...and the complications you could do without

I thought instead of inflicting another rant about being penniless and disgruntled with the world, I'd distract myself with some meaningless fun stuff. Are you with me? Good...

This is Dante and Virgil in Hell by Adolphe-William Bouguereau. Is it not intense, beautiful and strangely erotic? Yes, I thought so too. As we all know, munkey is a fan of any art that involves hot men. For example, you will find this in my bathroom... yes, dear readers, I was so taken with it when I saw it at the Louvre that I lifted the entire thing off the wall and stuffed it into my backpack. Surprising really, that no one objected. (N.B. These are lies. I was so taken with it when I saw it at the Louvre that I bought a post-card of it. But the first version is more interesting, no?)

~~~~~~~

Meanwhile, I have become addicted to this Google Image Quiz. The concept is very simple. It shows you a bunch of pictures that are found from a Google Image Search, and you have to guess what the search term was. It is remarkably hard to stop, once you start.

~~~~~~~

The always-worth-a-look Photo-shopping competition website Worth1000.com is running a particularly brilliant category this week: anachronistic fine art. This is my favourite entry:

Genius.

~~~~~~~

Okay, back to the real world now. Perhaps it will stop being such a right royal pain in the patootie. We can only hope...

thoughts from a weekend (and beyond)

~ Japanese food is great.

~ His Girl Friday is a really good movie.

~ Dear Wendy is a really weird movie that goes very awry in the third act.

~ Jamie Bell has grown up hot (and talented).

~ Harry Altman should have won the 1999 National Spelling Bee, purely for entertrainment value.

~ It is actually possible to make plans for a Saturday night at 8pm on that same Saturday night.

~ Gay bars are fun every now and then.

~ Three drinks in a night out is a sensible amount. (Whodathunk?)

~ HAPPY BIRTHDAY PATERMUNKEY!!!

~ Fireworks make most things entertaining.

~ Jelly's brother The Boy Wonder was on television! (Yes, i'm aware i'm the only person on earth for whom this is a novelty.)

~ Cars are money-guzzlers.

~ Uncertainty is about as much fun as a dog-turd danish.

~ The world is far too lenient on messed-up ex-boyfriends who do things that should rightly ruin their lives. Karma where are you?!

~ I am a fucking idiot for still caring.

munkey's-eye view

DOWNFALL
(DER UNTERGANG)

~~~~~~~
'I always make mistakes when I'm dictating.'
~~~~~~~

Oliver Hirschbiegel's film Downfall is a deeply important contribution to the canon of Second World War cinema - a gruellingly in-depth depiction of the final days of Adolf Hitler's reign as Führer of the Third Reich. To give the viewer a way in to the story, the film focusses on Traudl Junge, a young woman we see as an excited young patriot, hired as personal secretary to Hitler in 1943, in the movie's opening sequence. Hirschbiegel then immediately fast-forwards to April 1945, giving us no background or introduction to what has transpired during the War. Prior knowledge of those events is not necessary, as Bernd Eichinger's screenplay seamlessly introduces the important historical players such as Himmler, Speer and Goebbels, and places the viewer viscerally in the midst of a Berlin in ruins as the Red Army bears down.

While Junge is our point-of-view within the walls of Hitler's increasingly chaotic bunker, we are also drawn to follow other characters such as Prof. Dr. Schenck, struggling to provide medical assistance in horrendously gruesome scenes in the sqalid army hospital. Far from being distracting, this multi-protagonist approach grants us a fuller understanding of the dire situation, and allows the rare perspective of feeling profound horror and empathy at the collapse of Germany - almost always (understandably) depicted as the villains in this genre. Indeed Downfall shows that war is populated by despair and devastation on all sides, and even the downfall of an evil dictator like Hitler, has tragic human consequences for the people involved.

The visual milieu of Hirschbiegel's movie is unrelentingly gritty and realistic. The once-beautiful Berlin tangibly crumbles and explodes before us, while the Führer's bleakly austere bunker compound is a claustrphobic and terrifyingly prison-like setting which feels increasingly - approprtiately - like a trap in which the protagonists are pointlessly condemned to certain death. As all hope fades, and the players begin taking their own lives with shocking resignation, the feeling of despair and futility is palpable.

The performances are flawless throughout, with Alexandra Maria Lara wide-eyed and affecting in the role of Junge as the appalling truth of her situation becomes apparent. Corinna Harfouch is a stand-out as Magda Goebbels, while Juliane Köhler lends irresistable charisma to the inexplicably devoted Eva Braun. But, as one would expect, the film is stolen by Bruno Ganz who is utterly breathtaking as Adolf Hitler. Initially turning down the role, he eventually studied the only known private audio recording of Hitler, practiced his unusual accent with natives of the dictator's hometown, as well as spending extensive time with Parkinson's patients (Hitler's affliction with Parkinson's Disease is now well known). He goes far beyond the iconic appearance and manic public performances, creating a dynamic and multi-layered protagonist. In Ganz's depiction, Hitler is domineering, insecure, brutal, tender, and dazzlingly contradictory. Ultimately, we are watching a man self-destructing - his megalomaniacal hopes utterly dashed, and yet refusing to admit defeat like a petulant child - as he crumbles from a charismatic and uncompromising leader, to a helpless frail old man. It seems an odd thing to say, when discussing a person usually associated with pure evil, but Ganz's performance really is the heart of the film, and perhaps Downfall's only weakness is that it lags a little and continues too long after Hitler's inevitable self-inflicted demise.

Downfall does not apologise for Hitler. It does not shy away from the opinions he held or the acts he oversaw. But it also refuses to paint a two-dimensional caricature of evil incarnate. We see the Führer's remarkably affectionate treatment of his secretaries, and are shown "Uncle Hitler" happily spending time with the young Goebbels children. We also see him viciously ranting, condemning "traitors" to brutal death and dismissing his own poeople as entirely expendible. When a film provides such an intimate portrait of so historically despised a character, inevitable arguments are raised against the "humanising" of such figures. However this attitude is counterproductive and equates to burying one's head in the sand. Hitler was human. All his henchmen and generals were humans. Traudl Junge - a naïve 22-year-old wooed by the Nazi's impressively patriotic triumphs - was a human who (in her own words) allowed "fate [to] lead me somewhere I didn't want to be". We must confront what history shows us: that human beings are capable of horrific beliefs and actions. As Noam Chomsky said, "The nature of humans allows all kinds of behavior. Every one of us, under some circumstances, could be a gas chamber attendant or a saint."

Today, over the doors of Auschwitz - now a peaceful but gut-wrenching memorial to the millions who died in WWII's unthinkable atrocitities - a plaque states the old adage: "Those that do not learn from history, are destined to repeat it". As Junge looks back on her life, in bookending segments of the film, this is the true message of Downfall's devastating narrative. She shamefully compares her story to that of anti-Nazi martyr Sophie Scholl, who was a similar age and who was sent to the guillotine the same year Junge was hired by the Third Reich. Though absolved by the Nuremberg trials, Junge is unable to forgive her own small part in a dark chapter of human history: Being young or ignorant is no excuse. History marches on, and it is up to each of us to ensure we are informed, reponsible pariticpants.

4½ (out of 5)

there and back again

I zoomed home from a very crabby Friday, and hastily threw together a few days' worth of supplies, before zooming out to the suburbs to see A History Of Violence with Mr.G. We spent many an hour chatting over coffee afterwards while the St Patrick's Day revelers boganned it up around us. Then I zoomed again, and stayed the night at the family-home. In the morning, patermunkey, Ms Cait, Mr Nimbus and I bundled into the Silver Beast and zoomed here:

Yes, lovers and dreamers, it was a beautiful weekend in Munkey Valley. Those of you lucky enough to have been there with me, will know that the beauty of the place is that so little happens there - thus leaving room for all kinds of things to happen. (If that makes sense.)


MindlessMunkey - mother-nature's son... or something.


The River. I have spent almost every Summer of my life (and often bits of Spring, Autumn and a few times, in my carefree youth, even WInter) immersing myself in these clean, cool (often colder than cool - often testicle-chokingly-freezing) waters.


Ms Cait and patermunkey. You can see the Munkey Shack on the hill behind them. Just after sneakily snapping this photo from under a tree I was told by my ten-year-old sister that I should "respect people's privacy". *paparazzi munkey*


This is the view from the verandah of our house. I tellsya... sitting back and gazing at this, listening to the music of the wind in the leaves and the birdsong on the air, while sipping your fifth glass of wine... ain't nothing better in the world.


PaterMunkey has conquered a tree. Raaaar! Actually, we were a tad saddened to find this tree - which my parents planted over 20 years ago - had been unceremoniously torn from the ground, seemingly by what must have been one rip-snorter of a storm.


Aww look at the little cutesy-wutesy widdle battikens! These small insect-eating bats inhabit our house when we're not there, and I'm sure they feel a little disgruntled when we turn up and invade what they probably think of as their large conveniently-geometric cave. When balled up like this, they are about the size of a golf-ball... like a tiny brown mouse with wings.


While we're on the subject of the local creatures, here are some moo-cows. Mooo! These are cows on the property down the road - formerly owned by two Crazy Lesbians™, with whom - it might surprise those who know me as a qweer-fairie technology-savvy citi-boi to discover - I spent many a happy youthful day herding cows and sheep, mending tin roofs, shovelling manure and other such rustic activities.


More creatures! This is our family canine, the dashing Mr Nimbus. He obediently took a break from frollicking in the River and snapping at flies and other exciting doggie activities like that, to pose for the camera. What a lovely boy he is! I think if I were a dog (or a bitch, even), I would think Mr Nimbus was a damn spunk.


"There is no such place,
O yes I have seen it too, just a little different from how you do.
Our house upon a hill with no windows
Just a can upon the sill
To catch your tears
To feed your garden."

Okay so there are windows, but still... when I hear that song, I am always put in mind of our little cottage gazing down the valley amidst the waves of golden grass.

There is such a place... a blessing for which I am eternally graceful.

bitchin' & moanin'

Standby For General Whinge-Fest...
This is basically how I'm feeling at the moment, dear readers. I don't really know why. Perhaps it's the lack of nicotine coursing through my veins (I am being very good!) or the fact that I haven't eaten a proper nutritious meal in days. But mostly I just seem to be in this mood where every little thing makes me crabby. *ennui munkey* I shouldn't really complain. All that grandma wisdom about "things could be worse" and "there's always someone more unfortunate" is true, of course; I'm not feeling sorry for myself. There is just a dull, far-reaching sense of dissatisfaction and a vaguely distasteful stench looming over the world in general...

Everyone Hated The Commonwealth Games Opening Ceremony
I don't know why this slightly depresses me, because five minutes before the thing started I couldn't have cared less how it turned out. Some people seem to just be doing the "I'm cynical and jaded because it's cool" thing, whereas others (like Jellyfish, predictably) make very good - and entertaining - points. I thought the show was okay. Technically it was all really well done - I thought the stage, set-pieces, lighting etc were wonderful. Thematically, it seems the creative committee (or whoever comes up with this stuff) needed a few more sessions. There were some nice ideas, but overall, it didn't seem to gel. As has been noted elsewhere, it stole ideas from Sydney, and the "journey" narrative wasn't really pursued in any satisfying way. And yes, the broadcast/commentary was deeply offensive. But frankly anyone who was expecting different from Channel 9 was deluding themselves. HOWEVER the fishy things on the Yarra looked great and the fireworks were fucking awesome, I don't care what anyone says. I could hear them (and feel the vibrations) from my flat and I got all excited like a little kid. Anyway it makes me sad and grumpy that everyone's complaining about the duck and the koalas (although they were decidedly "wtf!?"). I guess I was hoping to feel proud of my home-city, and hear everyone around the world say "Oh My God! Melbourne Is The Best!" and now they aren't.

The Gun Is Smoking, And No-One Seems To Care
You would be forgiven for not realising - as the papers are far more interested in Gold! Gold! Gold! - but it seems DFAT now absolutely positively knew about the AWB bribery a good 8 years ago. I'm not going to say too much about it all, because this is more the territory of my beloved Moodles (aka Canoe) but basically it's reaching a point where our Government can no longer have their cake and eat it too. EITHER they knew the bribery was going on and thus are evil fucking liars, OR they were being oblivious-ostriches and thus are dithering fucking incompetents. So which is it, lads? A public admission of either would be lovely... although the voting public seem to have such short memries and/or low morals that I'm sure this will all be forgotten and/or forgiven by the time the next election rolls around. (Incidentally, I've never understood that cake/eating saying... what's the point of having cake if you're not going to eat it?)

My Snazzles Is Sad, And I Can't Help
Not the forum to be discussing this, but suffice to say I would cut off one of my fingers and (up to) three of my toes if I thought it would make it all better.

Oli Got A Puncture, And Requires Expensive Surgery
After a lovely evening at the House-Of-Much-Joy earlier in the week, I began driving home and thought "Whatever is that noise? Why won't my car steer properly?" I had a puncture. Oli's tyre was so flat that the rim was running along the asphalt. I opened up my boot. Jack: check. Spare tyre: check. Doohickey to remove the bolts from the wheel... errrrm... Fuck. Fuckity Fuck Fuck. Snazzles valiantly tramped out into the dark to help, but she had a tyre-thingy for mag-wheels (damn her funky purple automobile and it's butch wheels) that wouldn't fit Oli's girly nuts. I valiantly tramped to the local servo to purchase a tyre-thingy, but they didn't have one (What the fuck kind of servo is that? "Convenience" store, my arse!). So we had yet another visit from the RACV man. Now I have no spare tyre, and since all Oli's tyres are bald as badgers, it probably isn't worth repairing or replacing just one. ALSO the clunking-rattling-vibrating in his front wheel gets worse by the day... AND his rego is due this month. Oh Oli, I love you, but why do you eat my money so?

I Am As Broke As All Fuck
I am literally scraping together my last few dollars and cents to survive until next payday. (Wednesday! Hurry up, sweet precious Wednesday!) All I can do is pray that my vehicle doesn't collapse into a steaming pile of scrap metal - or any other unforseen expensive disasters befall me - before then. In the meantime, if any of my admirers out there in blog-land would care to make a donation to the MindlessMunkey Recreation & Entertainment Fund, please free to send me your credit-card details.
N.B.: Not a real charity. Donations are not Tax Deductable.

A Few Other Things
...that can't and/or shouldn't be put into words.

~~~~~~~

I am running away to the Munkey-Shack in the country this weekend (with patermunkey & Ms Cait - I wouldn't trust Oli to take me there at the moment), so hopefully a few days of frollicking on hillsides will set me grinning like an idiot again. Be well, lovers and dreamers.

what is this six-stringéd instrument but an adolescent loom?

Those of you who know me have probably rolled your eyes many a time when you have heard the words "Augie March" escape mine lips, as you know this means some kind of glassy-eyed, awe-filled worship speech is on the cards. Well prepare yourselves again, because after three long, barren, years...

AUGIE MARCH HAVE RELEASED THEIR NEW ALBUM! The title is Moo, You Bloody Choir which - to be frank - I'm still not sure how I feel about. It seems a bit too irreverant and bizarre, not really fitting for the beauty and poignancy that this band has to offer. But anyhoo, I'd already heard about a third of the tracks from the album (in various demos, live-recordings, etc) over the last few months, and needless to say (despite the suspect title) munkey was a tad excited.

Yesterday I braved the veritable hoards of Commonwealth Games volunteers clogging fair Melbourne Town, to trundle into the big new(ish) JB Hi-Fi on Bourke St. The lads were to be doing an instore performance and signing copies of the record. So I purchased my copy of Moo... and found a place peering over the Classics DVD shelf, within mere feet of the makeshift stage where Augie were to perform. A good sized crowd of a couple of hundred fans soon filled the store around me - a nice alternative-looking bunch, and surprisingly young. No-one over about 35, and even quite a few teenagers, which I found surprising, as Augie aren't exactly competing with Eminem or Greenday for chart space. I had a brief chat with a nonchalant but clearly excited fan, who gestured towards the CDs in both our hands and commented, "Been a long time between drinks, eh." Too right. Note to Glenn and the boys: DON'T MAKE US WAIT THREE YEARS NEXT TIME!

At last, The March took the stage to perform a stripped-back set of six songs - Glenn and Adam only had an acoustic guitar each, whereas they usually have banks of a few different types of guitar. Despite the crass commercial surroundings, it was shivers-down-the-spine territory. Glenn's voice was in amazing form, and the band were remarkably tight. They've obviously been putting in a lot of rehearsal time for the upcoming tour. They were also in very jovial humour, which is good as it's always a roll-of-the-dice as to whether Glenn will be in smirky-mode or surly-mode. Even when a dodgy JB-staff announcement split the air in the middle of his stark solo performance of Bottle Baby, he just grinned and muttered "That's so beautiful!" Later when doing the obligatory plug for the new record, Dave (the drummer) pointed to the giant poster behind the stage and said "It looks like that," and Glenn quipped, "Bring a ute."

After the short but brilliant show, we were all herded (somewhat appropriately, like cattle) along a table at the front of the stage to have our CDs signed in pretty silver pens (although gold would have been more appropriate, given the cover-design, but oh well). As Glenn signed mine, he noted that there was a small hair sitting on the cover of my CD. "You've got a pube there," he remarked drily, "That'll be one of Dave's; he's molting." I responded, just as drily, "I'll treasure it always," which he seemed to find amusing.

So that was my adventure with Augie March. Like all their records, Moo... is taking a bit of settling into. Standout tracks One Crowded Hour, The Cold Acre and Bottle Baby are without question among the best the boys have ever offered. Others seem decidedly UN-Augie, which is actually quite a good thing - nice to be still surprised by a group you know inside-out. Overall, by virtue of the production and mixing, it feels a lot "slicker" than their previous albums. But the genius is still well and truly intact, and they still make me feel proud to be Austrayan.

I'm well aware that the only people still reading this twaddle are Mr Afe, and possibly a select few others. (Hope you're enjoying the new record, Afe.) Thanks guys, and hey - we can't help it if the rest of the world just doesn't understand, can we.

the phrase "unmitigated fucking disgrace" springs to mind

Smoshka Night has a habit of being an event of giddy highs and soul-crushing lows. This year, the non-related munkey-family did it in style with a Pink Theme, in honour of all the queer films nominated. Munkey himself was decked out in a Wonka-inspired candy-pink frock coat, while other outfits included Snazzles in a breathtaking 80s gay-cowboy's-housewife outfit, and Lady Lilikens decked out in a pink plastic tracksuit that was quite simply jaw-dropping.

Rosé, pink champagne, musk sticks and Iced Vo-Vos were all on the Pink menu, while your intrepid blogger impressed everyone with his 70s-kitsch serviette-folding abilities (Yes, I am a fag. Deal). The 4th Semi-Annual Smoshka Awards themselves were delightful, with Star Wars: Episode III - Rehash of the Shit winning some well-deserved "should-never-have-been-made" type awards, and Orlando Bloom making it back-to-back Worst Actor awards. Meanwhile it was a head-to-head battle between the munkey and the Jellyfish as frontrunners in the world-famous Smoshkas Quiz... but I have no shame in admitting that Jelly thoroughly creamed me.

Oh yes, and of course there was an actual awards show going on during all this too. Oh how a wonderful night can be ruined by a single word uttered from Jack Nicholson's sneering lips. I am still prone to spew forth bile and vitriol if I say too much, so let's have a pictorial tour of the evening's events:


Classy. As. Hell.


Not so much... and yet still strangely wonderful.


A talented actress of miscellaneous/interchangeable Oriental extraction.


Very funny man.


Not so much.


Rumours that Nicole Kidman has been replaced by a talentless ice-breathing android are completely unfounded.


Too much fake tan!


Cute!


As a gay man, is it wrong that I find this slightly arousing?


TOO MUCH FAKE TAN!!!


A long-overdue and richly-deserved award for many years of mesemrising performances in cutting-edge roles.


Not so much. But still, it was a good performance, and she's just as cute as a button, ain't she?

Ahhh here's the moment we've all been waiting for: Best Picture...


Even though I wouldn't call it the Best picture of the year per se, it's nice to see the Academy's top award go to a solid, understated piece of cinema dealing with queer issues (finally!) in a tasteful and compassionate way.

I'm sorry? What was that? WHAT DID JACK NICHOLSON JUST SAY?!


Crash?! Fucking CRASH?! Fucking cunts! CUNTS! Fucking Academy - Los Angeles WANKERS fucking chickening out at the LAST FUCKING MINUTE from making a stand and bringing a serious, largely-unacknowledged issue into the light (hello, gay men in the closet?! HMMM NOW WHY WOULD HOLLYWOOD BE SENSITIVE ABOUT OPENING THAT TOPIC UP FOR DISCUSSION? I WONDER!!!) and instead going with a FUCKING SHITFUL LAMEASS MAGNOLIA RIP-OFF that serves up CLICHÉS GALORE to ASSUAGE their FUCKING CUNTING MIDDLE-CLASS WHITE GUILT about racism. AGAIN!! HYPOCRITICAL SHITTING FUCKING CUNTS...

Whoops. Looks like we ended up in bile-and-vitriol territory again. Ah well, these things happen.

(In the interests of journalistic integrity - always a high priority here at VotM - I must admit that I haven't actually seen Crash. However I believe my opinions are quite justified, having been cobbled together from those of my various loved-ones who have seen it. Suffice to say even those who liked it thought it was a travesty that Crash was even nominated for Best Picture, let alone winning the damn thing.)

Well I guess that's the Munkey Oscar wrap for another year, lovers and dreamers. Let's keep our fingers crossed for a little less bad plastic surgery, a little more political conscience (we have some hope in the forms of Clooney, Stewart et al) and a whole shitload more integrity from the Academy voters next year.

Oh who are we kidding? This is Hollywood! Top up my champagne and hand me that syringe full of botox! Hurrah!

five things i hate about you

I have been tagged for this “meme” (which always seems to me an intensely wanky word. But since these things, in themselves, are narcissistic, I suppose it’s appropriate) by the lovely Mr BEVIS over at I Blogged Myself. I always find these rather enjoyable to do, so I was quite chuffed, even though I suspect no-one will read it. Anyway, thanks to His Muppety Highness, and here goes:

~~~~~~~

What were you doing ten years ago?
How depressing. Ten years ago I was in my first term of VCE. So I suppose at about that time I was discovering once and for all that anything involving the complex wrangling of figures was not my bag. I found myself sitting in Maths Methods thinking, “For the love of God what are all these funny symbols on the board, and what the Hell am I doing here?!” Chemistry was much the same situation. Needless to say, my ambition to go on to study Medecine with a view to specialising in Psychiatry went up in a swift cloud of smoke. Conversely, I was discovering that I was thriving in Theatre Studies, despite having skipped a year to take on Yr 12 as a 15-year-old Yr 11 student. I was producing ravishing costumes and masks for our production of Benjamin Britten’s Noye’s Fludde, and loving every second.

What were you doing one year ago?
Even more depressing. At this time last year, I was getting over the heart-breaking dissolution of what had seemed to be the beginnings of a lovely relationship. Actually, that was pretty much my state of being for all of the latter half of 2004 / beginning of 2005. As (almost) always, I remained friends with the young man in question. I suppose that was the last of that round of false-starts, because I shortly thereafter met Mr Ryan… which was very nice for quite a while, but ended in much insanity and angst. I’d like to say “Woe is me! Why do good things so easily turn bad?” but I suspect I am not alone in this boat. A year ago, I would also have been making the big move out of the family home, buying an apartment-load of stuff-&-nonsense on my Credit Card, and nesting in my current lovely abode at Munkey Towers.

Five snacks you enjoy:
~ crackers with that amazing basil/cashew/parmesan dip. (I forget the brand name but Oh My! You must try it);
~ barbecue shapes (so more-ish);
~ potato cakes (or Scallops for those heathens in other states);
~ anything involving chocolate or caramel;
~ does gin count as a snack?

Five songs to which you know all the lyrics:
~ Fake Plastic Trees by Radiohead;
~ Mrs Robinson by Simon & Garfunkel;
~ There Is No Such Place by Augie March;
~ Dumb by Nirvana;
~ Ivy by Snazzles (words) and me (music).

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:
~ all the sensible stuff like investing, saving, living off interest, etc.;
~ pay off my Credit Card debt;
~ quit my job, and finish and fund my damn musical;
~ spend a year renting a room in Cesky Krumlov, drinking absynthe and writing a novel;
~ give to the poor, cure cancer and AIDS, build a leper colony, etc.

Five bad habits:
~ overanalysing things;
~ procrastinating;
~ spending more than I earn;
~ getting so excited by a conversation that I talk over people;
~ letting good friends drift away.

Five things you like doing:
~ engaging with music, in any number of ways;
~ watching and dissecting films;
~ spending a Sunday entirely in my pyjamas;
~ sharing time of any kind with my wonderful friends and family;
~ exploring the always compelling, often sordid, occasionally beautiful world of online communication.

Five things you would never wear, buy or get new again:
~ cheap underwear from Dimmeys (I don’t care how poor I am);
~ happy-pants (remember those things?!);
~ an album on Cassette tape (what century is this?);
~ Futurama DVDs (because I have them all – unless they finally make the long-promised new series);
~ a book by Elliot Perlman (after literally throwing Three Dollars across the room).

The meme stuff:
Remove the blog listed in the top spot from the following list and bump everyone up one place. Then add your blog to the bottom slot:

HighRiser
Random Concoction
Anyone Can Try Anything Twice
I Blogged Myself
The Voice Of The Munkey

Then select five people to tag:
Apologies to any of these people who have no desire to be tagged, or who may have already done this meme. Do it if you want to, blow it out your ass if you don’t (and I say that with the greatest love and affection, of course). I hereby tag:

Afe Stein (The Afe Blog)
Darcy (The Semi Naked Truth)
Jester (Jester's Court)
redshirter (The House of A)
Sam (The Adventures of QueerPenguin)
(I also want to tag Mr Doull / Bear-Wabbit, but he currently has No Fixed Abode in the Blogosphere.)

images for a disturbed and beautiful world

Boing Boing always has something wonderful to discover. The other day, it introduced me to an artist who has instantly become one of my favourites.

His name is Mark Ryden, and his website is here.

Here is a taste of his delicious, dangerous imagery:











I just love the juxtaposition of the innocent with the creepy, the sacred with the profane, the cutesy with the horrific.

Oh to be rich and have a large house filled with beautiful things. *sigh*

P.S. ~ THIS IS MY 200th POST!!! ARE YOU NOT EXCITED?!

[cue balloons and streamers falling from the sky]