Scored a job in Theatre!

I’m officially assisting the production of Mort. The Terry Prachett novel is funny, clever and very entertaining. As soon as my day job finishes, I’m hassling the talented director for advertising posters and whipping up a media storm. It is a local show and I’m looking forward to seeing the performance at the new Entertainment Cube in the Bunbury Regional Entertainment Centre.

Fingers crossed that none of the actors actually break their legs or go all diva on opening night. Check it out – http://bit.ly/1plUkx7
Mort

Who is the Better Friend?

I arrived in Melbourne: awesome city. I’m from Perth so any city is awesome.

My friend met me at the airport, “Mel, you’re in Melbourne! Whadaya want to see first?”
I just hopped off the plane so I didn’t want to do anything at all.
“I want to see the bright lights from your TV and your DVD collection.”
“No, don’t be ridiculous. We have a lot to offer the tourist: culture, book stores, fashion, federation square…”
“Let me stop you there: DVD + eyeballs = TV.”
“Mel, you need to experience Melbourne.”
“I will, and I’d like to experience Melbourne via the television.”
“No, we are going for a drive.”

I don’t know why I have friends.

So we are out for a drive. The excitement is never-ending and my friend announces, “Let’s pop in on Deanne. She’s really nice. She’s South African and loves living in Australia. You’ll love her.”
“I’d love your lounge chair and your telly. That is what I would love.” I mutter.

As we are driving into the driveway, Deanne has already opened the door and rushed down the driveway. Her arms are open and she greets us with a massive smile and many warm greetings.
“Welcome, welcome. It is so good to see you all. Come in, Come in. Oh this is your friend! I’ve heard much about you. Oh! It is so good to meet you.”
She embraces me and leads me to a comfy chair. *Yep, I do love her.*
“Make yourself comfortable. Are you hungry? I have plenty of food. It would be a pleasure to share with you my friends. And we will talk, yeah, we will catch up.”
“Hee hee, bye Deanne.” I wave girlishly as she enters her kitchen.

Deanne is not ripping open a packet of doritos and dumping them in a bowl – no, she is whipping up ordervey things with toothpicks.

My friend nudges me and says, “Why can’t you be a bit more like Deanne?”
“What?” My brilliant comeback.
“Remember when I visited you last year?”
“Are you still stroppy about that? Look, you ‘popped’ over, unannounced, between the hours of 8am and 10pm, which you know is not a good time for me.”
“What was the first thing I said to you?”
“I have just travelled three thousand kms to see you. Wow, has it really been five years?” I responded.
“And what did you say to me?” She glared at me.
“Well… I asked, well, ‘is it important?’” *valid question*. “But, then I said, ‘Come on in… but I’ve got no food’.”
“And then what did you say?”
“I think I sighed, clicked my tongue and asked how long were you staying or if I could book you a hotel?” *Yet another valid question*. I looked at my friend, she had a point. So I shouted to Deanne, “Deanne! do you mind if I put the TV on and rest up a bit?”
“Go ahead my friend. You must be tired from your trip.” Deanne bustled through and handed me the remote.
I leant over to my friend, “Now who should be more like Deanne.”

Blame it on the Boogie

My friend and I were discussing modern music and I said, “My view is that the lyrics, dance moves and music clips are overtly sexual.”
My friend disagreed so I emphasised my point, “I’m saying that kids are growing up with some in your face, hardcore lyrics and sexual images.”

Allow me to explain.

Let’s look at the Victorian era. The opposite sex would meet at a ball. Both dressed up in an attractive way to entice the other partner. The lady was covered in three layers up to her neck and down to her ankles: very hubba hubba in those days. The dashing gentleman was fully covered in a suit. This era was all about look at my face and appreciate the conversation, because you’re not getting a looksee into anything else, not till after we’re married… even then you’ll be lucky.

At the aforementioned ball, the gentleman would ask the lady to dance and engage in polite small talk. They would do this several times: Get to know one another at social functions and balls, dance, chat, take a turn about the garden and finally meet the parents. Then they’d get married and have ten children.

Fast forward to the 21st Century

The party is jumping, the music is pumping and ‘the lady’ is hardly wearing any clothes but loads of makeup and bling. The gentleman is wearing Nike everything or no shirt to showcase his tats and wearing saggy pants which look like he hasn’t fully pulled up from visiting the toilet.

He engages in ‘polite small talk”: “What a smoking, hot, banging Double D babe you are. I want to give it to you, (not flowers), so do you put out? (not the garbage) and check out that rack – (not rack of lamb she had for dinner).”

The music starts… not instrumental music, not tunes with lyrics like, ‘I want to hold your hand or I love you or Please marry me’: no, the lyrics are rude, crude, crass and vulgar about sexual acts riddled with expletives with a bass so loud that disturbs all my internal organs.

And our young people are hooked up to their iPods for the majority of the day listening to this stuff. And we wonder why we are having problems with our youth.

My friend disagreed with me and told me to take a chill pill and stop being such a prude.