Tuesday, May 23, 2006

Juxtaposition Records

Morissey Fans of the Past vs Morrissey Fans Today

Monday, May 22, 2006


Would the real Amy Lewis please stand up?

It's Ok to admit it - at times we have all found ourselves in a familiar situation. You're alone in the house, perhaps sampling a cheeky beaujolais as you tap out a chain email, enjoying the latest Sims 2 screenshots, or updating your Hey Dad Fanfiction (on the site that YOU, Emma Lewis, are starting ASAP). All of a sudden, you feel the urge deep inside to do something spontaneous. Something a little frisky. Something that others would deem to be wrong.

Tonight, as I waited for my significant other to return from work at the box factory, I too felt the urge. I drew the curtains, turned up Kenny G's Amore , and gave in to tempation - I googled my own name.

Much to my horror, moments later I found myself traversing the excpetionally concise, sometimes confronting, sometimes downright baffling www.amylewisonline.com.

The first thing I was struck by (other than a sexy close up shot that indicates her genetic "Ranga" disposition), was the sheer breadth of information that could be gleaned about this particular Amy Lewis, at the mere touch of a key.

I quivered as I clicked on the link that is tittilatingly titled "sexy". As the title indicates, the link is a doorway to a veritable treasure chest of images that show Amy's tough side, innocent side, sexy side (and heavily photoshopped side).

As I read her bio, it became evident that Amy Lewis, actor, poet, artist and model from New Orleans may not have much to say to Amy Lewis, accounts clerk from Westmeadows, should they meet in a crowded McDonalds, Dimmey's sale or feminist haiku reading.

Whilst I spend my precious hours whittling wood, shaving my legs or adding to my German Shepherd cross stitch, the other Amy muses;

"I worked wtih Steven Scott and a great indie cast on a docudrama about the unraveling life of a documentary filmmaker as he researches the Fibonacci sequence and encounters a young boy with Aspergers Syndrome. I play Caroline the young boy's mom."

How can I, a girl born to Janet and Stephen Lewis, who's biggest achievement in life was succesfully taping all 32 seasons of M*A*S*H in chronological order on Betamax, compete with;

"Born in the month of April in New Orleans to a British mom who gave me my red hair & head strong, independent attitude and a Southern Louisiana bred dad who taught me to stay grounded, to be kind & generous & never NEVER change who I really am to please others."

Superior Amy Lewis, you win this round.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

Homeless Men Live in my Park

Ladies and gentlemen, I'm no snob. I appreciate those less fortunate than me just as much as the next socially over-reacting princess who's never known true hardship, not even mild hardship, not even for one goddamn day of her silver spoon fed, middle class, tertiary educated,come home for dinner because your father just wasted two grand on putting another level on the entertainment unit life.

Since I moved out of the family home, I've had my fair share of ups and downs. It wasn't all peaches and cream when I first fluttered out of the Lewis nest, feathery wings still damp with the yolky goodness of the prison on Arnside Crescent. No sooner had I put down my Janet Lewis care package of plums, doilies and Ajax, when I found myself faced with the seemingly impossible challenge of staying nourished, dry-clothed and disease-free whilst squeezing in at least eight nights of cask wine binges in per week - They weren't all halcion days.

But I have matured now. No longer do I choose properties that back on to rat infested waterways, or that have drug dealing tag-teaming taxi drivers downstairs who's flat smells of freshly struck matches morning, noon and night. I am careful to avoid what appears to be a 'bargain rental', only to be dissapointed two months after signing the lease when a middle-aged jaundiced herion addict interrupts your midday shower by kicking down your security door and 'borrowing' your Xbox. Ladies and gentlemen, my palatte has evolved.

When we first happened upon our current West Melbourne abode, the young man who still resided on the premises had a cheeky little habit. This man, bless, had a penchant for collecting. To this day I am unable to refine his passion to a single hobby category. But mark my words, if there is a club for people who collect a large number of greasy-furred dogs in small concreted spaces, enjoy stacking greasy newspapers up to the ceiling of their intesitinal-gaseous living rooms, or take pride in their balding, ancient parrot that is conveniently situated in a rusted, feculent, faeces encrusted cage in their kitchen, then this man should have been president.

Luckily, we saw through this cocktail of poo and detritus, and were pleasantly suprised upon our arrival to find that it had been scrubbed up to showroom quality. Once furnished, it was clear that this was a property worth holding on to, tantalisingly located next door to a beautiful park and playground.

Sure - there is the small matter of the Flagstaff Men's Crisis Centre located a stone's throw from our white picket fence. We are of the opinion that this is a very fine crisis centre indeed, due to the strict rules that are enforced on it's patrons, involving noise, drug use and drinking. I am convinced that on any given night of the week, a pin drop could be heard in the centre's hallowed halls. Why? Because all the homeless men LIVE IN OUR PARK, and wait until the very last second to check in for the evening.

Oh how I relish our summers here. Who can forget Christmas morning, when Sam opened the front door on his way to get milk and there was an odourous, yelling man asleep in our yard? Not a soul on this street did not enjoy that one night in February, in which several members of the park hobo club conducted a barbituate-fuelled vocal hoe down that included a haunting rendition of Pearl Jam's Jeremy at maximum screaming pitch, lasting well past midnight. And the time that the one guy that looks a little too much like Uncle Bob, never wears a shirt and lists his passions as minimalist classical music, Roquefort cheese and slowly inhaling atomised paint thinner out of a safeway bag approached Sam while he was washing my car, and gave him a lecture on his mate who got bashed up, was 'covered in claret', 'shouldn't let his kids see him lookin' like that' and "can you give me ten dollars' - Yep, I sure thought Sam was going to come home with a syringe in his back that afternoon!

This is why I don't pay tax.

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

I am not like the other people.

One of the relics of my upbringing (wolves, Westmeadows, 1981-2003), is what some would deem to be a highly specific set of rules regarding the preparation of food for my consumption. I demand a level of consistency and specificity of ingredients that leaves most people with a bad taste in their mouths, and a fatty clot in their medulla. In a workplace such as the one I work in, I look forward to the meal of lunch more than a healthy female of my age and species should. I have been known to devote the entire hour that falls between eleven and twelve in the morning fantasising about a very specific amount of pepper being crushed over a very specifically chosen slice of organic truss tomato, which is placed on a wedge of not but the finest, creamiest, oldest brie or cheddar I can locate at the time, which is placed in turn on only the freshest and crunchiest of savoy biscuit - all for my carnal eating pleasure.

I have also been known to create on-the-spot a la carte menus from scratch, using non-traditional ingredients, when my hunger pang demands the perfect combination of flavour and texture to be satiated. It was at this very desk that I formulated the recipe that would haunt my gastronomic dreamscape for months to come - the Pepermint Cashew Green M&Ms Salad. Unable to satisfy myself within the boundaries set by what society defines as a regular salad, I decided to create a salad within my own boundaries. On reflection, when comparing both salad definitions side by side, whilst they are analagous in several ways, I believe that my creation has evolved dynamically to the point that it is in itself a new phylum of salad. Yet, to my dissapointment, my colleagues' reaction was mostly gasps of abject horror as they passed my desk, where I spent most of the afternoon head in troth, carefully devouring each morsel, pausing only to wipe a hoof across my sweating brow.

A recent development has occurred in our staff kitchen that has sent shockwaves through the office and my salivary glands. A small plug-in toasted sandwich maker, of generic brand orgin, has been placed next to the microwave for our use. I took to this new addition like a moth to a flame. An hour after it's arrival, I had returned from my local Leo's clutching a bag of tasty toastables. Within this bag could be found the peice de resistance - A 250gram tub of Western Star Butter. Ladies and gentlemen, I pity the fool who would use a butter blend, or - heaven forbid - a margarine or canola-based cooking spray, when preparing a toasted bread treat. And before you even suggest it, the thought of deeming this magnificent topping unspreadable by refrigerating it makes me want to regurgitate black bile as I write it.

So when I returned to the kitchen for delicious toasty number two for the afternoon, I found myself struck with nausea when unable to locate my Western Star. I could barely breathe as I opened the fridge door - and there it was, cold and brittle as a Galway pipe on the frosted shelf. I decided not to overreact - it simply would not be ladylike. I believe in peaceful protest, so I chose to stand in the centre of our foyer, puffing out my chest and throwing faeces at everyone who looked at me sideways, until the culprit was found. Then I had it - a confession from our receptionist. She had seen MY butter resting safely at room temperature in the kitchen pantry and taken it upon herself to make a decision regarding it's welfare. After returning my property to it's rightful home, I took issue with the culprit. And her motive - a fear of the butter 'going off'. I could hardly speak from rage. I explained to her that as an adult woman living in this technically advanced era, I was free to enjoy butter at any temperature with little fear of spoilage. Her response was to grimace, mouth agape, indicating that my lifestyle choice was abhorrent to her. And so be it. We are all own people.

But mark my words, I will find a way to make butter spoil rapidly. I will use an internet search engine if necessary to carry out this task. I will collect my rancid creation in a receptacle and bring it to work. I will then bide my time. And, at a perfectly chosen moment, I will spread the mould encrusted mess on to a plain Cruskit, and noisily devour it in her face. I will watch her dry wretch in a spasm of revulsion, and I will snort with laughter.

And then I will be happy.

Saturday, May 06, 2006

I think I must have left my diginity in my other pants last night.

Moments after posting last night, my friend arrived and we commenced a fifteen minute jog, in our fancy lady boots, through the rain to the aforementioned comedy venue/ pub. We were running late, which meant the run soon took on a very Frogger feel. Somehow we managed to arrive on time, looking a a little worse for wear, but ready to pay our $7.50 to the Irish sterotype at the door and settle down for an hour of the sassy comedy stylings of our travel agent, Harry.

I chose to start with a couple of my favourite beverages;

1 X pint of Guinness
1 X bottle of merlot

Perhaps, in hindsight, this is where the unpleasantness could have been avoided.

Before we knew it, Harry was on stage. I like Harry. He is a genuinely nice fellow. At the travel agents desk, he provided the perfect level of good humour lubricant to effectively soften our serious financial blows up the poop shute. Up under the lights however, it was a different story. Had all the tables been occupied by five giggling female twenty somethings with a skin full of booze (eg: us), and not surly looking English backpackers wearing "Sperm Donor" t-shirts, or mothers and their THIRTEEN year old daughters, things may have gone the other way for poor Harry. We tried to hold him up with our laughs alone, and thank baby jesus, by the end of the show the awkwardness had been replaced by something far more preferable - Drunkenness.

The next comedian, Nick, had an English accent and riduculed Australian sporting teams alot, which seemed to get a good reaction from the crowd. We drank with him and Harry after the show. I seem to recall a second and third bottle of wine being purchased. Things started to blur. Did I vomit a little in the toilet? Does that pain in my knee this morning indicate that perhaps I took a spill at some stage? Why does my handbag contain several hundred gold and silver coins and an extra set of unfamiliar keys?

Scene missing.

I remember looking at the clock, trying to decipher the mystery of twenty four hour time. I remember calling Sam. I remember banging my fists on the table and shouting alot, for some reason. I have an unplaceable memory of shovelling a cold pork pie and relish into my mouth. I remember falling on to several laps and clasping at strange mens shirts as I made my way out on to the street. I recall resting my weary head on a copper statue for a moment while I gathered my thoughts.

I have the world's most tolerant boyfriend. He called my phone - I was able to tell him that I was on the corner of Exhibition and Burke streets, but had "no idea where that is". Soon I was home, able to vomit freely in the bleachy depths of my own toilet. Insert ten hours of sleep here, punctuated by the preparation and consumption of several thousand Cottees lemon cordial drinks.

I tried to call the girls this morning. I was finally able to speak to Marnie. To my delight, it turns out that one of the girls took Nik home and gave him a good shagging last night, perhaps after making the clever decision to purchase Bottle of Red # 4. I sank back into bed, relieved that the shame spotlight was pointed firmly at someone other than me. I reached into my bag and unrolled one of Nick's posters. He must have autographed it for me at some stage.

It read:

"For Golden Shower Amy. Lots of love and urine hugs, Nik"

Where are my other pants?

Friday, May 05, 2006

I am jealous of my twin sisters blog

Something terrible has happened over the last few days.

My twin sister Emma has stared blogging, and is putting me to SHAME with hilarious posts that have at times left me gasping for breath and clutching my chest (with a little bit of wee in my pants). And as the superior one in this relationship, and frankly the more attractive one too, mark my words, I will not be shown up. Not that I would call hers a true wit per say, it's more
her ability to perceive and express in an ingeniously humorous manner the relationship between seemingly incongruous or disparate things that gets me every time. You guys know what I mean.

So it's Friday night, and I'm about to head out to see my travel agent and a comedy show, simultaneously. "How can this be?" I hear you think. Well, you see, they are indeed the same thing. Long story, but a group of us ended up buying twelve thousand dollars worth of airline tickets from a man who works as a travel agent by day, arse raping foolhearty types such as ourselves out of our life savings for 'budget' flights to Europe, and does stand up comedy loosely based on his resemblance to Harry Potter by night. Seeing we dropped twelve G-bangers in his office, I figure the least we can do is pay to see his stand up show.

Hang on, that's a fucking terrible deal. Where's my gun?