The PREY USA premiere in Las Vegas was beyond comprehension and the hills are alive with music. The Yanks loved it and it's kicking ass and although the Aussie launches were phenomenal 99% of the local critics didn't get the campy humour or know what the fuck it was on about since it didn't have Aboriginals, women with moustaches, or junkies. Hence it'll never be embraced at home except by the fans so we'll see who has the last laugh. But that deserves a separate post all it's own, and after a week in Vegas at THE PALMS and subsequent rewind at The Sunset Marquis (my new fave place in LA) it's time for a quick life-reflecto and so the ‘crack’ of the mini bottle opening at 35,000 feet is a delightful sound. Free top shelf booze mid-flight while everyone else is either sleeping or dead in Business Class en route back home to Oz is something that everyone in the Gein entourage appreciates. And it’s my birthday so without the benefit of a cake and candles an 18-year-old will do just fine. Scotch, that is. It’s the ninth one thus far and I’ve crossed both the International Date Line as well as the Point of No Return on decision-making regarding in-flight pranks.
Gein 2.0 is snoozing with his mouth open like a famished ramora eel so it’s a given that I’m going to open the attractive United Air Lines salt and pepper sachets and empty them into his gaping maw and watch him slurp and chew invisible food until he wakes up with his palate blistering for water---and whilst floating in his somnambulistic state I hand him the Coke ™ can I’ve filled with vodka to watch him chug and roar. It’s not what some people would call fatherly but it beats the in-flight entertainment and every magazine, periodical, flyer, and newspaper that can only give one more angle on the life and death of Michael Fucking Jackson.
Don’t get me wrong. He (Jackson) was a talented guy. An amazingly talented guy. But nobody has spun one of his records since Kurt Cobain was cleaning shotguns and suddenly he’s like swine flu at a Guadalajara taco stand and there’s nowhere to turn. Bernie Madoff bilks $80 Billion dollars or something in some fucked up Ponzi scheme and decimates 1000 families and gets 150 years and that doesn’t even make the Sports page. Farrah Fawcett dies and she gets page 11. This chick inspired more hard-ons than a World Catholic Youth Day and is relegated to sharing a page with a riveting article about real estate prices in Huntsville, Alabama and the dangers of excess acetaminophen in medicines.
I’m getting fed up with the news media in both the USA and Australia after two weeks back in the States because they don’t have a clue what’s important. They’re focusing on shit nobody cares about and trying to make it seem important. Coups in Honduras? Honduras? No one can even find Honduras on a fucking map, let alone gives a shit. Name one Honduran? Impossible! It’s more confusing than Father’s Day in Harlem. And speaking of fathers…what the fuck is Joe Jackson gonna do now for crack and hats? Back to the drawing board on that one at the next family meeting. You can just hear that phone call between Jermaine and Janet Jackson late the other night.
“No way am I gonna sleep with Dad again! It’s your turn Jermaine, and bring the Oxycontin ‘cause you know it’s gonna sting when he uses the strap-on!”
Ensconced in my West Hollywood hotel with 413 channels of cable I spent days trying to find a channel that was Jackson-Free but couldn’t do it. The worst was suffering through interviews with such mongrel subhumans like Marlon Brando’s son TiVo or whatever the fuck his name was and the World’s Most Talentless White Woman, Liza Minelli. I kept wondering why Judy Garland didn’t kill herself whilst she was pregnant with Salad Fingers and couldn’t do the math on that one.
Anyway, the thing I’m really upset about is that after spending about USD $50 on the requisite glossies for the flight (GQ, ESQUIRE, a week of VARIETY, THR, and the rest) it’s like suddenly every blow-in subscription card and offer on the planet has bred exponentially and there are literally dozens of these fuckers between every-other-page of the mags.
Yep, this is it. THIS….IS…IT. This is the one thing that really gets under my craw more than affirmative action, battlers, Kevin Rudd, people who think Obama is God, Rove, ugly fat chicks on “Idol”, or Meryl Streep in overalls. MOTHERFUCKING subscription cards in magazines. When this fucking plane lands and hopefully back in Melbourne and not Air France-style in the middle of the ocean I’m going to spend the first day back finding out who the cunt is that invented ‘blow in’ cards in magazines and if he is still alive implant more cancerous cells in his chest than a convention of breast cancer victims. If he’s dead and has living children I’m going to chain them naked to chairs and slice them with Time Magazine subscription cards so that they’ve got millions of little paper cuts all over their faces and every time they look in the mirror and see the scars they’ll remember Daddy’s legacy to inane, insane, mindless, annoying, worthless incendiary marketing fuckery that has inflicted more pain than the Holocaust ever did. And I know it was some fucking guy who did it and not a woman so I’ve narrowed the search down by 50%. If you wonder how I deduced that do some research into the Hubble telescope and you’ll come up trumps on gender-based scientific achievements. Sorry ladies.
Back to my birthday celebrations.
July 1st has a great ring to it. The height of Summer (in the heartland of America where Geins have spawned for centuries), the annexure of most Americans’ favorite holiday (The Fourth of July) and for those of us who journeyed to Australia the beginning of a new financial year. All good. Until you look at the horoscopes and “Born On This Day” footnote and see Pamela Anderson and Princess Diana. I guess I kind of always liked Pammy. Hard not to. But Princess fucking Diana?
After decompressing from Cannes Film Festival back in May my travelling partner and I wandered through Harrod’s in London and lo and behold came upon the Dodi and Di fountain tribute in the bowels of the store. My attempt to put a Harrod’s black shopping bag over Diana’s head and have a photo taken was abruptly shunted by a security guard who was certainly Mohammed Atta’s half-brother, despite the fact that I had spent a few euros in the bakery only moments before and had the receipt dangling from my shirt pocket in full view.
The crowds that were absolutely weeping over this manipulative troglodyte barnacle of humanity that didn’t even know how to wear a seat belt and was probably the inspiration to every ‘victim’ on the planet was almost indescribable. The only recompense was that there were a lot of Japanese shooting pictures and smiling. Kind of made me want to be wearing my fave T-shirt that sports a picture of a nuclear mushroom cloud and declares “Made in America…Tested in Japan” and see how fast those smiles would fade but that’s next holiday. And yes, they were Japanese not Chinese or Koreans I do know the difference, thank you. If they were Chinese they wouldn’t have had cameras and they would have been in Selfridges… not Harrods. If they were Koreans they would have been stealing things and loading up in the toilets. Cameras + smiles + Burberry = Japanese
So the point is? The point is, is that every July 1st for the next 1489 years I will have to put up with having to read about Princess Fucking Diana and I get harder than Chinese arithmetic just hoping that one day the photos of her ashen bloodless corpse braided in the twisted wreckage of that Merc in the tunnel in Paris will surface and it will be the screensaver on every Mac in the Gein household…and there are several just aching for it. I’m afraid that people who think Princess Diana brought something to the world are on the same Facebook page of “people who think Mama Mia was a great movie”.
Those are people who need to die.
Okay, that’s out of my system. The flight attendants who typically fall somewhere between Shamu and Shrek are actually starting to seem a bit more cosmetically acceptable but I suspect it’s Scotch #10 and I have to be eternally vigilant lest I start thinking dangerous things like telling diggers on Anzac Day that the Kokoda Trail is just a brisk hike.
And meanwhile back in Oz the news is all about the horrible rorting of the system that pollies are are committing taking spending a couple hundred bucks at Hooters in Las Vegas and rubbish like that. Listen, I’d rather be sniffing petrol with Rolf de Heer and David Gulpillill than vote Labor but for chrissakes let these politicians have a few drinks and entertain and have some fun. $20m in overseas ‘rorts’? That’s less than a dollar per Aussie so who fucking cares? Fuck the battlers they don’t pay taxes so they have no right to complain. Shame on the Herald Sun which normally has all the great scoops but they’ve really gone desperate on this one.
Why don’t the papers every have any good news? It’d be so great to wake up and see a headline like “Former Premier Steve Bracks found dead with with naked young boy in his bedroom” or “Austen Tayhsus found dead of cocaine overdose in North Rose Bay Synagogue” or something heartwarming like that ---or seeing Michelle Obama on RedTube in a 3-way with some Ku Klux Klansmen but the odds are pretty slim on the first and last and only hopeful on the middle one.
But we can always hope, can’t we?
0 comments:
Post a Comment