Life Think #77: Lollision

February 25, 2010

Patent pending: Anti-Snore Airbag (Slogan: “Your car may be a twisted wreck but that doesn’t mean your marriage has to be”)

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Life Think #76: Celebrigoss

February 20, 2010

I am certainly no stranger to the entertainment industry having written several lauded “celebrity watch” columns (unsolicited) for the Illawarra Mercury – none of which were published. On reflection I believe my mistake lay in naming the column “Friedhof On-The-Prowl” and including a picture of myself (shirtless) prowling provocatively toward the camera, with a come-hither-to-my-bed-chamber look on my face; an unflattering pose for a gentleman afflicted by what my doctor has unkindly described as “a chronic case of the man-teaters”.

Nevertheless I learnt a thing or two – one of which was to ensure celebrity names are always printed in bold. The second and final thing I was forced to learn was the use of a QWERTY keyboard, despite my insistence that the DVORAK Russian model was the superior typing apparatus, notwithstanding its objectionable communist links.

Of course my musings harked back to the halcyon days of quality Australian television. Hey, Hey It’s Saturday? Brilliant. Even the title of the show itself was factual, informative and, no doubt, true. In most cases it was indeed Saturday and though I disapproved exceedingly of the second, superfluous “Hey” (something I made palpably clear in several candid letters Kerry Packer) I couldn’t help but be drawn in by the show hyperbolically described as, and I quote, “reasonably alright I guess” (Germaine Greer, when I made repeated requests for her opinion after a taping of Tony Jones’ Q&A).

What unquestionably appealed to me most was the ubiquitous taciturn violence on the show. The repressed fascism of Red Simons; the merry-go-round of stuffed Ozzie Ostriches which contestants had to vigorously beat with a bat; the thinly veiled attacks on Molly Meldrum’s sexuality during his segment.

But my unique take on celebrigoss™ comes not just from watching television on a Saturday night, whilst wearing a t-singlet and eating corn kernels directly from the can with a plastic camping spoon. No more than eighteen years ago I was entertaining the Iranian Shah at my illustriously appointed villa in the southern hills of Cessnock when he asked me in his endlessly amusing and kitsch accent (British) to give him a blow-by-blow account of my friendship with the wealthy robber baron J.D. Rockefeller.

During the stock market crash of 1927/28 I advised Rockefeller to stop giving out dimes to passing children and switch to nickels thus saving him billions in today’s money. He tried to thank me by buying me an allotment of land (Canada), but the looks on the children’s faces were payment enough for me.

One time he asked me if I would speak at his wedding. “Of course I’m going to speak!” I shrieked indignantly “What, do you think I’m going to spend the entire evening in silence stuffing my face with canapes like a ravenous mute?”

Even years after his death in 1937 Rockefeller still had the women screaming and going weak at the knees, though some say this was due to the foul stench emitting from his rotting corpse. In hindsight it was a mistake not to bury him sooner but these were the days of World War 2 and many couldn’t be bothered.

Have you ever considered that right now someone may be reminiscing about you in the future?

Life Think #74: Fictionary

February 10, 2010

Definition: Acupuncture [noun, verb, -tured, -tur⋅ing] Something you do to your body that your landlord won’t even let you do to the walls of your apartment