"Look at ma face. AmIbovvered?"

A swanky labyrinth of intrigue and delight awaits you

Ahhh yes, I love South Melbourne. The Victorian homes, the leafy alleys, Clarendon Street, Melbourne's "French Quarter," Father Bob, Town Hall Trivia... it has it all. All that, and an old Victorian home/shop converted into what can only be described as a caberet-theatre-cum-cocktail-lounge filled with tchachkes floor t0 ceiling run by two gay men who love to play said Caberet covers of Hit Me Baby One More Time and Blue by Eiffel 65 and run Burlesque and drag shows in the front room. Or, as the website puts it, "this doll-house sized Windsor Castle of camp kitsch and good times has to be experienced to be believed."

I am speaking-- of course-- about the Butterfly Club. And when my American comrades come visit, they will most certainly experience its glory. Sadly, visitors in '06 did not get to enjoy a Sparkling Sunset cocktail or bask in the glow of the fireplace underneath the creepy, creepy doll collection, because of tight time constraints, but for the RFL and others-- I am making it top priority.

What was meant to be a quick evening catching up with Housie's former housemate + GF:















turned out to be another one of those nights I so love: eating and drinking with a motley crew of Aussies.

We were meant to see the show "The Divine Miss Z Sings the Divine Miss M." Truth be told, we were unsure if this was going to be a drag show. The image on the website was misleading:













Is this a tranny? Is this an abstract/Andy Warhol-ised headshot of Bette circa 1977? So many questions... For a variety of reasons, however, namely, da funds, we all opted to get some drinks instead [SIDENOTE: Catching a glimpse through the theatre's cracks upon our departure ensured we weren't missing much... she was 100% woman. Where's the fun in THAT?!] and chitchat in the back area (underneath the life-size Hustler doll; I'll spare you an image). After our cravings for burgers consumed us (perhaps this is because these are currently the contents of my fridge and pantry: hard-boiled eggs, yoghurt, condiments, crackers, and Weet-Bix), we walked down to the Town Hall (trivia nights!) to find it was $10 burger night! Scorehuge!

And because I told myself I would make this blog as dissimilar to a journal as humanly possible, I will stop describing my night right there. Just know it's nights like these that make me never want to leave.

I'll put some more pictures of the Butterfly Club because really words do not do it justice.

DOLLS!!! AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!




















it's a bar; there are tables and stools





















and obvi mini pagodas and 18th century portraits and Victorian wing chairs






























giving my chock-a-block bedroom a run for its money





















very camp: Ken Doll party inside a Mann Chinese Theater of sorts

So many puns, so little time

King of the Wild Frontieeerrrrrrrr!

Cousin Chick, about whom I could write appropximately 8,953 blog entries, provides me with much entertainment. Much, much, much entertainment. More than I could really get into on this space. But perhaps will eventually. He wears many hats, as I always say. LITERALLY. Chick LOVES costumes and props and acting and comedy, and he only just turned 8.

He plays Gaelic football (huh?), takes Karate, used to take Irish dance (but would never perform for me when I babysat him), and is currently a Cub Scout. He knew the name for all the dinosaurs when he was six. He could retell the story of the crucifixion in preschool ("Poor baby Jesus, you don't know it, but one day, they're gonna nail you to a CROSS") and loves to sing about the snows of Mt Kilimanjaro (which he knows are in Africa). He referred to himself as a "Pachyderm Papa" when Aunt Amy adopted an elephant for him at the Philadelphia Zoo. You see the comedic material here?

I have just been informed (via a purposefully-Comic Sans e-mail from his mother-- OH, CHEERS! NOT.) that he was Davy Crockett for Biography Day at his school (he features on that page obvi), of which Anna Quindlen is a notable alumna. His ex-girlfriend was Amelia Earhart:























Yes, ex. It seems Chick just doesn't have time for the ladies, what with all his extra-curriculars.

Inspiration

Haven't had a good cry in a while?

Simply purchase the Choir of Hard Knocks CD on Itunes (might have to sign in via Australia) and listen to Put a Little Love in Your Heart and Not Pretty Enough (Kasey Chamber's, yeah!) and the tears will flow. Promise. But not sad tears-- more like the tears I experience when I watch Dove's Campaign for Real Beauty commercials or read an article about the US southern town that adopted 20+ Sudanese refugees or Good Weekend's Just the Two of Us about a couple who survived the Holocaust and have been married for sixty years. You know, tears of joy... for the beauty of humanity.

I've missed their show on ABC basically the entire season cos I pretty much didn't know it existed until recently. A shame because everyone heralds it as "THIS is reality television." I blame our craptastic aerial and finicky indoor antenna... Some of the members are well known from selling the Big Issue (UK version cos Oz doesn't seem to have its own website) around town, and some are new to the spotlight.




















33 year old Josephine McKinnon (theage)

Everyone certainly has a story to tell. One woman's husband died five years ago and is now having trouble finding after-school help for her son who has Asperger's. Oh, and she's been blind all her life. She told the Age, "I've never had a more accepting bunch of people around me."

Amazing.

Homesick, PLAYAS

I do get homesick being down here in the Antipodes; it's true. Besides missing my amazing friends and family (obv), there are certain things I really long for after being away from the US for approx 484 days, including, but not limited to, the following:

• Hip-hop lifestyle pervading the mainstream
• WaWa hoagies, soft preztels, and cappucinos
• Quality bagels
• Pumpkin as a sweet, not a savoury
• Jewish delis and kosher pickles from the barrel
• Triscuits
• Cheesesteaks
• Blue Moon
• Yuengling
• Victoria Secret Very Sexy For Her Perfume
• Cheap generic ibuprofen in bulk
• 'Click' deodorant
• Gap
• H & M
• J Crew
• Ann Taylor
• The self sufficiency of my own car (rollin the Honda)
• Non-erratically scheduled television
• Cheap movies (that premiere at the same time as the Northern Hemisphere)
• TLC, MTV, A&E, Comedy Central

The thing that I also miss-- that prompted me to compose this list-- is something I never really acknowledged I liked in the first place. At the stadium where I work, there is general order to the pre-game entertainment. And since I have to stand on an aisle for two hours before the game starts and before most people arrive, I pretty much have this schedule down pat.

1) Britney's Spear's version of 'My Prerogative;' random country singer's verion of 'I Hope You Dance;' Justin Timberlake's 'What Goes Around Comes Around;' Ciara's 'Goodies'
2) last half of an AFL game from 1-3 years previous, features two teams set to play that day
3) the same commercial for Foxtel played approx. 12 times
4) commercial for Toyota
5) safety announcements
6) club offers
7) that bloody Foxtel commercial again
8) classic Australian song of which I do not know the title

And the most important moment in that entire list? The one that swallowed me in a mini rush of homesickness?

Freaking Ciara.



















I literally was like "Aw, Ciara! Senior Year! Nick's phone ring! Sad"

And it's not that I actually miss trashy southern crunk/misogynistic rap music, per se. It's just that I miss watching Cribs and witnessing southern rapers waste their money from their first album on a giant aquarium and tacky leather couches, or being around people who might want to start their own gold teeth business, or dancing to sistas like Ciara at houseparties, or watching Freestyle Friday on 106 & Park.

It's the possibility of hearing Ciara on the radio that I miss, and the hip-hop culture in general. The Aussies are soo not having that down here.

And I have a theory on why that is so, based on nothing empirical whatsoever. There is something here called the Tall Poppy Syndrome, whereby people who have 'made it' get knocked down by the masses for, well, making it. It's a bit of a Catch-22.

For instance, before his wife died and everyone was paranoid about making any bad comments about him, Rove McManus got a bad rep for 'selling out' and hosting his own show on a big time network. Thing is, he put in the hard yards, or as they say here (disregarding the letter R), 'the hahd yahds,' on community TV and worked hard to get where he got.

Still, people are all 'Waaaaah, he's famous! Waaaaah!' Sort of the Hollywood pasttime of building up celebrities so we can bring them down (which we are quite happy to do, I might add), but with a more populist, anti-snobbery approach.

Which is why, I believe, Aussies are not so down with rappers, particularly ones flaunting gold teeth and new money. Boasting is a core component of hip-hop-- it has been since the beginning. You boast about your neighbourhood, your car, your girlfriend, your money, your jewellery (they spell it with 2 Ls here!). It is just not in the Australian collective blood to brag. They are notoriously self-deprecating and laconic, leaving no room for rappers to do their thang.*

Well, as that voice on Little Britain says when referencing Emily Howard or Daffyd Thomas, 'takes all sorts I suppose.' It is what makes Australia Australia. And if that means there won't be too many blokes walking around with gold teeth, well, I guess that's alright with me.

*There are Australian rappers, but as I've said before, their street cred is hard to sell to a savvy US listener. But props where props are due: I enjoy The Hilltop Hoods, and they redid their entire Hard Road album with the Adelaide Symphony Orchestra (a la my precious Ben and his orchestral tour of Oz). And we did see sime fairly good MCs at First Floor the other night, didn't we? Haha

A Sartorial PSA

LEGGINGS

ARE

NOT

PANTS.

They belong to the hosiery, not the trouser, family.

This includes you, 16-year-old female St Kilda supporters who think it's acceptable to wear a larger(er) jersey and your cute new black Wittner boots to the footy. Put on some PANTS. It's cold outside.

Thanks very much.

I love this man. Full stop.

I have no idea where I'll be February '08 financially or physically, but I can honestly say that emotionally and musically, with every sinew and fibre in my being, I will be wishing I was with Ben Folds on a freaking 5-day magical musical cruise.

I'm still RSVPing for the presale.

Madre, perhaps a masters degree regalo? I gave you the address to this here blog a mere 24 hours ago. Coincidence? Not likely.