REFLECTION

There was a footy bye this weekend. In the real footy. Not the stuff they play in heaven. That's in heaven. You know? When you're dead. Note to McAvaney: Bruce, they're called "Changing Rooms" at No-Dome, not "Sheds". You're straying dangerously close to Neville Oliver territory with that kind of suck up. Even if you sounded apologetic saying it. Meanwhile, down here on earth us living, breathing and occasionally thinking type persons wanted some burly footy action. We needed to get it on with the radio pundits and the TV screen. Or live, with opposition fans and the back of the seat in front. It's OK for the players. The bye was supposed to give them a break from the abrasive rigours of a long and arduous season. Give them a chance to get over any niggles and to take stock before they stepped back up to the plate. A chance to step back and admire their bank balances. Perchance a chance for reflection. And some private plate stepping. Remember last year? There was a split round. Four games week one, four week two. Do you also remember the hullaballooo? "Four & Four?!? What a stupid idea! Take a full week off!" There's no pleasing some people. The other night on Talking Footy, Caroline Wilson said, "They won't do that again." Too right! Judging by the AFL's record of ad-hocery, five finals systems in the 90's, she'll be proved correct. They'll do something different again. One & seven anyone? Seven & one? A lighting carnival with fourteen a side and no points. Or is that behinds? Anyway. We had it and what did I do about it? Well, Friday night I watched a movie. I don't watch many movies these days. They went stupid around the time Tim Robbins single-handedly removed segregation from 1940's prisons. Well, single-handedly with the help of Morgan Freeman. Or was that Steve Bucknor? Anyway, I enjoyed Friday night at the flicks. Although I didn't actually go out and watch the thing. I stayed at home and watched it on dish-cable. Our local greenies don't like wires. The movie was called Along Came A Spider and, coincidentally, it also starred Morgan Bucknor. This time round he wasn't the world's most resourceful prisoner, "Say Red, couldn't see your way to a jackhammer?" Nope, this time round he played a damaged FBI agent. Sorry Special Agent. Special Agent Noah Cross. Are there any ordinary agents in the FBI? Ordinary Special Agent Cross. And why are they all damaged? How come they can�t be able, well adjusted, successful, careerist Special Agents? You know? Good at their job and liking it and going home and eating meat and watching baseball. The bureau must be a disaster area. Or collectively lining up for an appearance on Jerry Springer. "I Wore J.Edgar's Trousseau" All in all it wasn't a bad movie. Well-made, in fact. Well-made in the sense of "Ohh look! Isn�t that a well-made transmission tower?" Dad's an engineer. We appreciate well-made stuff in our family. This was definitely a well-made movie in which everything happened according to plan. The lights went on and off. Cars moved. Cameras panned. No errant boom mikes spotted. Doors opened. Rain rained. Really heavily in fact. Just as it seems to in movies. People said things. Others used computers. Without a mouse! Except for Morgan, who showed he's a righteous old-fashioned dude by hesitantly pointing one. The baddie was bad and slightly sleazy in that audience research approved way. The little girl who got kidnapped was pretty and feisty. Her dad was a nasty politician. Ho hum. Her understanding mum quietly grieved but you could see she was a rock. The head honcho from the FBI was a hard arse but basically a good guy. And not at all the hapless boy buggerer he was in Happiness. There was a twist in the end. Pretty soon, the twist will be there's no twist. And Morgan was a bit sad but dignified and good and fine and obviously the cleverest guy in the film. After the movie finished I went to my well-made bed. As always with the hospital tuck, level pillowage and six-inch coin-bounce. Saturday morning I got the papers off of the front porch and took them upstairs for a read. I only managed to read the Herald Sun because it was so cold. I had to pull my hands under the covers because the selfish bloody paper wouldn�t stand up in front off me and turn it�s own pages. [Note to self: invent automatic newspaper reading thing] Instead I watched Tonino Valerii's The Price of Power. An excellent spaghetti western based on the assassination of JFK. I can't vouch for it's historical accuracy but needless to say, as a movie based on fact it's got nothing at all to do with fact. Not sure if the Star Spangled Banner accompanied President Garfield around Texas in 1865. After that I listened to records. Nick Lowe's Dig My Mood, the Go Bee's Liberty Belle And The Black Diamond Express and The Best of John Barry are on high rotation at the moment. Before my fingers went blue I did spot a few Herald Sun eye catchers. Firstly it appears JK Rowling feels "guilty about the millions she's earned from her books. And sometimes wishes she hadn't written the lucrative series." Psst! Jake! If you're keen to get rid of some lolly I know a very willing charity. What is it with people who become rich? How come they're always pining for the good old days? The days when they were one of the povos and were forced to drink cask-wine, dress off the rack and eat white bread. Then there's Nui Te Koha. The Herald Sun's oxymoronic Entertainment Writer whose name under a headline holds about as much clout as Mal Walden announcing; "We now cross to Crown Casino and Ten News reporter Angela Bishop." It's Nui's gig to make the mediocre sound important. For instance, Kylie Minogue's new album won't be referred to as "Another pleasant sounding collection of cheesecake jingles." As it should. But as "The breathtaking album that signposts her long awaited breakthrough from pop diva to lustrous musical visionary." Stop it! An interview with vegan groovester Moby will proceed along the lines of  "How does it feel to have the future of music at your fingertips?" instead of the more reasonable "How's it with the fruit and veg, baldy?" Oddly enough, Nui was OK Saturday. His was an article about a website dedicated to Four Word Reviews. For instance Top Gun, I won't dignify it by linking, is reviewed as "The shortest pilot ever." Godfather 3 "Pacino falls off chair." You get the picture. Here's one off the cuff; "NTK blows!" Come to think of it, this may be Nui's go. Pack up the breathless hyperbole and just point us in the direction of better gear. Finally, there was an article about the Melbourne City Council handing out money to yet another artist with a stupid idea. This time round a grant of ten grand to dump sculpt a pile of oozy, meaty meat. A vision the artist  created to signify "the craziness of the planet". Surely this kind of rorting can't be legal? Talk about white-collar crime! It won't be long before crooks stop sticking up petrol stations and start applying for arts grants. After all, it's got it's up side.

Comments

[Patrick]

Nice rant Tony. I too am a huge fan of Nui. I often remember blissfully, his fall from the stage right before the eyes of his beloved Spice Girls. I also recall with delight, his rant in the Herald Sun against a night club that refused him entry for his inappropriate attire. That one in particular brings back fond memories for me. When I was a younger "Night clubbing chick hunting massive vodka drinking" type I was often refused entry to such clubs for the same reason. In fact, I was a responsible drunk and often had my father, bless him, drive me to such places and got a taxi home. Now what would happen is this, my Dad would wait in the car till I had gained entry to the chosen shithole, the reason for this was I often had to exchange clothes or footwear with him! I shit you not. I was so often disallowed into the night club for inappropriate footwear! My $70 to $90 runners were not acceptable, but my dear old Dad’s $10 K-mart specials were perfectly acceptable. My Pierre cardigan shirt, which costs a weeks pay for an apprentice was far inferior to the required "Target Flannel".
So you can see my amusement at poor ole "Trend setter" Nui being refused entry. He shoulda worn his Dads shoes and a flannel shirt!
I recall the singer of Yothu Yindi being expelled for similar reasons too at one stage. Difference is he was able to scream "racism". Both my Dad and I enjoyed a hearty guffaw when that happened.

[Tony.T]

That was the Catani Bar in St Kilda. Dunno if it still exists. A mate of mine and me went in there about a week after Yothu was booted. We demanded to be served by an aboriginal and they kicked us out. Not that we cared, we were just feeling feisty and it was one of those trendoid chrome bars.

[Uncreative Tim]

Nice call on the rugby Tony. I'm sick of the "game they play in heaven" tag as well. Just my luck to find true peace and calmness in heaven only to find some Sth African blowing his whistle every two minutes!

[Tony.T]

Hee Hee. Nice call Unca Tim.

[Adam]

If that's the game they play in heaven you should do your very best to ensure you go to hell.

[Caz]

I believe I am already in hell.

[Tony.T]

I'l try to get anywhere other than rugby heaven! Anyway, what's with this claim that it's the best game? Very presumptuous! It's not even about the 5th best game. Still, it's better than watching prime-time swimming on Nine.

[Caz]

Swimming is good for a perve. So long as you don't have to look at the Thorpedo and its a race with real men in it anyway.

[Tony.T]

I only like swimming for the cliches. Thorpedo, madame butterfly, gold gold gold etc. Rock on Rabbits!