To Start Or When To Stop

You know when you get a song stuck in your head? And it just goes around, and around, and around until you think maybe I might just be stuck like this forever? Like when your parents warned you about making that face, because you know the wind might change and then you'll be stuck like that?

The source of my current brain lock is "Tenderness" by General Public. Oh gods I loved this song when it was released in 1984. I bought the 12" vinyl (remember those kids?) and wore that thing out dancing around my bedroom. Pure, bright, shiny 80's pop.

(Trivia factoid - If you've seen the movie "Clueless", the song was used over the closing credit sequence.)

A wise person once said that a problem shared is a problem solved, so in the spirit of solving my problem here's a clip from YouTube:



(And here's some background info on the band over at answers.com)

At the time I knew nothing about General Public, except that I loved the song. In Oz they pretty much amounted to a one-hit-wonder, promptly disappearing without a trace once the moderate success of "Tenderness" was over. What I didn't realise was their background in the UK ska movement as members of English Beat. I liked a number of ska bands in the 80s, but was never that familiar with English Beat.

Oh crap. Just thinking about ska made me think about The Specials, which made me think about "Ghost Town", which means that I have a new song running through my head now...

This tow-ow-own,
Is coming like a ghost town...

The (Un)Kindness Of Strangers

As I was locking my front door this morning I noticed that someone had stolen one of my plant pots from the front of my house. Now, what you need to understand is that I live in a renovated cottage, of the type that used to be known as workers' cottages around these parts. It's cute and it's been nicely renovated, and from the footpath to my front door is approximately... oh, 3 feet. Max.

So stealing something from my front porch only really entails leaning over the waist height iron railing. Consequently I'm fairly sanguine about the risk of leaving anything there. I have another pot there still, but you wouldn't lift that giant mo'fo without giving yourself a hernia. (And that my friends would be karma in action, of a sorts.)

Anyhoo. This reminded me of a story I read on a blog years ago. No, not a blog, pre 'blogs' even. An online journal. Of the sort that had to be scratch built and added to without the benefit of pre-made blogging tools. Pioneer style. The journal is long gone, but it was hilariously funny in its day.

I don't condone revenge, but this journaller had it down to an artform. There were the times she snuck fabric dye into her own bottle of laundry liquid, because her neighbour was stealing it. But this made me think of the long saga she had with pot plants being stolen from her own front porch.

She had a suspicion that it was one of her nighbours, a women she would frequently chat to as they walked their dogs in the park. So after numerous attempts at catching the thief, and a bunch of pot plants later, she hit upon an idea. She purchased powdered black hair dye from Chinatown, the sort that when mixed with water becomes a very strong (and very skin staining) black dye. She powdered her pots with the stuff and waited. Secure in the knowledge that the dye looked like regular dirt, and that the person would eventually go to wash their hands and activate the dye.

Sure enough a few days later her dog walking friend was at the park with dark grey stained hands, and a somewhat guilty demeanour. Sometimes karma needs a helping hand I guess.

Satisfied

I woke up this morning and thought to myself well bugger me, it's a bit chilly. It turns out that this morning was the coldest morning in Sydney in 21 years. Ridiculous! Global fucking Warming it's supposed to be called. (I guess we lucked out and got Climate Change instead.)

Anyhoo. Aside from the airconditiong in the building, we have an additional heater going. I'm sorry about the environment, really I am, but this building is cold and it's either the heater or I set fire to my desk. I can now comfortably report that my toes are starting to defrost. I've also passed the second coffee point, and my boss here at the Big Christian Charity just bought me a cherry danish.

(And can I just say, people enough with the food already! I'm beginning to feel like I'm being fattened up for human sacrifice. Christians, I ask you, do you guys still do that stuff? Frankly I'm worried.)

So, warm toes, caffeine and a belly full of cherry danish as it turns out is a perfect recipe for satisfaction. Well, perhaps not perfect. Throw in a bit of 'under desk action' from John Barrowman and that would be perfect. Simple pleasures.

Expectations

You know the goal posts have been shifted when you get to the end of an episode of Torchwood (like last night's episode) and think "Hey, no fair! There wasn't one single bit of man-on-man action!".

Todd

In a rare example of departure from the hivemind, Thombeau and I have been having a discussion in his blog comments about our divergent opinions on the sexiness of fashion designer, turned furniture designer and photographer, Todd Oldham.



I'm in the 'pro' camp, so to speak. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's the nerd-chic look he always sports, possibly the tattoos, potentially because he's kind of slightly built and sort of compact, maybe it's the industry discounts and To The Trade access...

Jebus, easy on the filtering and soft focus. This is Todd Oldham not Liza or Bette.

Maybe it's his funky furniture designs....



Many, many years ago I saw a magazine spread with him, his cute husband (are they still together?) and their dogs, which made me kind of warm & fuzzy and bitterly jealous all at the same time. That's how I roll.

On Being Picked Last For The Team

The hot new website amongst the knitterati is a site called Ravelry. It's an online community that's not dissimilar to sites like Flickr (for the photo community), one that let's you share your projects, post photos, communicate with other knitters, even log all of your yarn stash. It's so hot right now. You have to apply to join and are put onto a waiting list. I signed up on the waiting list a while back, because quite frankly I hate the idea of missing out on the fun if there's fun to be had.

While I was at pub knitting yesterday the topic of Ravely came up, and a couple of the knitters there mentioned that they had signed up and around three weeks later were approved and doing their thing. It reminded me that it's been a while since I signed up. Coincidentally Kris just linked to a page on the Ravelry website, the ansty page, that let's you look up where you are on the waiting list.

Here's the thing. I signed up over 6 weeks ago, and there are still more than 2,000 people ahead of me. WTF? I don't know what the criteria for approval is, but as an enthusiastic novice knitter I'm really keen to get on there and start sharing. Ravelry, don't make me use this blog to talk about NOTHING OTHER THAN KNITTING. I will do it.

Suddenly, it's like being 10 and waiting, waiting, to be picked for softball.