What a week! First I see Australia’s own Alice Burdeu on the tram, her hair substantially less red (as a fellow fake ‘ranga, I feel you), but just as pretty as always, on the Lygon St tram, and she was polite enough to not be weirded out by my open staring and frantic texting. Then FourFour drew my attention to America’s Own Elyse Sewell and her entirely delightful LiveJournal, chronicling her work as a model in China. Here are some reasons why I eat Elyse with a spoon if given the chance.
1. She comes across, and documents, things like this.
2. She’s a DIY kind of girl. As an aside, I came across a store selling these candy fruit sticks in the city, and I’m dying to go there and try it, but that involves a degree of going to the city that I’m simply not comfortable with any more.
I totally agree with Mr Mann on this one. I plan on finding a way to work it into every subject I end up shepherding listless undergrads through. That’s completely appropriate, right? Oh, yeah, this is so appropriate right now.
According to I09 they’re remaking V, and by ‘they’ they mean the dude behind the convoluted and terminally uninvolving The 4400, which means to any objective viewer this show will suck. But not to me! All the scaffolding and gas works and big hair and jumpsuits and rodent eating left a deep impression on my young mind. They’ll be keeping the rodent eating, right? Right?
Last night, as I lay prone and useless in front of reruns of ‘House’ on an obnoxiously large television, I heard what sounded like someone walking on the roof. It’d happened before; one early morning one of my neighbours knocked on my door to say they’d heard someone running around on our roofs (rooves?) that night, and when he went out to investigate he’d discovered a man crouched in my front yard, and the yard-croucher ran off and my neighbour called the police. It gives me comfort to know that my neighbours are looking out for me, but it also makes me suspicious of roof-walking sounds, so I went to call Toki in from outside.
But Toki was nowhere to be found. I shook a box of cat food. No cat. My neighbour stuck her head out her door. ‘I think your cat’s on the roof.’
‘But he’s a very small cat,’ I replied. ‘That sounded like someone much heavier.’ She said the houses were old, and I insisted it was some kind of prowler, and then Toki stuck his small, bucktoothed face over the edge of the roof and began mewling pitifully. I tried to talk him down.
‘You got yourself up there, cat, you can get yourself down.’
‘Merf.’
‘Do you want me to find a ladder?’
‘Merf.’
‘Cats are meant to be agile. C’mon, you can do this.’
‘Merf.’
I went back inside and texted my ex about the situation. I contemplated asking him to come over, as he was taller than I and could stand on a chair and retrieve Toki from the roof. As I opened up a new message I heard an almighty crash outside the bedroom window, and Toki ran in, covered in gutter debris, and went straight out the back door. From now on I’ll be making him wear one of those helmets they put on epileptic kids.
Don’t get me wrong: I fucking hate kneejerk, Adbusters-style, sanctimonious anti-consumerism. I’m superficial and materialistic and, dangitall, I’m proud. But I do feel a little uncomfortable with advertisers co-opting the surprising, surreal joy of Improv Everywhere’s style and using it to sell things. Yeah, it’s fun that all those people were dancing in a train station, but please don’t tell me such happiness is dependent on a mobile phone. Please let a pantsless subway ride be simply a pantsless subway ride, without trying to sell me anything.
I was noodling around the Ikea website, as you do, when I noticed they have new textiles up. Ikea’s fabrics are the best. I have a bolt of Patricia, the one with all the balls on sticks, waiting to be sewn into curtains as soon as I summon the energy to get on a train to Camberwell and get my machine repaired.
Either way, the new Saralisa range is beautiful. God, I love this trippy, rather glandular print. It reminds me of Fantastic Planet. While it’ll be hard to figure out what to make with what is undoubtedly a ginormous repeat, I’m sure I’ll figure something out. Giant floor cushions for my opium den? Oversize bong cover? Floating meditation bubble?
My sister emailed me Dooce’s post on cute dog videos, and I received proof positive that just as I should avoid pastels and am genetically intolerant of chilli, I am a 100% cat person. Because those ‘cute’ dog videos creeped me the fuck out.
I mean this one?
The manic little dog is frantically humping the big dog with the restless, unfocused intensity of a meth addict, then another big fluffy dog comes over and barks at the two of them, and how is that not just disturbing?
According to 
