Talking Weird Science Blues...

"Look what you can make with a little imagination, Son:

...a little imagination, an Amstrad PC, a bolt of lightning and a bra on your head!"

Don't listen to this movie, it sits on a throne of fucking lies and will only get you yelled at by your sister for ruining her "date night" underwear.

I think I love you, Barbara.

Just finished watching Peter Bogdanovich's What's Up, Doc?

...and now I have uncontrolable crush on Barbara Streisand.

This can mean only one of two things:

1) I'm now gay - and like Kevin Kline in In and Out I'm going to stand up my viking princess on our wedding day.

Of course, the only thing against this concept is my terrible sense of style and grooming and oh yeah, my preference for transexuals over gay men, but that's not queer, right? They still count as girls, don't they? After all I am British, which Ben tells me is a common hangup we all share what with being seperated from the rest of Europe and all.

2) I'm now a middle aged Jewish woman. I share almost nothing in common here, but oye vay I do love Babs.

I wonder if Barbara would consider marrying a skinny white boy from Melbourne who can't get his drivers license until March and eats cereal three times a day. I can only hope...

(Note: I must remember to ask the doctor if these thoughts have anything to do with losing my appendix or perhaps my total under exposure to vitamin E recently. I have been in doors an awfully long time.)

Surefire cure for the blues...

Been feeling a little blue of late. Had camera problems, Viking Princess fantasies and I find myself saying "you don't know what it's like. You've still got an appendix?" It's funny how much you miss them until they're gone and how many bars require you to have them for entry...

...blah, blah, blah, essentially I've been crying, chain smoking and making papier-mâché hats with a support group for Matt Dillon lookalikes for about a week now, but this morning all of that changed. Why, you ask?

Well...

Because Jeff Daniels is now a myspace friend!

I feel happier just saying that out loud "because Jeff Daniels is now a myspace friend!" I might even make a little song:

Jeff
you are my friend,
Jeff,
we are good friends,

Jeff,
I worship SATAN,
I love ROBOTS,
ARGH...!

(I think that's more work than what goes into a my chemical romance song)

My dearest peeps, I need a little help…

During my time with the Austin's eighth floor posse: Adrian (Liver Transplant), George (Heart Attack) and Angel (Whinny old guy), we were all presided over by one Nordic princess, Ingrid. This 6’1” Viking beauty not only tended our wounds, but administered 100mg of love in the process to each and every one of us; and after three days of care we were all biding for her plastic-gloved affections. Indeed, this could purely be because she was the only resident capable of taking our ills away with those lovely, pearl-like white pills she would manage our way every four hours; or it could simply be a stereotypical case of Florence Nightingale syndrome, wherein the patient falls in love with his immediate career. Whatever the case, I’ve been out of the ward now for seven days and while I'm sit lamenting over the lovely princess, Adrian, George and Angel are still privy to her affections.

Something must be done.

Now, these five days haven’t been without purpose. Concurrent with the healing of my battered stomach, I’ve managed to watch every Richard Curtis movie made available, research in itself that should enable me to be the most romantic man in the world, no? So, I’m thinking, like Hugh Grant I should march down to the hospital, down to the white walls of “w” wing and woo the precious Viking queen like she’s never been wooed before.

I can do it, I know I can.

...However, the only draw back to this otherwise flawless plan, is that I’ve also spent the last week listening to Ronny James Dio records and for anyone who knows his work, knows that Dio is spent on tales of Dragons and the adventures of Knights. So, while my heart is savoring the dry witted romance of Four Weddings and a Funeral and Notting Hill, my mouth is sprouting the words Lord of the Rings and Excalibur; and as experience has taught me, this is not the strongest of suits. The way I see it I have three choices:

1) March down there, sounding like a dwarf lord and all, and let the chips fall where they may.

2) Grow back my appendix so that they can get inflamed again and get back on the ward to some more reconnaissance work.

3) Forget about my Viking Dream girl, make the final payment on my Russian bride and live happily ever after.

The clock's ticking and I'm without a clue...

Yo, Snoop. You gotta try this shit right here, man.

Because of the operation my movements are pretty much limited to the span that my wee Hobbit-like arms will allow, but the always active biographer in me makes damn sure that the camera is always within that reach.

Case in point, while dosed to the eyeballs last night, I woke prematurely from my hydrochloride induced date with the Olson Twins ( I hadn't even removed my socks yet) to find myself unable to sleep and high beyond all belief - I mean high, like, really high, as in Robert Downey Jr high.

I remained awake for over three hours until sleep eventually provided refuge for me. I remember the sensation of having my faced licked by a Labrador, but Lord only knows what’s going on behind these dilated pupils.

The result of a Tramadol drip/100 mg capsule cocktail.

Kids, say no to drugs.

Hands up everyone that has had an Appendectomy

Funny how you can go from a glass of milk at 9.30, roll on the floor for two hours, roll on a gurney in the ER for nine hours and still remember to take some ridiculous pictures for your blog when you finally get hooked up to The Machine.

Morphine says "make it so!"

Here's a poem I composed to shorten the experience but to sustain the order of facts into nine lines:

Pain
Oh, Pain
Emergency room
Pain
Searing horrible pain
Emergency room
...and then finally,
an attractive doctor felt me up!

Slam Dunk

From being admitted on Saturday night, I wouldn't see the sweet, sweet relief (however brief) of the surgeons knife until 4am Monday morning. Then, dosed up, I was back in the sactuary of my bed for 6pm that very night...

...only to be back in hospital eight hours later for another round with the white coats when things went belly up - I'm so glad Steve Bracks spends more money on sms voting for Australian Idol than Health Care.

People, if you don't vote your Idol won't win!

Oh, well, at least it gave me time to grow this poor man's imitation of a Nate Fisher beard:

Apologies to everyone who thought I was dead for not answering phones calls, MSN messages, smoke signals and the front door. I'm back home, still in the worst pain ever, but and high as a mofo.

P.S. Big ups to the nursing staff at the Austin. Each and everyone of you is as skilled and attractive as Brett's father's VHS tapes led us to believe.

...and I'm spent.

Well, that's all folks...

After what seemed like a month, editing has finally wrapped on the film. My eyes hurt. My brain hurts. I’m hungry and I think I’m getting the flu. Completely exhausted.

There’s me, and there’s this panda – we both need a long nap (and a new job).

...and maybe a little detective hat for the panda so he can solve crimes at the zoooooooooooooooooooooo...

*crashes into keyboard*

Kung Fu Crazy (re-post)

Despite a brief hiatus for sleep, in which I dreamt of robots trying to steal my brain, I've been editing this film for nearly 20 hours now. My eyes are sore, my mind is weak and I’m pretty sure I spilt cornflakes on myself a few hours ago, but can’t for the life of me quite remember it happening.

Cross Dissolve, Freeze Frame, Star Wipe….

Cross Dissolve, Freeze Frame, Star Wipe….

Cross Dissolve, Freeze Frame, Star Wipe….

And so it has gone since 10am yesterday morning…

Around 4.30 today, sometime between editing hundreds of Bruce Lee photos and Van Damme’s roundhouse kicks, I think I officially lost touch with reality. How does one know when they have lost touch with their surroundings? Can someone know when they lost touch with their surroundings? Well, the answers to these metaphysical questions are indeed debatable, but yet, I would endeavor to say that the point of no return happens sometime around the moment when you begin to seriously question (verbally, mind you) whether or not you would prefer to live in movie Hard to Kill or Hard Target. One, you are chased by Lance Henrikson and are forced to wear skin tight acid wash jeans and don a sleezy permed mullet, and the other, well, you get to be Segal: pony tail, kinda pudgy and just plain mean….

Bring on the mullet acid wash.

*passes out mid Star Wipe...*