My Riverside Calendar Shot

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The Applecross foreshore last weekend.

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What's with George Eads' Hair?

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Hey Zeitgeisters, BLUR certainly hit on the head with that one. And why pray tell, Mr Trivia, is it so trashy? You know those pop-up flash games that the ‘net so generously provides when you’re having a surf? Blah Insurance invites you to whack a frog with a nine-iron to see how far it can fly - that sort of thing? I just came across one that suggested I might like to: tickle the fat kid til he barfs. The fat kid in question is animated, has a mohawk and wears a t-shirt that says “I heart cake” and the prize for tickling the kid – with a convenient feather - is a free ringtone. So I do it, I’m one of Pavlov’s dogs or maybe I’m just a sheep. I tickle the fat kid with a feather. After a few seconds there’s movement, but before there’s any peristaltic action, the kid pees himself and only then projectile vomits straight into the air. Sure, we left political correctness behind somewhere after DRAWN TOGETHER, on the road to Fallujah, but COME ON! And no, I didn’t collect my...
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Vending Machine Win

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Hotness

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Let us imagine for a moment that you live in a civilized part of the world where spin, publicity and promotion trouble you infrequently. Its like a rare exotic bird glimpsed through the leaves and branches (and no, I’m not referring to Sam the Fruit Loops Toucan). In my part of the world there has been a habit of late to advertise questionable television with these three scorching words: Just Got Hotter. Thus, a year ago one might have heard these words issuing from the Tube: “the OC – Just Got Hotter”. Of course this genius phrase has been liberally applied to a number of television shows of varying soapiness. In TV terms, Just Got Hotter, usually means some hot girl or boy related to one of the other hot boys or girls has arrived in the street, suburb, town (whatever) and is likely to launch a hotness offensive that will singe every other character older than sixteen and younger than 24 in the ‘hood, bay, valley (whatever). I think the time to extend this phrase into the Real Worl...
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Monday. Sick at home and thus unable to educate today’s youth to not say LOL as a word. Not that I can manage this even when I’m there. I discover day-time television is as terrible as night-time television with a couple of subtle differences. Day-time TV is filled with infomercials about buying life insurance without a medical and infomercials for bagless, cyclonic Dyson ripoff vacuum cleaners that can pick up a bowling ball using just suction. Night-time telly is filled with infomercials about how the whole world is going crazy for Zumba and informercials with scantily clad ladies (some of whom can pick up a bowling ball using just suction) who want you to call them NOW for just $20.00 a minute.
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Answer Rhymes With Dancer

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Imagine confronting these bad-asses at your kid's Parent-Teacher night. Zeitgeisters, It would indeed take a churl to point out that the current incarnation of INXS, with JD Fortune as lead singer, has some of the most generic pop songs one has heard in donkeys' years. The massively successful album SWITCH has yielded Pretty Vegas , Afterglow , Devil’s Party and Perfect Strangers (if you live in Oz). Now the plodding Never Let You Go is cluttering up polite airways everywhere with its mid-tempo shout out to Certified Practicing Accountants who have lost their PDAs. The chorus kicks out the jams. The words speak of a heartache many of us have known, but few could express better than this: If someday I find me the answer, move down south and marry a dancer I could never let you go And when he's holding you, you remember the day I met you, one cold December I could never let you go Oh, I could never let you go And we can never let you go, INXS, especially with your new fo...
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Coiffure Fury

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Zeitgeisters, I don’t mind it when Miss Raspberry Beret asks me if what she’s wearing is hot, happening, kicking out the jams, etc. This is a dread area for many guys but I’ve watched enough Trinny and Susannah or QUEER EYE to give it a red hot go. However, I can’t answer any of her questions about hair. Freakin’ hair. A Woman’s Crowning Glory etc. When posited a follicular styling question, I revert to being Mr C from HAPPY DAYS, or Fred Mertz from I LOVE LUCY or Fred MacMurray from MY THREE SONS (more on MacMurray soon). That is to say, as hapless as any iconic 1950s television husband when faced with something feminine. So the other day we’re getting ready to go out and Miss RB says, “I don’t know what to do with my hair. What do you think?” I try severally to weasel out of it. I distract with light chat about climate change. I attempt to make it a feminist issue that simply doesn’t involve my input. “But I value your opinion,” Miss RB says. So I employ hyperbole. “This c...
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