~~~The Realm of the Palace Princess~~~

About Me

Read about me ... for those of you who don't already know me!


The Bladder
Dark Horizons
Oz Pagan
So Shoot Me!

Blogs I Read

War Info Links
The PM's Blog
Iron Monkey
AFL Blog
Cry Like A Girl
Home Blown
Cynical Optimist

What I'm Reading

Life On Air-David Attenborough
A Dagg At My Table-John Clarke

What I'm Listening To

John Mayer-Heavier Things
The Waifs-Up All Night
Dido-Life For Rent

Words of Wisdom

"The spirit is most often free when the body is satiated with pleasure, indeed, sometimes the stars shine more brightly seen from the gutter than from the hilltop"-
W. Somerset Maugham

Classic Songs

Split Screen Sadness...And I don't know where you went when you left me but Says here in the water you must be gone by now I can tell somehow One hand on the trigger of a telephone Wondering when the call comes Where you say it's alright You got your heart right Maybe I'll sleep inside my coat and Wait on the porch 'til you come back home Oh, right I can't find a flight We share the sadness Split screen sadness Two wrongs make it all alright tonight All you need is love is a lie cause We had love but we still said goodbye Now we're tired, battered fighters And it stings when it's nobody's fault Cause there's nothing to blame at the drop of your name It's only the air you took and the breath you left Maybe I'll sleep inside my coat and Wait on the porch 'til you come back home Oh, right I can't find a flight So I'll check the weather wherever you are Cause I wanna know if you can see the stars tonight It might be my only right We share the sadness Split screen sadness I called Because I just Need to feel you on the line Don't hang up this time And I know it was me who called it over but I still wish you'd fought me 'til your dying day Don't let me get away Cause I can't wait to figure out what's wrong with me So I can say this is the way that I used to be There's no substitute for time Or for the sadness Split screen sadness We share the sadness-John Mayer

------------------ First Cut Is The Deepest...I would have given you all of my heart But there's someone who's torn it apart And he's taken just all that I had But if you want I'll try to love again Baby, I'll try to love again but I know The first cut is the deepest Baby I know the first cut is the deepest But when it comes to being lucky he's cursed When it come to loving me he's worst I still want you by my side Just to help me dry the tears that I've cried And I'm sure going to give you a try And if you want I'll try to love again (tryyy) Baby, I'll try to love again but I know The first cut is the deepest Baby I know the first cut is the deepest But when it comes to being lucky he's cursed When it come to loving me he's worst I still want you by my side Just to help me dry the tears that I've cried But I'm sure gonna give you a try 'Cause if you want I'll try to love again (try to love again) Baby, I'll try to love again but I know The first cut is the deepest Baby I know, the first cut is the deepest When it come to being lucky he's cursed When it come to loving me he's worst The first cut is the deepest baby i know The first cut is the deepest try to love again...-Sheryl Crow

This page is powered by Blogger.

Friday, February 28, 2003
“Why is oral sex so good? In my opinion the practice of it is not merely foreplay or a pale imitation of sexual intercourse, it is the apotheosis of lovemaking.” -Annie Blinkhorn

posted by The Princess 8:32 PM
Thursday, February 27, 2003
"Where is the justice of political power if it executes the murderer and jails the plunderer, and then itself marches upon neighboring lands, killing thousands and pillaging the very hills?"
-Kahlil Gibran

posted by The Princess 10:51 AM
Wednesday, February 26, 2003
I'm a big fan of late night shopping, however a weird thing happened in the supermarket last night. I felt like some chocolate ... not unusual ... so I decided to purchase a Hershey's bar. The guy at the checkout, who admittedly I did recognise, but certainly don't know, remarked that I seem to buy that particular product every single time I go to the supermarket. Somewhat taken aback, I replied by stating that actually this was not true. The reality is that I would have bought about four of these things in the last six months.

This story may seem inconsequential, but it was actually quite creepy because I felt that in some way I had been noticed, and information had been collected about me. And I'll make no secret of the fact that I hate the concept of falling into a routine; yes it leads to efficiency but it also leads to dull repetition and a dreary existence. So with both my privacy invaded and the suggestion made that I was some sort of routine shopper, I actually felt quite annoyed.

posted by The Princess 8:27 PM
Tuesday, February 25, 2003

And just like that, they're off and humping. A quick, forced, awkward read-through of dialogue and the protagonist and vixen succumb to their carnal attraction for one another. No roses, boxes of chocolates, or prissy scented candles, in fact not a hint of courtship whatsoever. Just a four-position, mechanical routine, ten minutes in duration, with a money shot as the consummation of a brief, sweaty union.

That is sex re-imagined and deconstructed by the adult film industry. Its vision of society's favourite pastime seems somewhat distorted wouldn't you say? Or maybe not, depending on how much time your partner has spent getting "inspiration" from porn!

Pornography is no longer the guilty pleasure of deviants, honest its not! Today's perversions - feet, midgets, three-ways, whatever - are all fairly mainstream.

And consider the near-icon status the female porn star has achieved. She is recognisable and celebrated, maybe even empowered. She is so mainstream that even good girls are imitating her various styles of undress, disappearing pubic hair and all. Porn chic? You bet! :-)
*Update links and songs*

posted by The Princess 11:56 AM
Monday, February 24, 2003
-First up .... the man who could make me orgasm with his voice alone has won a Grammy award. John Mayer won the male pop vocal performance grammy for the fab song "Your Body Is a Wonderland"... woo hoo!-
I'm constantly amazed at the pure genius of the guys at The Chaser. In a front-page article they made mention of a phone number .... no big deal right, unless said phone number listed happens to be the Prime Minister’s actual silent home landline number.
What a sterling coup! The Chaser guys were soon on the receiving end of a visit by the fascist kill-joys from the Australian Federal Police after John Howard’s residence (somewhere in the leafy suburbs of parasitical Sydney) began receiving a barrage of phone calls from angry Aussies looking to have a word with our illustrious PM.

A “legal loophole” supposedly paved the way for the satirical paper to publish The Rodent’s home number. I can only guess that the “legal loophole” was something to do with freedom of speech. But damn it, if there’s a loophole to be had, you’d better explain to us how it works in full.

Alas by 4pm on Friday, the day The Chaser hit the news stands, The Rodent's front page advertised phone number became disconnected having been permanently jammed all day. I’m sure the only people who called were those wishing him luck in our “not set in concrete” upcoming incursion into Iraq. Or perhaps, to discuss reasonably how they hate war as much as he claims to. Surely there wouldn’t be millions of Australians out there who disagree with our Prime Minister?? Heaven forbid!

I am saddened by the disconnection of the Prime Minister’s phone line, as my favourite pensioner ... "Bruce from Boganville" ... never got the chance to call The Rodent and tell him he’s a “bloody idiot cactus head” in person. Bruce will have to stick to dishing out his insults via syndicated national talkback programs that haven’t permanently banned him from calling.

But I digress. As for the issue of invading the Prime Minister’s privacy ... I have no pity for him. It’s a nice heaping’ of karmic retribution for you John baby. I distinctly recall an incident around 3 years ago where my privacy was invaded as my personal information from the electoral roll was used to write a customized letter to me explaining how wonderful the New Tax System was going to be.

Who signed that letter? Or, at least, whose scanned-in image of a signature appeared on that letter? You got it ... the one and only John Winston Howard PM.

Oh, and the number to call was ... (02) 9922 6189

Back in Tassie now ... here until Wednesday, then I head to Sydney for the day - oh joy! Simone and I will be doing lunch tomorrow, at the usual spot around 1pm if anyone cares to join us.

BTW - My intention to move to Melbourne late in the year is still the same, but as I don't fancy trying to get rid of my stuff all at once I'm doing a bit of forward planning. I have some excess furniture to off-load if anyone is interested. Just the usual household stuff. Email or call me if you want more details.

posted by The Princess 6:54 PM
Saturday, February 22, 2003
I spent a soggy, yet informative morning with Tracey today. The Merchant cafe was the scene of our rather unusual conversation. While I was busily scoffing down my Canadian breakfast, she started to tell me about the compounds that are emitted by flame-retardant plastics. As in the sort that encase your computer monitor, television, stereo, etc.

I was already fairly paranoid about another toxic plastic characteristic – xenoestrogens. Someone had informed me of their existence a year or two ago. Xenoestrogens are compounds that are similar to the oestrogen hormone, and form during the breakdown of chemicals like DDT, from the combustion of fossil fuels, and seemingly in the plastic production process. Evidently they are linked to rampant cancers and also seem to trigger early sexual development in girls. We're talking 5, 6, 7-year-old girls. And xenoestrogens can leach into food if it is stored in plastic. Altogether, they are worthy fodder for a neurotic reaction.

Then Tracey tells me about the flame-retardant plastics. Apparently we literally bathe in unseen emissions from these materials, and the effects are said to be far worse than any complications which may arise from so-called 'screen radiation'. Yuck.

Welcome to the poisonous world!

Well, I'm off to watch the footy now, seems it's raining in Canberra too so it's should be interesting to see which team handles the wet ball better.

I'm staying in Melbourne until Monday am.

"Anxiety is love's greatest killer. It makes one feel as you might when a drowning man holds unto you. You want to save him, but you know he will strangle you with his panic." - Anais Nin

posted by The Princess 1:27 PM
Friday, February 21, 2003
Yesterday's edition of the Herald Sun had a delightful interview with Avril Lavigne. It was the most atrocious thing I have ever seen ... the poor guy who had to conduct the phone interview would probably have endured less torture in a concentration camp. I think the headline summed it up nicely though "Rebel Without A Clue". Seriously, that chick is a fucking idiot ... anyway, I've taken the liberty of writing a few words on her behalf. C'mon .... someone has to do it, right?

Hi I’m Avril! I’m sure you’ve heard of me. I’m this badass sk8r chick and I’m real but not ordinary. It doesn’t matter that I’m illiterate, because now I’m rockin’ up MTV and slagging off welfare mothers. And I’m 17 too so that means I have vast life experience.

I hail from some shit hole in Ontario that had a population of a few yokels and some goats. It couldn’t contain the magnificence that is my star appeal, so I pissed off to the US. Oh.. and if you want to see stars, check out the crudely drawn pentagrams that are the wallpaper on my official site. This may prove what many have suspected: I am the work of Satan.

According to my official biography, I couldn’t sit still in school. My lack of education has clearly paid off and I’m happy to be a role model to all you underage kiddies. See when I was 16 I got to leave home to shack up with some record producer in Manhattan and “write” songs. Why would you bother learning to read, write or spell when you could be doing something like that?

And girls, if that doesn’t work, you could always put out for money. I know this chick called Christina who does that and eventually she got to sing a song with Ricky Martin.

I’m currently touring with my own “sk8er punk band of rocker boys” which means I have some session musicians I have asked to wear baggy pants.

I may or may not have a few issues about some chick I went to school with; because I am such a clever writer that my metaphors have no obvious holes in them. But remember now I’m rockin’ up MTV and I’m famous so that makes me a more worthwhile human being than anyone I went to school with. Did you catch that? I’M ROCKIN’ UP MTV. And MTV are whores for the name-dropping, so you can sleep soundly knowing they’re flogging the crap out of that video as we speak.

I also had this other hit song called “Complicated” which is all about how I hate fake people. I’m not a hypocrite at all.... just because I can’t ride a sk8 board and pretend I can to appeal to stupid teenagers doesn’t make me a hypocrite AT ALL ok?

So if you hate your school, your friends, your town and your family because they aren’t pandering to your little ego, just leave home. I’m such a good role model, and it worked for me. But don’t try to push in on my territory bitches, there can only be one sk8er girl. And I love being the center of pre-fabricated mass-marketed attention.

posted by The Princess 4:21 PM
Thursday, February 20, 2003
You could have been forgiven for thinking it was a festival of middle-aged suits on the plane this morning. I avoided all eye contact while trying to stay alive by forcing myself to breathe the soupy cologne-drenched air (which was further polluted by the stench of conformist boredom). Mind you don't spill anything on my patent leather shoes.

I could tell that the man sitting next to me was a talker, and I'm sorry but at 6:45am in an airborne version of Wall Street I'm just not interested. It was the last straw when I overheard him going on about conspiracy theories with another passenger. Luckily I slept most of the 55 minute journey.

posted by The Princess 4:37 PM
Wednesday, February 19, 2003
If you were ever a curious teen, you may recall "Forever" by Judy Blume. There was a young girl, a young lad and a whole lot of shaggery.

And a penis named Ralph.

It is referred to only as Ralph for the entire story. You can imagine the millions of naive young pups across the globe, relying on Judy Blume as their sole means of sex education, growing up thinking that Ralph was the official anatomical term for this wonderful contraption. But really, what an unappealing name for a penis, Ralph.

Was the young lad in the novel inspired by the collected works of Ralph Waldo Emerson, the overpriced elegance of Ralph Lauren, or the antics of Ralph Malph on Happy Days? Or perhaps he really liked the Karate Kid movies and thought Ralph (Macchio) was a more memorable title for his member than 'The Old Guy Who Plays Mr Miyagi'.

Now I'm sure not many people freely admit to naming their penis, but if anyone would like to share a name they may have heard SOMEONE ELSE call a penis ..... I'd love to hear it!

Anyway, I'm off to Melbourne tomorrow (Thursday) for a couple of days. At this stage I'll be back in Tassie on Sunday morning ... but as usual I have no firm plans.

OOOOH, I have a bit of insider gossip to share - I assume we all remember the lovely Jo-Beth Taylor (one-hit wonder and permacheese smile host of the classy, classy tv show "Funniest Home Videos"), well she has recently divorced/separated from ex-tennis player Thomas Muster and is now dating ... wait for it .... a MUCH younger Trent Croad (for those unfamiliar with aussie sportsmen, he is a an AFL player from the Fremantle Dockers). So there is my shameless contribution to the world of tacky, who-the-fuck-cares gossip!

posted by The Princess 9:47 AM
Monday, February 17, 2003
Phone Guys are very common these days and easy to spot. They’re the ones who insist on taking out their phone every time they have a quiet moment, unhooking it from their belt thingy or extracting it from the depths of their pockets. Then they gaze fondly at it, or poke at a few buttons, sometimes even stroke it a little, smiling to themselves. This display goes on for a little while, then they put it away, giving it a little reassuring pat as they stroll off into the sunshine.

What is it with some guys and their phones? Last week I overhead a guy calling someone specifically to tell them he’d bought a new phone. “It’s the Ericsson. It was only released today. And it’s so small and sleek.” And I am a wanker and will no doubt choose the wankiest ringtone known to mankind. Perhaps the Mission: Impossible theme or one of Foreigner’s greatest hits.

Oh how they annoy me, those Phone Guys. Why can’t they just keep it in their pants? I’m not impressed by your 20,000 ringtones and your global roaming. Mine’s smaller than yours! I hear you crow. Hmmm, now there's a line you don't encounter often!

I was explaining this phenomenon to some friends in a bar a couple of months ago, punctuated with great disdain, bitterness and vodka. And wouldn’t you know it, I spotted a Phone Guy in the corner who was demonstrating the theory to perfection. He was tight-jeaned and polo-shirted and sharing a bottle of wine with a young woman. She was bewitching in a loud cotton frock and a hairband with worry dolls parading across it.

God knows what they were talking about, but there was a lapse in conversation and I could see him wondering what to say next. That is when he reached into his back pocket and plucked out his phone. “Hey lady! Watch me pull a Nokia out of my arse!”
We watched as he turned it on and began crapping on about its wonderous features. He punched at the buttons with gusto and talked rather loudly. She nodded at appropriate intervals and gave those weak kind of smiles that don’t quite reach the eyes.
The poor girl, I couldn’t quite hear the conversation but I’m sure it went something like this:

Him: “Look at this. It’s my new Nokia Whatever and it cost me three weeks salary.”
Her: “Wow!”
Him: “It WAPs and raps with 5 billion happenin’ ring tones.”
Her: “Cool!”
Him: “It fits inside a matchbox.”
Her: “Fascinating!”
Him: “And now I am going to dazzle you with my phone prowess by pressing an alarming number of buttons in quick succession. Some things will go bleep and some wacky pictures will come up on the display and you will be most impressed.”
Her: “Oh yes. I’m very impressed!”
Him: “Good. Would you like to see my penis now?”

UPDATED SONGS (god damn I looove PM Dawn)

posted by The Princess 8:29 PM
Sunday, February 16, 2003
I went to 'the' wedding yesterday, and really didn't enjoy it. For the small amount of time I was there I seemed to have encountered a large number of losers, maybe I really do have an inbuilt loser magnet. Anyway, the guy that sticks in my head the most was a mechanic who seemed to be there with the sole intention of drumming up business. Now the guys name just happened to be Terry - could there be a more dodgy name? All he needed was a pair of check pants and a straw hat and he’d look like the consummate car salesman.

It’s funny how we tend to associate certain names with certain occupations or personalities. Just the sound of their name conjures up an image of a certain kind of person. Over the years I've come into contact with various types of people and it seems that your name often dictates what kind of person you might be, or what kind of occupation you might adopt. If your name appears on the list below, don’t go taking offence now. It’s just how the name thing happened for me.

Karen, Lynne/Linda, Melanie = career secretaries
Neville, George, Ray = stuffy old farts on a local council
Bill, Merv, Syd, Barry = farmers
Tom, Matt, Dan, Kristy = always bloody good-looking
Dave = plumbers
Dave = guys at the bar that won’t leave you alone
Dave = public servants
Dave = anyone really. Dave’s are very versatile.
Kerry, Denise, Tony = school teachers
Angela, Rachael, Narelle, Michelle = small town hairdressers
Phillipe, Anton, Simon = big city hairdressers… ooops, stylists
Natalie, Anita, Tanya, Tina = sad bitches in high school with too much eyeliner
Susan, Emma, Judy, Joanne = bitches ... not just in high school but all the fucking time
Debbie, Cindy, Carly = chicks who have a hard time keeping' their clothes on
Cathy, Lisa, Shelly, Jackie = bogan chicks with big hair and cheap, nasty clothes
Adam, Nathan, Jason = sporting jocks
Anne, Rebecca, Jane = plus-size chicks
Nigel, Brian, Toby = major geeks ... probably making millions
Carl, Dan, Rob = pretentious, stuffy rich boys
Katherine, Bridgette, Emily = skanky rural chicks - with big teeth

Has anyone got some name associations they want to share? C'mon .... surely someone has some more!

NIGELLA UPDATE: Last night, when chopping up a watermelon, she said, “Make sure the pieces are big but not so big you can’t fit them your mouth”… then she paused and gave the camera a saucy look, “Not that it would be a problem for me!”. Sitting alone in my lounge I shrieked, “YOU DIRTY BITCH!”.... and hoped I wasn't the only one watching who knew EXACTLY what she meant!

posted by The Princess 1:44 PM
Friday, February 14, 2003
I've been talking to FiFi today, and she happened to mention my lack of sex related blog content. This isn't nearly as raunchy as things could get as I'm trying to be aware that a few of my regular readers aren't quite so liberated .... (u prudes know who u r) but this entry is slightly 'sex' related. Anyway I regret that today's entry isn't an original ..... it is a ME original but it wasn't written specifically for my blog... it is however, and observation on life and that's what my blog is about.

There's this moment when you're first kissing a lover, maybe one you haven't seen in a long time...weeks maybe months...where it’s very tentative and your conscious mind is wondering who is this? But you keep kissing and kissing and kissing and then suddenly you're inside of it all just like a good story and it's flowing from beginning to never ending and all you can ask is don't stop and your body melts into the kiss and there is nothing but love and lust and touch and tongues and you know that if everyone kissed like this there would be no war no divorce no depression and you know that even though sex was always on the agenda now it is real and imperative and if you don't get to someplace where clothes can disappear immediately there's going to be a public display of nudity, hastily followed by a sex-in-public experience.

Ok, well I'm staying in Melbourne tonight, and I'll check out Festivale on Sunday .... if anyone wants to meet for brunch just sms me sometime before Sunday.


posted by The Princess 3:51 PM
Thursday, February 13, 2003
“It tastes like real meat, honestly. You’ll love it!”

Thus spoke our earnest vegetarian dining companion. JJ asked me tag along to a dinner with him and one of his friends ... who's GF just happens to be a vegetarian, and seeing an opportunity to eat food that I didn’t have to cook (can't even remember the last time I cooked a proper meal), I happily obliged. When I asked where we were going, he said, “It’s some vegetarian place where they have stuff that tastes and looks like real meat but it isn’t.” Hmmm!

While the others carefully pondered the menu, JJ and I sniggered at the illustrations. There was a photo of the chef with a big fake grin; his arms spread wide displaying his delightful range of big fake food. There were chicken drumsticks, prawns, spare ribs and even lobster! All carefully moulded into the appropriate shapes from tofu and whatnot.

There was something interesting on the menu called Mocked Chicken. Prepared fresh from their big vat of Mock out the back I suppose. Or as JJ and I suggested, maybe the chef yells at the poor little fake-ass chicken, “Oh you are crap! You’re not a real chicken!” and that gives the dish its mocked goodness.

We let the vegetarian pick the dishes, but had to choose our own entree. I went with the Curry Puffs, nothing in those would need to be imitated. But brave JJ chose the “Chicken” Drumsticks.
And what a bizarre concoction they were. Layer upon layer of something that resembled a bandage wrapped around a paddle pop-stick drumstick. JJ ate very slowly and carefully and smiled very slowly and carefully.

“Isn’t it great!” beamed the vegetarian, “It’s just the real thing, the texture, the skin…”
(… the paddle pop stick!) “Yes!” JJ with alarming conviction. “It really does taste like chicken!”

The mains were interesting. There was Honey “Chicken” and Mongolian “Lamb” and Asam “Fish”. It was even moulded into a fish shape. I expected they’d put a thousand toothpicks inside it to simulate pesky fish bones, but no. It looked quite fishy, but no fish I know wobbles back and forth in spongy fashion when you try to cut it.

The “chicken” was actually alright, except for the way it dissolved in my mouth after one bite. The “lamb” wasn’t very lamby but not too bad. Then they urged us to try the Chili Mushroom dish.
“This one is so wild and hot, you’ll have really wacky dreams tonight. And it’s funny, the mushrooms taste more like beef than mushrooms.” Eeeewwwww, it was like a mouthful of shoe. Hot chili shoe. Why did they feel the need to fake a mushroom? What’s wrong with a real mushroom?

Overall it was a bloody disgusting experience that only reinforced my belief that humans are meant to eat real fucking meat ... OK!

When it was all over and we were back in the car, I asked JJ how did he like his drumsticks.
JJ: “They were fucking disgusting!“
Me: “Oh! Thank god!”
Me: “What about that bit where they said ...... I bet you could put this food in front of a meat eater and they wouldn’t know the difference!”
JJ: “Ha! Yes! If it wasn’t for the paddle pop stick, I wouldn’t have known!”

So we fled to the KFC to cleanse our palettes. I feel much better today, but I think I am all Mocked out for the rest of my life.


posted by The Princess 1:22 PM
Tuesday, February 11, 2003
Trivia doesn't exactly get me hot and bothered. And it doesn't drive me wild to hear a guy whisper in my ear, “Let’s go back to my place for some Trivial Pursuit". I’m no intellectual heavyweight, but I can discuss politics and I've read a few important books, but what I'm best at .... what I do know is a shitload of useless information. However, this doesn't mean the notion of a trivia night sends me into a competitive rage ... I really have no desire to test my mind full of useless information against other ppl who also have a mind full of useless information .... so the trivia night thing, well it's not something I enjoy, but the reality of last night was a whole lot worse than I could ever have imagined.

The venue was suitably dodgy, Soccer Clubrooms dazzled us with brown decor and mirrors and violently-patterned carpet. There were chicken wings and mini-spring rolls and ham/cheese/tomato sandwiches and a bar. It was going to be a fun night.

Our team consisted of Simone, Troy, Alicia, Adam and I, a South African couple and mid-30s geeky type.

We were performing pretty dismally in the early rounds. But there was alcohol so who cared? It was an interesting format, you could actually buy answers. $2 for 5 random answers plucked from a box. Inevitably you’d get 4 of the same answers or a really obvious one, but we noticed people around us starting to take the whole event very seriously, and they were buying up a storm. The team in front of us were winning, so they were particularly serious. They all sported the same Matter of Life and Death killer frowns, the kiddies, the mum and dad, the pregnant teen, the uncle and aunt, and then the grandmother, Lord of the Team, resplendent in purple polyester and fake pearls. She perched on her chair, head darting back and forth like a magpie, double dipping into the Answer Box. She obviously was "up there" with the pre-school staff, if she drew out an answer she already knew, she’s put it back in and draw out another.

Simone and I were mortified. We launched into a bitchy routine of stage whispers:
“HEY! Why don’t we put them back in the box and draw NEW ANSWERS until we get ALL OF THEM!”
“YES! Just like those CHEATING BASTARDS in front of us!”

When the quizmaster read out the answers, the old duck would twirl her pearls, nod smugly and wink at her teammates. “Yep, yep, that’s right, I knew the answer was Rage Against The Machine. I am not a filthy cheat, I am just a particularly knowledgeable old fart.”

We started making a comeback around Round Six. If you scratch away at the brain long enough, the trivial crap spews forth. Caspian Sea largest inland body of water in the world. Patrick White won the 1973 Nobel Prize for Literature. And a four-point question, name all the members of The Corrs (Andrea, Sharon, Caroline and Jim. I wish I didn’t know that).

Everyone knows there’s proper procedure for answering questions at a Quiz Night. If you know who the won the Best Country Artist ARIA in 1998 or what the currency of Bolivia is called, you have to wriggle discreetly in your chair, or make fervent “Mmm mmm mmm!” noises, while waving your hands around. Then you silently write down the answer and shove it to the middle of the table, and raise an eyebrow for approval. If you’re right, the rest of the table nods knowingly, gives the thumbs up, or goes, “Ahhhh!” or “Oh, I knew that, but you just said it first”. Then you sit around looking smug until the next question is asked. So you do NOT bellow at the top of your lungs in your thick South African accent, “OH I KNOW THE INSA NOW! ET’S THET CRICKET FELLOW! ET’S DON BREDMAN!”. Simone spent half the night hissing “Shut up! Shut up!” and pelting chicken bones at them.

By the last couple of rounds we were in with a chance. I was dying to get my hands on the grand prize of a $60 Avon Basket (oh please .... you know I'm not for real). It was time to get serious.

The question was, “Who was the Governor of New South Wales arrested in the Rum Rebellion“. I was Pencil Nazi by then, and I scrawled down “William Bligh” without even consulting my teammates, most of whom were smashed by that time.

Geek Man seized the answer sheet from me. “Bligh? Bligh? Oh come on! It’s not Bligh!”
“It’s Bligh! Keep your voice down!”
“Bligh was the Mutiny on the Bounty guy!”
“Yeah but he was the Rum Rebellion guy too, I tell you!”
“Oh, so he was in two places at once?”
“One happened before the other, you fuckwit!”
“You’re wrong!”

This is when I leapt from my chair and tackled Geek Man to the table. I pinned him down and repeatedly slapped him across the face. “Listen to me PAL, get a hold of yourself! I haven't spent hours reading pages and pages of boring text for nothing. I know my crappy colonial history, and I am telling you it’s BLIGH. Got it?”.
Then I wedged a spring roll up his nose, sat down and wrote BLIGH in big bossy letters on the answer sheet.


I meekly surrendered the sheet, muttering “Fine! Fine! You’re the boss!” while he wrote down ‘Macquarie’. Then lorded it over him for the remaining rounds when it turned out I was right.
Despite our Bligh blunder, we romped home in 3rd place, tied with none other than the Cheating Bastards. Our booty included a dodgy bottle of white, a French cookbook, and a voucher for a men’s haircut, a voucher for a massage (the sporting kind, not the Dodgy Adult Shop kind) and a $20 petrol voucher. Woohoo! That was all worthwhile ah.


posted by The Princess 7:03 PM
Monday, February 10, 2003
I've been told that writing a blog is proof that I'm self-absorbed. I can't remember who said that, but it certainly made me think.

Could it be true? I asked myself this question again and again, and even meditated on a photograph of myself for at least an hour longer than usual.

It must be true. Anyone who writes a weblog is completely egotistical. After all, how many blogs and personal journals are written about someone other than the author?

Furthermore, to write about anything is unforgivable. It's arrogance to believe that one's words are of enough value to be published.

And so, to the kind person who helped me understand the truth, thank you. Your point has been well-taken. From this point forward, I will remain completely silent on all subjects. And I strongly encourage all journalists, essayists, novelists, and especially autobiographers to do the same!

I'm off to a Trivia Night with Simone tonight,at Laura's school ... and I gotta admit I'm already stressing at the thought of being in a room full of bitchy, competitive, fat-arsed mothers (with the exception of the lovely Mona) ....ooooh will I have a story to tell tomorrow.

I'm off to Melbourne again on Wednesday for work and will be back on Friday afternoon ... at this stage I plan on enjoying all that Festivale has to offer on Friday night, then I will no doubt catch up with a few of you at A&A's wedding on Saturday. I might not have a whole lot of time to add to my blog while I'm in Melbourne, but I will try.

OOOOOOHHH, some fab news. Puppetry of the Penis will be in Launceston on March 14th, I booked some tickets today (10 tickets, 3 rows back .... for the 7pm show) so if anyone wants to go let me know.

posted by The Princess 3:04 PM
Sunday, February 09, 2003
Why does everything seem to have 'post' as a prefix these days? Postmodern, poststructuralist, postpatriarchal – the list goes on.

Then of course there's 'postdefinition', which pretty well sums up any approximation of any quasi-relationship that I may or may not have experienced over the last 6 years. Am I predestined to a life of postdefinition relationships in which a hell of a lot of time is spent in the company of another person, but ultimately it remains a 'thing' which essentially amounts to nothing? Possibly, but I can live with that.

This introspection was spawned by a spontaneous conversation I had over a delicious lunch today, in which my companion and I reflected on the likelihood, or unlikelihood, of various aspects of the future, especially with regard to things that are commonly thought to be desirable.

OK, so at this point I don't want children, I don't want a life of sacrifices, I don't want my future mapped out for security purposes, I don't want stability or an 'ordinary' life and I can't imagine myself being overtly patriotic with regard to citizenship in any particular nation-state. As for relationships, as my dining companion so poignantly put it, how am I going to find someone who wants to come home and listen to Nick Drake or Diana Krall before upping the tempo and chucking on some Groove Armada or Foo Fighters? Is that eclecticism overkill?

Hmm, this is potentially one of the more personal blog-posts I've written in quite sometime, and it's starting to sound a bit self-obsessive and lame. I seem to have drifted back to the Carrie Bradshaw-like posts of old (and yes, I'm still minus my Mr Big!) ... don't be surprised if you find that I've deleted this one in a day or two...
And who said u can't make fun of your own ..... I got told this joke today, kinda thought it was amusing.

Wayne Carey and Mark Bickley are enjoying a lunch at a fancy West Lakes restaurant.

The waitress approaches their table to take their order. She is young and very attractive. She asks Mark what he wants, and he replies, "I'll have the heart-healthy salad."

"Very good, sir " she replies. Turning to Carey she asks, "And what do you want, Wayne?"

Carey answers, "How about a quickie?"

Taken aback, the waitress slaps him and says, "I'm shocked and disappointed in you. I thought you were on the straight and narrow and committed to high principles and morality, not like last year. I'm sorry you have joined the Crows." With that, the waitress departed in a huff.

Bickley leans over to Carey, and says, "Wayne, I believe that's pronounced 'quiche' ".

posted by The Princess 4:43 PM
Saturday, February 08, 2003
I should start off by saying my driver's licence expired the 4th of Feb and I kinda forgot to renew it, no dramas though ... I will do it first thing Monday morning. But today, going against my better judgment (HA! ...) I drove Father to Devonport. Mother Dearest has the bat car in Devonport visiting my aunt, and Father refuses to drive her car ... so it was all down to me.

Now I don’t endorse driving like a maniac, but today I drove like one - Father encouraged me though .. he's such a bad influence on me. It usually takes almost 1.5 hours to drive to Devonport but it only took 1hr 5 min today. It was because of this goddamn Kia Sportage, the name shits me for starters. Car names are getting more ridiculous by the year. They must be running out of names. Anyway, the green beast came looming up our arse just outside Launceston and followed us all the way.

Nothing annoys me more than a jerk in a 4WD that insists on intimidating smaller vehicles, so I kept my foot down and stayed way ahead of him. On the Bass Highway it’s 100 but I maintained a steady 120 to leave him in the dust. It wasn't to be though .... and it wasn't long before I looked up, there he was, so close I could see his huge dorky glasses and bad haircut. He looked like an accountant (you know the type). All the more reason not to let him overtake me. I was taking things pretty casual at this stage ... chatting away to Father about the fate of the poor Iraqi children and how one might arrange a "hit" on Georgie boy, all was very cruisy til we were right on a bend and he (Mr Sportage) decides he can pass me. But when he moves out I hit the floor and head off over the hill. It was hilarious, I actually laughed out loud ... and while Father was somewhat shocked he still managed a few words of encouragement ... something along the lines of "yes, make sure the impatient bastard doesn't get passed us ah". Anyway, I was pulling away from him for a while, and then he catches up to me and looms so close I can see the blonde in the passenger seat drinking Diet Pepsi. He stupidly moves out again when a truck comes flying along so he has to quickly go back in again. Idiot!
Next there’s some road works and we have to stop for a good ten minutes. He’s drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and frowning. The lollipop guy tells us there’ll be a delay and we say no worries, mate and have a good chat while Mr Sportage actually moves out into the other lane to see what’s holding up the traffic. Wanker!

When we finally move off, everyone waves to the lollipop guy, or at least raises a waving finger on the steering wheel, but nooooo, not Mr Sportage! With that lack of respect for our hard-working council workers, there was no way he was gonna overtake me. There was an overtaking lane ahead; it was his only clear chance to get me!

So I slowed back down to 100 to lull his smug arse into a false sense of security. Just when the lane came up and he indicated to move into it, Father (showing his competitive spirit) screamed, “GO! GO! GO!” and me not being one to disobey Father when he's yelling real loud, we sped off again. We’d foiled him for a third time. Seeing his indignant little face fade into the distance was a rush bigger than a dozen orgasms. Well, not really but it was good!

He tried to get back up to me and the speeds were getting ridiculous. But later we got stuck behind a slow truck with a horse and Mr Sportage caught up with me. Behind him was a Toyota Celica, fiery red and equally impatient. It was too unsafe to overtake, but Sportage did it anyway. He somehow got around me and the truck and missed an oncoming car by a whisker. It was ridiculous. Where’s a cop when you need one?

But here’s the kicker: as they went around us, Diet Pepsi Blonde actually turned around and made furious very rude hand gestures at us! That silly wench! That infuriating accountant! This was war now! I was kinda prepared to let it go ... but nooooo, Father wouldn't hear of it, no one was gonna get the better of his little girl, and for the first time in years I felt like a little kid getting a pep talk..... scary stuff! I'm not sure what was troubling me more, the excessive speeds my car was reaching or the aggressive encouragement I was receiving from Father.

The Celica and me eventually got round the truck, and Sportage wasn’t too far away. The Celica had to carry the torch, because flushed with adrenaline as I was, the speedo was tickling numbers I never thought possible before, and I really couldn't afford to be attracting the attention of speed cameras as I DON'T CURRENTLY HAVE A LICENCE! So it was all up to the Celica, and it did a stellar job of tailing Mr Sportage and pissing him off before eventually overtaking. Ahh, it was fab.

Mr Sportage seemed to run out of puff after that, and by comparison put-putted the last 15 minutes before Devonport. We were finally able to catch up to him. I noticed he had this shoddy advertisement on the back of the vehicle, on the spare tyre cover. It said XXX XXX Data Back-Up and a mobile phone number. Sweeeeeeet. So he wasn’t an accountant, but Data Backup Geek was just as appropriate for such a tosser.

I convinced father to get out his phone and give him a call while we sneaked up behind him again and say:

“Hello? Is this XXX XXX Data Back-Up? Guess what pal? I’M BACK UP YOUR DATE!”

But alas… they turned into the McDonalds before he could dial. Damn!

It was then I returned to my usual rational, safe-driving self. I dropped Father off and the drive back was quiet, slow and boring and a thousand insects kamikazied into the windscreen. It’s now so thick with tiny broken legs and wings it looks like the glass is shattered. And I’d only washed the car this morning.

On a slightly different note, I'm somewhat disappointed by comments I received via email today about me posting a sappy love song in the "Classic Songs" section, you know who you are, and I won't be naming names, but I will say - HELLO! It's almost Valentine's Day ppl ... where is your sense of romance? Huh?

posted by The Princess 7:39 PM
Friday, February 07, 2003
We have been witnessing the degradation of the muffin in recent years, particularly because of the tendency to produce them in industrial proportions. The result is an enlarged, artificially shaped cake, with very few muffin-like qualities whatsoever.

I would argue that muffins need not be enormous, and should have a very 'rough and ready' texture and appearance. Seriously, the mixture should only be stirred about twice; none of this hyper-production thank you very much. If I wanted a cake I would order a huge big wedge!

Anyway, just added a couple of new songs to the "classic songs" section, the first (If You're Not The One) I have only heard a couple of times, but have been assured .... via email from a newbie to the blog, that it is most definitely a classic. I want it known though; I won't be taking requests for songs to add to the classic section .... this is a one-off thing I'm doing to welcome a new reader (gotta keep 'em sweet so they keep comin' back). And all those Nick Drake fans, his Northern Sky has been moved to a more permanent home on the "about me" page.

And here's a transcript of a conversation that Simone and I had last night outside the Metz. I just want to clarify that we had consumed a bottle or 2 of red by this stage.

Me: "Simone darling, you have such nice brown skin. I would love to have skin like yours.”

Simone: “But you have really perky tits!”

Me: “Yes, well, but… I’d much rather have your nice skin.”

Simone: “Nooo! Perky tits beats nice brown skin every time!”

Me: “Nooo! I don’t think so!”

Simone: “I’ll trade you my beautiful skin for your beautiful boobies.”

Why can’t people ever be happy with what they’ve got?

posted by The Princess 12:56 PM
Thursday, February 06, 2003
Took the plunge and went to the supermarket this morning. I've written about my adventures at supermarkets many a time, but it's been a while .... so I'll share my most recent experiences with you.

While unloading my trolley in aisle 6, I noticed the guy behind me was about to purchase a box of Home Brand Choc Chip Museli bars, one of those Tuna Lunch Kit things with crackers and tuna and mayonnaise, and a can of Campbell’s Chunky Soup. And the first thing that popped in to my mind was ...“Well, he’d never get anywhere with me, he’s got no taste, he’s cheap, and he can’t cook.” This assumption even shocked ME! ... how could I be so critical, how could I assume so much from so little and why did it matter to me what he ate? He was far from interesting, didn't catch my eye ... my mind didn't wander off to a place of erotic nights on a bear skin rug when I cast an eye over him - then it struck me, JESUS! what does my shopping say about me? How many men have gazed into my trolley and made an instant analysis ... ooooh what a fickle society we live in. Btw...watch your trolleys, boys. You’re being analysed!!!

Does anyone else get all flustered at the supermarket? It’s always so daunting. I go to Woolies and it’s always packed, no matter what time of day you go there. I hate crowds. I hate trolleys clashing and screaming children and slow bastards with those wheelie things. Back in the old days there was always an empty aisle where you could get a good run-up with your trolley then jump on it, and fly your way down to the checkout. No such fun anymore. It’s all pressure, pressure, pressure.

There’s always two dozen people waiting at the deli. I stand there with my ticket, I’m usually about 87 and they’re up to 12. I stand there gazing into the glass to kill time and I like to marvel at the ugliness of some of the meats they have there. Today I stared down a piece of brawn. Have you encountered brawn? It’s pink and sickly with thumbnail-sized chunks of fat in it. I wonder what kind or hybrid of animal(s) could possibly bring forth such an atrocity, and who the hell would ever buy it. I nearly missed my turn cos I was so shocked when number 86 bought half a kilo of it.

I like to take my time choosing tissues; nowadays they make things difficult by having all sorts of crazy designs on the tissue boxes. I am currently fond of a Sorbent box that has a classy black and white photo of a city skyline, while a few months ago I had a penchant for the polar bear box. There was a new one with geese and flowers and stuff in a lovely blue, but I deemed that too prissy for my house and chose one with white tulips on it, sparkling with dew. Lovely.

The Fruit and Veg section makes me anxious. I never actually buy stuff from there, yet I always wander through ..poking at this and that, wondering almost aloud "who would pay money to eat this shit" ... I get quite disturbed by the thought that someone, somewhere might actually be chomping into a fly-infested peach, or a chemically coated banana ... what's wrong with an ordinary green grocer? If more ppl refused to buy the crap supermarkets served up, the world would be a much nicer place for fruit and vegetables.

The wait for a checkout is never any less than fifteen minutes, so there’s plenty of time to lean seductively against your trolley and casually flick through an intelligent magazine. Except it’s me we’re talking about, and Woolies only has trashy magazines. So, as I'm always looking for something "better" I checked out a tasty male specimen across in aisle 5, as I read Soap World. I was scoffing at the news that Macy on Bold and the Beautiful may not have died in that inferno after all when Tasty Specimen came over my way. He picked up a magazine off the rack just as I snorted, “What a LOAD OF CRAP!” He frowned at me like I was a bug then took his loveliness far, far away. He was, no doubt ...GAY!

And finally, payment. I never have cash on me, but EFTPOS makes me nervous. I fumble with my card. I always put it in the wrong way up. I get panicky that I’ll forget my PIN, and end up pressing the wrong button. I’ve solved that problem now though; I just hit the Credit button and pay by Visa. That way all I gotta remember is how to sign my name. Sometimes even that is a challenge, I told ya I hate supermarkets.

posted by The Princess 8:33 PM
Wednesday, February 05, 2003
Don’t get me wrong; I can’t take my eyes of Nigella Lawson’s magnificent rack either. But I am increasingly irritated by her over-the-top commentary. Just cook the damn FOOD, woman!

I happened to catch one of her shows on the lifestyle channel this morning while I pawed over all my mail. She dished up a horrifying black rice concoction with prawns and chilies. It looked like scrapings from the bottom of a sewer to me, but no, she wanted me to behold the “marvellous black pearls of rice studded with ruby chilies”. For a vegetarian variation, she invited me to try it with some “soft, jade hunks of avocado”.

Next she tossed a bit of marinated steak on the BBQ, black on the outside but mooing within, chopped it up and called it a “quiveringly-rare, plateful of spice-seared, ruby-fleshed rags”. To finish off, her Limon cello-drenched trifle featured blackberries “peeking through their blanket of marscapone cream”. Ooh for fuck's sake lady!
Her flowery descriptions were making me long for the last series, with her patented deep-throat taste testing of elongated vegetables. She seems determined to make even the most unremarkable foods sound gloriously decadent and sensuous. Perhaps she cut a deal with some farmers, “Luv, if you can make this here cabbage sexy, we will keep you in tit-hugging twin sets for life”.

You can just imagine her brushing her teeth at night, whipping her tongue over her choppers and marvelling, “The minty freshness of toothpaste evokes memories of prancing barefoot through a meadow in the summertime.”

Or buying new tyres for her car, she’d be groping each one like a ripe melon and purring, “Oh the charcoal curves, the tangy aroma of rubber, the deep and twisting tunnels of the tread, how they surround the shiny wheel like a lovers embrace.”
The whole "Naked Chef" thing was bad enough. The industry sold out, it gave up on the idea that food alone can be enticing enough and decided to stick some (apparently) hip young guy in front of a camera and tell him "now Jamie, bung in what ever ya want - just make sure the commentary is filled with corny clichés and no proper English", that was where it all started .... but this lipstick-loving, soft porn actress who we know as Nigella certainly takes the cake, I only wish she'd cook one without all the innuendo and blatant attempts at 'spicing it up'.

One of the things I hate about returning home from anywhere is the complete lack of food in the house. Invariably I will have an abundance of single ingredients, eg. crackers, mustard pickles or weet-bix, but one cannot turn these ingredients alone into a meal. So I shall be strolling off to the supermarket early tomorrow, as I have nothing for breakfast, which is possibly a recipe for hypoglycemia. Though I do have a nice supply of fresh fish ... seems my Dad finally built me that fish pond he's been threatening to build for close to 12 months ... he even filled it with plants and fish, and it has the obligatory water feature/fountain thingy ...Jamie Drurie would be ever-so proud.

Although there was a moment of sheer amazement when I first walked out my back door to view the aquatic masterpiece. I was greeted by the sight of 3 plastic shopping bags hanging on my clothes line ...and I say to father "umm, why are there 3 plastic bags hanging on my line" and he says to me, in a rather casual way ..."oh, your mother put those there to dry". Rather stunned by this statement I dare to ask, "so, why were they wet" ...and he says "oh, we got them from the plant store, they had the water plants in them". Now, all this time I should have been gazing in wonder at my new piscatorial pals splashing around in their watery home, but I was too focused on those bloody plastic bags, so I walk up to father, who had perched himself nicely on the hammock and I say "Dad ... ummm why the hell does Mum want the bags to dry" and he responds with "well she thought you might need them" Ok, so plastic bags aren't something I go through a lot of, nor are they hard to get if I ever do need any, hell... last time I checked the supermarkets were giving them away. So about now I already know there is no logical answer to any further question I might have, but still I bite and ask my father "so, what the fuck does she think I want the bags for ... did she seriously say I might want 3 used plastic bags, was it like some kind of joke, was she trying to make some kind of point" (yes, amazement had by this stage turned to utter disbelief) and by now, poor father was feeling somewhat under siege and bothered, when all he wanted to do was nap in the hammock ...so he launched himself off said hammock, strolled casually toward the dangling bags, gentle pulls them off the line and as he's poking them inside one and other he says "as I take it you don't want them, I'll put them in that thing over there, I think it's called a rubbish bin". Ahhhhh, my Dad is ever so perfect at bringing me out of my exaggerated dramatic displays. Between me .....so practical (mmm sometimes), and my mother ...so bloody weirdo, he really does have it tough at times - it's lucky he has a sense of humour. I have to say, I'm still walking around asking myself (out loud mind you) what the fuck she thought I would do with 3 used, and dirty plastic bags.

And a big 3 cheers for Wayne Carey, he's done it again! I'm not sure I remember the last time a nude spa party made the news headlines ..... u legend Wayne!

Had a complaint about the lack of movie news in my new blog, and my response to that complaint is .... www.darkhorizons.com. But for the rest of you ... mmmmm is Jennifer Garner in Daredevil - to be released March 20th, Aussie Travis Fimmel will play Tarzan in a new TV series, Dawson's Creek is officially over (nooooo, course I don't watch it) Billy Zane (mmmmm) will star in the Starsky and Hutch film, and a great new Ed Norton film, "25th Hour" will be released on March 6th.

I'm kinda glad to be home, can't wait to sleep in my own bed ...... and thank god, no more slobbering dog on my bed (Diesel, I love ya honey .... but that drool thing just won't do).

posted by The Princess 8:10 PM
Tuesday, February 04, 2003
Had a few thoughts on marriage today, though it did start off as thoughts about why I blog, which sprung from thoughts about why I write at all. Might seem like an odd train of thought, but this is my brain here. You don't like it ... get outta my head.
You think ooh how fun it would be to get married. But then you think, do you want to get married because you want to fall in love and be with someone til divorce do you part, or do you just want to get married cos you know you look good in a white dress and your hair is all fancy and you get to pose for photos and you love pretending to be a superstar and you get shitloads of presents and slow dance in the middle of a ballroom with everyone watching and everyone telling you how beautiful you are and then they’ll tell you again and you’re guaranteed a shag at the end of the night? And then you think about love or the lack thereof in your life and you wonder do you really even want a special someone in your life? Or do you just want someone around who thinks you’re the cat’s meow, they’d tell you you’re cute and funny and oh so smart and oh so okay and you’re guaranteed a shag at the end of the night? Do you actually want the give and take and ups and downs of a relationship or do you just want a steady source of attention? And why do you keep that weblog? Is it because writing makes your limbs tingle with joy or is just because you madly pine for emails and links and attention and adoration and the occasional stalker? What kind of egomaniacal desperate freak are you? All rhetorical questions of course. Mmmm, I was right, they do have alcohol at the casino.

Just a quick run down of the evening, not much to say about Norah (this blog post is named in honor of Miss Jones - or is it Hank Williams), I think I need a bit of time to reflect, bit like seeing a good film, takes at least 12 hrs for the whole grand thing to be processed. Ben and I went to the casino afterwards and ended up meeting two rather drunk Canadian tourists and sitting around chatting with them. All very fun, with some heated discussion about Australia's racist practices and the general level of feralness amongst our citizens. (Hello to any of those ferals who are reading this!)

It's worth noting at this point, for all you non-aussie blog readers, that Australia isn't merely a lovely country at the ends of the earth; we have a whole host of problems that you would encounter anywhere else on the globe. Yes, we do have an increasingly shitty government that is disgustingly exclusive, and yes our Prime Miniature is being played like a marionette puppet (only with larger eye brows) by Georgie boy, and yes we do have our fair share of people who choose to act inappropriately (according to social constructs), but so does any other country. Even seemingly utopian New Zealand. Sorry if any illusions have been shattered.

My ego was also dented somewhat this evening. I'd dressed rather appropriately for an evening at the concert hall and decided that a sleek ponytail was the go for my hair. Now, I rarely venture out of the house with my hair up, this ...most of you already know, including Ben. Anyway, we get to the front door and Ben says to me rather urgently, "oooh, don't u have to fix your hair before we go" ...... great, now I'm getting styling tips (ever so subtle ones) from a straight man, who's hair resembles Don King's mop ..... on a good day!

Oh, kinda pissed off no one bothered to tell me Dani T (from radio) got married - and to a youngish guy!!!

Hmmm, enough slightly-drunk-but-not-yet-blotto ranting, I'm off to bed.

posted by The Princess 11:38 PM
Who doesn't want to get where they're going as quickly as possible? Why would anyone take the scenic route, adding an hour to the journey, when the expressway promises speedier dispatch? (Question: what are you going to do with that hour you saved?)
Fast food, instant coffee, express checkout, quick fix, snap frozen, speed reading, the fast lane ... why are we always in such a hurry? How did "instant gratification" graduate from jokey insult to legitimate motivation? Patience was once a virtue; now, in everything from baking bread to personal relationships, impatience is the order of the day.
"More haste, less speed" once seemed wise advice; now we'll take more haste and more speed, thanks, with a mobile in one hand and a burger in the other.

I've had a really busy morning and have been left pondering what happened to the idea of stopping to 'smell the roses' ..... it just seems to be defeating the purpose of life, if u're not actually living, but rather .... just operating a body, maneuvering yourself through all the shit that is happening around you. Just a thought I had while observing the bland ppl I shared breakfast with today.

On to a cheery note, because I'm acutely aware that my blog of late has been teeming with hideous negativity, and I might be sending off the message that my life is pretty god awful. I'm going to see Norah Jones tonight at the concert hall, which will be just fabulous. Going with a group of ppl ... some I'm yet to meet, but it should be great all the same. Ben and I are going to head to the casino afterwards, just for a little session of ppl watching. Neither of us are gamblers (though I do believe they might sell the odd drop of alcohol there), but both of us enjoy taking the piss outta ppl, and what better hunting ground than the casino, filled with such a variety of what Melbourne society has to offer.
No doubt I'll have a story to share with you all tomorrow.

Although I had an early breakfast meeting, I still fancied the idea of sleeping in past 5am, but let me explain why that was never going to happen. Sharing a house with JJ has been ... well, an experience. I know, I too have had bouts of obsessive healthy eating, but I never let it interfere with mine, or anyone else's sleep, ooooh how I wish I could say the same for him.

JJ has a brand new turbo-charged juicing machine, he loves it, worships it .... thinks the whole notion of pulverized veggie juice will make him a god on the footy field. Anyway here's me, off in the land of nod ...when the silence is shattered with a nasty, rattling rrrrr! rrrrr! as he sends each hapless fruit and vegetable to its gruesome death.

It’s a cruel way to go. If I was a carrot or half an orange, I would have looked at the juicing machine and thought, “Well, this looks like fun.” Have you seen the latest in these contraptions? They are huge with all manner of shiny surfaces, interesting curves and hollows sticking out everywhere. It looks like a waterslide complex at the local pool.
So these sticks of celery are lining up, picking their Speedos out of their arse cracks, thinking this is going to be the ride of their life, thinking they are going to slide down that tunnel screaming “wheeeeeeeee!”. But instead the only screams are those of pain as they’re flung into the Blades O’ Death, violently ground up with watermelon or wheatgrass then spat out the other end into a glass of tasteless muck. Poor bastards. And really, if you've ever tasted the crap that does flow out of them, you'd agree they really did die in vain!

posted by The Princess 12:25 PM
Monday, February 03, 2003
Perusing the many shelves of the airport bookstore today may not have been such a good idea, as doing so seems to have only enhanced my restlessness. The various books and magazines opened creepy little windows into life elsewhere, far from here.

Specifically, I'm thinking of New York City.

Books about this destination occupy several shelves in the aforementioned store, and I nearly went insane looking at the pictures and reading the information and feeling utterly compelled to board an aeroplane, simply because it's so unrealistic at this point in time. There are so many reasons why now would be the ultimate time to completely uproot my life and head on over – things like unattachment (kinda) and other freedoms – but it's not as simple as buying a ticket and taking off. Is anything ever so simple?

To make matters worse, I had a brief conversation with the KG about travels through Europe, more specifically Paris ...ahhhhh, I can be such a romantic when the mood takes me.

Back in Melbourne today, off to the Norah Jones concert tomorrow night and flying back home early Wednesday morning. Oh for a peaceful life!

posted by The Princess 8:32 PM
Sunday, February 02, 2003
Spent last evening watching "Jerry McGuire" and of all bloody things, "The Piano". Now, what a splendid way to spend a Saturday night I hear u say, but yes... I was with a cute guy (albeit an unfuckable cute guy) JJ's brother Ben, and I did have a valid reason for the 'quiet' night.

This morning saw me leave the city of Melbourne on a hideously early flight to the Gold Coast, where I then had to pick up a hire car and drive, to Byron Bay for big brother's 40th. Had a fairly shitty day with the family, (gotta love 'em though) it was as windy as hell and I didn't even get to the goddamn beach. Leaving here tomorrow morning and heading back to the bright lights and smoke-filled air of glorious Melbourne town.

So, back to 'The Piano' ..... I was rambling on last night, as is my fashion, to poor (unfuckable) Ben, about Holly Hunter in The Piano, and pondered how she would express her needs in bed, being bereft of speech and all. At first I reckoned she would write it all down in her little notepad. You know, that locket thingy that she used to attack with short, angry little scribbles throughout the film. Now it would be *scribble scribble* harder! harder *scribble* not like that, you clod! or *scribble scribble* have you got a cigar? or whatever. Clear, to the point, and necessary, because let’s face it, there’s only so much you can communicate non-verbally. And how easily is non-verbal misinterpreted? But then, I thought, would the Harvey Keitel character have been literate? I am not sure if the average hill-dwelling savage yet sensitive 19th century kiwi bloke spent much time with the books. So would Holly’s desperate scribbles be for naught?

She has two alternatives, as far as I can see. She could just poke him in the eye with that shoddy prosthetic tin finger of hers, that would have to get his attention. Or she could do the old furious sign language thingy that she employed in the film, and have her trusty sidekick daughter Anna Paquin to translate in that smug, too-loud little voice of hers. “SHE SAYS TO GET OFF HER! SHE’S GOT A HEADACHE!”

OOh, now this is a vile thing to happen to any person who doesn't like coffee. I saw this jar of chocolate-coated peanuts in my brother's pantry today .. and immediately thought "Hmmm, big brother is a chef, he appreciates fine food, he wouldn't have any old crappy chocolate-coated peanuts in his pantry"... so I reach in, grab the jar....pour out a half dozen or so 'peanuts' and *chomp*!!! Peanuts, fucking peanuts! Nooooooooo, they were chocolate-coated fucking coffee beans - geeeeeeez! Suffice to say I won't be eating anything 'coated' from my brother's pantry EVER again.

Question for u all, I happened to catch sight of the new Mitsubishi Pajero ad last night - the one with the Big Audio Dynamite song "Rush" ... anyway, wondering if the hottie in the passenger seat is the gorgeous Pat Rafter, anyone know???? Otherwise, I want the guy's name (.... address and phone number wouldn't go astray either thanx).

For my geek-boy ......"To understand the heart and mind of a person, look not at what he has already achieved, but at what he aspires to." - Kahlil Gibran

posted by The Princess 9:43 PM
Saturday, February 01, 2003
It's funny (peculiar like) that Georgie boy is so keen to send others off to fight a war, when he declined to serve the great US of A in Vietnam - where was his patriotism then huh? And I see today that the Prime Miniature has announced his willingness to send his own 2 sons off to fight .... one has to wonder what kinda mouth-full he received from the lads after that statement, I expect it was something along the lines of "fuck u, Daddy".
I wonder if those so eager for a war have any idea what war is truly about, if they actually see beyond the war lingo, if they see that real ppl die, children die, children lose parents, parents have to watch their children die before them. I wonder if they grasp the reality of ppl having to live surrounded by the horrific smell of rotting bodies, that innocent ppl are forever tormented by graphic and vile images thrust upon them. I wonder if George, Tony, John and all their little warriors are even slightly struck by guilt, or shame.

These so-called leaders of the democratic world say they want to liberate the poor citizens of Iraq - well I guess if you kill them, it could be viewed as a form of liberation! I can almost hear George now "if we can't free the ppl of Saddam, hell.... we'll free Saddam of the ppl......kill 'em all".

And on another funny (yes, peculiar like) note .... I'm fucking astounded that the only place you'll find any condemnation of Israel's cruel and brutal treatment of the Palestinians, is YES...the bloody Israeli press. It's utterly disgusting, almost unbelievable.

I went to the market again this morning ...had a leisurely browse, but seems Cheese Guy wasn't quite as enticing as I first thought. Nice to gaze at, if u like wog! I did however buy fresh ingredients for tonight's bruschetta. I was confronted by JJ this morning, wielding a bottle of (wait for it) bruschetta topping, yes ...in a jar, purchased from the supermarket ........ I mean isn't the whole appeal of bruschetta that it's FRESH. And here's JJ, a professional athlete, Mr I've-Got-A-Nutritionist....and he says to me, after I protested about it not being 'fresh' .... he says ....."well, I haven't opened the bottle, it's still fresh". Yes, I know ... I'm staying in his house, and yes I know I shouldn't be making fun of him ....but PLEEEEASE!

Best thing about today, I finally got to try Callebaut Chocolate. This sumptuous Belgian creation is the chocolate that is used by all the cookbook authors and great dessert chefs. I have wanted to try it for years, and finally stumbled across it in the markets. I absolutely understand the hype – it is utterly delicious and I couldn't restrain myself from impulsively buying several blocks. At $15 each.

I watched a doco on Def Leppard this morning, well on the making of their "Hysteria" album. It was really nostalgic, and made me realise how totally feminine men of the eighties were. I used to like Def Leppard, until they became very uncool during the 90's, but I didn't actually appreciate their talent, I mean their vocals were just amazing ... very similar in talent and style to Queen. I guess I always assumed their vocals were synthesized, like most of the rock bands during that time. Can u believe that album sold 12 million copies? It went gold in the US in one day after they released "Pour Some Sugar On Me". Unreal. I actually went and bought a copy today .... and while it really has that 80's feel, it's still quite enjoyable.

Added a Nick Drake classic to the blog earlier ... check it out on the left.

posted by The Princess 6:35 PM


Devoted to Viggo
Second Opinion.. The glow inside another red-crossed pelvis will drain when they crush that little bulb. Menstrual minstrels drift in from the weedless garden. The immaculate blue flame from the fake fireplace burns in the corner of my eye. Can't stop staring at nothing. A gloved hand opens the door, and the man enters soothingly, with an air of respect for the dead. Encourages us to look on the bright side. Black pants hide your pain afterwards, and there's a cookie on a napkin and a paper cup of red juice to replace your strength. We drive home without blinking because the sun isn't real .. . -Viggo Mortensen


Go here if you've arrived at my blog after searching for song lyrics. All the song lyrics I've ever posted on this blog can now be found by following the link above

Contact Me
Tell me how much you like my blog. Hah!


Mystery Site