Amoir

Things to hate: Rock of Love

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 13:21:00 +0000

Readers of this pean to sloth and torpor will realise that in the deepest recesses of my blackened, fat-congealed heart lies a fervent passion for television (and men dressed as Japanese school girls, but we can discuss this another time).

But there is a new show to gain my fascination. The near-Brechtian Rock of Love.

Rock of Love chronicles the bloated corpse formally known as Bret Michaels, propped up Weekend at Bernie's-style, and his journey to find love. True to the always epic romantic saga, Michael's quest has so far spanned three series and winners, with more in the works.

As an homage to the rock'n'roll groupie myth, the show could well run the risk of casting only an homogenised slurry of paper-cut thin skanks but manages to avoid this stereotype admirably. Competing for Bernie Michael's affections are women who run the gamut from skinny young girl with breast implants and tattoos to skinny old (i.e. mid 30s) women with breast implants and tattoos. Locked in their machiavellian struggles, this cavalcade of surgically-altered fuckbots gyrate, scheme and scrag against their competitors for one of the most trod snail trails in LA.

Truly, each episode makes me hope there is television in heaven so the first and second wave feminists and other vanguards of gender equality can see how future generations show their empowerment through pole-dancing, fashion that does away with the need for gynecological exams and box munching (but it's just to turn the guys on). Oh, truly there is no equality war left to fight with Rock of Love presented as entertainment.

The best part of the show is when it's party time and all the girls clamour to ride the pole and grind against the puckered paunch of Bernie Michaels, in a state of syphilitic frenzy for his attention as he travels from lady to lady, offering hands, tongue and a cock that comes equipped with its own hazmat suit.

12 women, 1 man: It's like a polygamous Mormon family. Who enjoy neon, venereal disease and not-so-secret underwear.

A blissful exit

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 13:54:00 +0000

When you've spent a fine evening carvorting on the bed with the irrepressible (and biting) Effusive Complimenter, Purdy Jane and Inked Minx on a bed at the Berlin Bar drinking their finest cocktails, it is important to arrange the perfect exit.

Now, the perfect exit from a night out isn't always necessarily a quick one. In fact, the more drawn out the better.

First you give all the hugs and kisses required and then you take a friend by the hand and take them out for late night dumplings because dumplings taste their best late in the night. Their flavour is enhanced with sobering lashes of green tea and shared observations, while around you waiters scoot quickly and other dining patrons drunkenly argue.

Then you step out into the glorious rain and parcel your friend into a taxi before skittering over to Pellegrinis, which is obviously still open. There Frank will laconically chat with you about your night while Sisto yells to everyone else in the espresso bar that he has watched you grown up. It's only then you realise it's true, that you've been going there for over 20 years and can still remember sitting there with elation and defiance as you smoked along the bar and drank your first latte.

As the air kisses punctuate the air, skip out and walk in the rain as it dapples about. Giggle with a man who complains about the cold as you compare your levels of dress - he in several layers, you in a short black dress and elbow length red gloves and boots, which is more than enough to cope with a mildly intemperate night. Giggle some more as the man splutters at your suggestion he must be a tourist and scarper all the way home, thrilling in the rain and how it just makes cities look so beautiful.

And that is the perfect exit.

Retirement Plan

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 02:38:00 +0000

You know, one day when it's all said and done and I'm old, cranky and reliant on wearing a Viking Helmet, I'm going to retire to Shinsekai, Osaka or Mitaka, Japan. To occupy my days, I will open a dessert bar called Crepe and Pillage.

Smitten by the monster

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 02:32:00 +0000

Written by a literally gorgeous femme is an idea that just stuns me with genius and is executed sublimely:

Ask a Monster, Godzilla's advice column.

http://ask-a-monster.livejournal.com/

Go. Read. Learn to love again. Like a monster.

Struggling and swimming with type

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 01:42:00 +0000

I've begun bashing away, pile of books on one side, ashtray on the other. It happens exclusively on the couch as, in a fact that will disturb my core Interior Designer readership, I don't have any adult-sized table and chairs in the apartment. Naturally, this means I can pretty much kiss the adorable 'revenge couch' goodbye when I finish the book as it will have been ground down all the way to China. Or Buenos Aires. Whichever. This leather couch and I will survive passing the magma and suddenly appear in someone's home on the other side of the planet angrily demanding carbs and bitching about the earth core's lack of wifi access.

Writing in my spare moments is surprising and throwing some issues that I either didn't expect or considered so cliched I thought they would only happen to proper writers (thus bypassing me entirely. Just like physical co-ordination and the ability to wear colour.)

As I sat down to type, the words that tumbled from my fingers are completely different to what I had planned. People come poking through the monitor I don't expect. I've started sampling people, doing character studies and letting whatever dominates my mind fall out. Now, as I read, I tear apart the pages to study the mechanics. I am devouring.

I'm already struggling with voice. It's mine but not entirely. It's quite sober, a lower pitch to the normally bipolar chuckle-laden lilt - imagine a thick german accent dubbed over a mad Welsh dribble. It's a little bit faux-Yeats, a bit turn of the century. I'm sticking with the words as they fall out, trying to respect the first draft in a daft homage to Kerouac and not editing them away. I want to bash away like the proverbial monkey and see what falls out.

I remember once back when I did some study on writing, I had an amazing teacher who led us bombastically through mythology and symbolism. It was one of the most transformative subjects I've ever had the joy to study. In his opening class on symbolism, he opined and lectured on what they were and how they were utilised during the writing process. Unable to stifle a question I'd dragged with me for years, I had to ask "are writers aware of what symbols they want to use from the first draft?" He threw down his papers on the desk in rage and bellowed "I WASN'T SUPPOSED TO BE ASKED THAT QUESTION UNTIL THE THIRD LESSON!" After his theatrics (and no, there were no pre-arranged questions), he responded that it was rare but most writers were able to discern and work with symbols in their work by the 2nd or 3rd draft. So, I'm trying to let the text breathe, just lay out whatever is in my head as it splats onto the page.

As the writing takes shape, my need for art grows. I can feel the covetous growl growing in my belly. The walls are already fully and I need to frame some pieces but am torn between putting them up now or leaving them (and the expense) until I move overseas. But I need to bathe in art, in both its very gorgeousness, potential and acquisition. More on that, and other forms of inspiration, another time.

Writing off the rest of the year

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Sun, 06 Sep 2009 10:33:00 +0000

2009 has been a crazy-arse year.

Ever the eternally logical Vulcan-like person, ready to make with the bemused observation, I've decided to make it crazier and will focus on two projects:

1) Move overseas

2) Write another book

I'll chronicle the progress and process here mainly to improve your stocks in vitamin schadenfreude and also uncover the process myself.

With the Vampire book, it was literally a rushed adrenaline-stained period with three distinct approaches:

1) The "I'm Scared" Approach

Pros: can clear through 3000 words per day

Cons: draining, makes friends hate you for avoiding them

Wake up at 8, make stove-top pot of coffee.
Move back to bed with laptop, put Doctor Who on heavy rotation
Wear only knickers and a dirty tshirt
Write like a motherfucker, not eating, just smoking and drinking coffee/milky tea for 16 hours
Pray to god the editors don't hate me

2) The "I'm Doing Too Many Jobs" Approach

Pros: Get quality time bonding with late night infomercials

Cons: Draining, Coworkers eventually hate you for bitching so much

Come back from full day of work, ignore deadline until 11pm.
Write like a motherfucker, not eating, just smoking and drinking coffee/milky tea for 4 hours
Fall asleep on couch before waking with a start and returning to desk job
Pray to god the editors don't hate me

3) The "I'm Way Too Confident about this Deadline" Approach

Pros: Feel like a successful wanker who has beaten the system

Cons: Look like a successful wanker who has beaten the system

Waste time in bed until noon
Swan out of the Palazzo del Polo Shirt dressed to the nines for luncheon with friend
Return home, continue swanning until 5pm
Write like a motherfucker, not eating, just smoking and drinking coffee/milky tea for 9 hours
Pray to god the editors don't hate me

At the moment I'm consulting part time and now I'm rested again and not working 4 jobs at once, I should be able to give some reasonable time to writing.

I take inspiration from proper authors, obsessively scanning how they write, where they work, how they approach the whole process. It's as if I hope to uncover some fool-proof formula. There is none, bar the universal power of persistence which is a bitch and isn't nearly as glamourous as one might hope.

That said, I've always been in rapturous joy about Kerouac's top 30 tips for “Belief and Technique for Modern Prose.” The best friend was never convinced by these but, like most of Kerouac, they thrill me like a mad pash in the back of a taxi and -- fuck it, I'll mark myself as insane -- but they really make sense:

Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy
Submissive to everything, open, listening
Try never get drunk outside yr own house
Be in love with yr life
Something that you feel will find its own form
Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
Blow as deep as you want to blow
Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
The unspeakable visions of the individual
No time for poetry but exactly what is
Visionary tics shivering in the chest
In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you
Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
Like Proust be an old teahead of time
Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
Write in recollection and amazement for yourself
Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
Accept loss forever
Believe in the holy contour of life
Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind
Don't think of words when you stop but to see picture better
Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning
No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form
In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness
Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
You're a Genius all the time
Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven

Things change

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 12:04:00 +0000

The Dublin report

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 05:46:00 +0000

When I think of the most transformative relationships I've had, cities play an equal role to people.

It's a strange concept, possibly, and might make me sound like someone who collects cats and wary glances as a hobby but it's true: it is completely possible to fall in love with a city and be transformed by that relationship. It's a bond that is not molded by people but by potential, a frisson of energy that tickles at your ribs and raises your shoulders.

Melbourne: my first love. After the separation in which I saw my marriage and a good amount of friends fall away, I turned to the city. I roamed its streets when alone and explored. It opened me to art and the cool sleek grey grid rewarded me with discovery and delight. I learnt photography in Melbourne and found the streets became a most obliging muse. I could never believe my luck and thrill to find such joy in its streets.

Osaka: my long-sought and surprising reward. I wasn't supposed to love Osaka. In fact, it was the frumpy stopover before I ran to the more glamourous Kyoto and Tokyo. But the minute I set down, I started to love its earnest and slightly grubby grin. I made friends who took me riding through the city to meet their mates and little old ladies who fed me takoyaki. In terms of lovers, Osaka is the rebound city - you go there to regroup, recalibrate and wash away. In a completely melodramatic statement, it was a reward for childhood, allowing me to delight in all.

Dublin: it was an end to a means, only ever a tourist destination while I explored other options. But while Dublin is tourist spot to many, I've found I cannot treat it this way. Instead of visiting galleries, I visit cafes and watch. I walk the streets and watch people, I linger at traffic lights and chat. I don't take photographs - the city won't let me be a tourist. What there is in Dublin I cannot explain. I don't understand the pull I feel when I am here but I know that I don't want to leave. Not because of specific people (point in fact, I long to move to a place where no one knows me) but there is an unparalleled potential to this city.

Last year I thought I wanted to conquer London, to move there and make it my own. Then I visited and though, not smitten, still wanted to work there once I was retrenched. But it's impossible to get into or hired by London. Also, London kinda sucks. Sucks like a dejected 40 year old. Sucks like thinned lips over bared teeth. London lacks what these other cities have: beauty paired with softness and potential. Like New York, London is a city that is a few years out of my reach.

However, I want to find a way into the EU so that the Seagull and I can build for the future and have adventures together. It's been a goal for 1.5 years that I've worked towards in my typically bombastic fashion. And Dublin appears to be the entry point - I love the city, the work is here, the creativity is here and there is a reasonable visa entry process. From Dublin, we can explore the region together and spread out wings. I can show her the world and we can meander into the life I dream of us having.

We'll see how it goes. Dreams can come true but they are in essence flights of fancy.

Things to love about Ireland: they're mindreaders

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 16:05:00 +0000

The thing that has often stunned me on my meanders about Dublin is that the following exchange will happen when you're feeling at your lowest (i.e. sulking):

Random crazy old man/security guard/cafe waitress/Dublin person/Taxi driver (RCOMSGCWDPTD): Oh darlin, I was jus' lookin at ye and don't you jus' look beautiful?

Me: ...

RCOMSGCWDPTD: No, ye arrrr. I kin tell you have a nice heart. Aren't you lovely? *grabs Amoir's hands*

Me: Why thank you..um...

RCOMSGCWDPTD: Oh, yes you are. You're lovely. But you wear a lot of black. Oh here, have a hug, ya darlin. Oki, bye bye!

Seriously, this happens every time I'm upset in Dublin. Within five minutes of poutsville, I will get hugs and kisses from the Dirty Old Town.

How did you know how to do that, Dublin? How? How are your people so friendly and your shop assistants so surly?

Dirty Old Town

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 15:24:00 +0000

I'm back in Dublin. No other song is appropriate. The streets are still dirty, people still walk the daylit streets in their pajamas, Manor Road is still strewn with horseshit and the children play and screech with joy. It is as lovely as I remembered.

I have a few projects to take care of while I'm here, some of which require uncharacteristic silence from me because Dublin always makes me secretive. However, there will be scant carousing and malarky as I am a slave to the keyboard and diary, cowering like Igor as my back breaks with more work and deadlines. Plus, I've taken it upon myself to write more and play with different styles as I try and work out how to move forward in that area (any suggestions welcomed, especially if written in shepherd's pie).

Actually, there is one other song to share. The always chilling 'Troy' by Sinead O'Connor.

Guess who still sucks?

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Sat, 01 Aug 2009 22:58:00 +0000

Hong Kong.

Ok, I may also dislike travelling.

And, in the ten minutes that followed that opening gambit, something truly wonderful happened.

Duty Free Cigarettes. Chinese cigarettes with dragons, pandas and gamboling femmes, cigarettes in jumbo boxes or petite cans. And the long mourned Black Russian Sobranies which have cruelly withdrawn their love from Australia. I was going to pick up a pack of the Dubliner's favourite but given he's annoyed me for some imagined crime, I will chose a pack in solidarity with that forever dancing baobhan sith, the Effusive Complimenter, aka Starling.

Hong Kong, I think this is what we call make-up sex.

Oh, yeah, I'm travelling again. Not as many countries this time but just as much neurosis.

Oh Amoir, why have you been such a slackarse blogger?

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 00:46:00 +0000

Yes, I admit it. I've been a derelict mother to my blog. I've left it out on the stoop with a half-packet of cigs and cruel intentions.

But, in news which may surprise some readers who have grown to love and depend upon my supernatural torpor, I've been busier than a whore on Father's day. Strangely, it seems that getting retrenched wasn't the life of mai tais and degenerate abandon I had hoped.

Turns out, being retrenched means getting (lovingly) dragged into more projects than one human can handle and I found myself juggling two, sometimes, three full time jobs in a row. Writing jobs, project management salvage jobs, book commissions. Little known fact: when you work 18 hour days and exist on 4 hours of sleep per night, you get to a point of hummingbird-esque energy. And people will describe you as "crazy-eyed", "Mr Wolf", "Iggy Pop" or "Mummy, she scares me!"

This is what you look like when you work 18 hour days:

Can you see my boobs? They've grown in direct proportion to how many carbs and sweetened tea I've consumed since this lark began. They're now so large they qualify as a war-torn Eastern European republic. Angelina wants to adopt one, while the other has already written her shocking tell-all expose and is doing the Oprah book-tour circuit (look for "Exploitlatte: How Amoir used me to get free coffee at Pellegrinis" at bookstores near you).

Speaking of books, I wrote one. In news that will shock you even more, it wasn't a fanfic about the Predator and I setting up a little love nest in Sweden and the merry hijinx that would ensue (idea, copyright Amoir).

The book came about from my awesome Christmas. Generally a strange day due to the Seagull's midday departure, I fill the void with smoking, eating and watching completely AWESOME films. Last Christmas I decided on a theme: Vampires. I gorged on Nosferatu, the Hunger, some Hammer choices, Bram Stoker's Dracula, Buffy and the first series of True Blood. Sasspot Fatale and I decided to continue the obsession by watching Twilight at the cinemas (reviews to come a speedy 7 months after the fact). One thing led to another and I was somehow recommended to write a book about vampire history, culture and ephemera for a publisher over in the US who then sold my sample copy at the London Book Fair.

Book: It's called "How to be a Vampire" and basically introduces young adults to the wealth of vampire lore, stories, films and canon that existed pre-sparkly jawbones. Hopefully it's funny, interesting and handy around the house. It will be available via Candlewick (US), Templar (UK) and Five Mile Press (Au) sometime soon.

I'll do some vampire posts closer to the release date. If there's enough interest, I'll give away a copy. Or something. Listen, I'm just going to lie on the couch and sleep for a month.

I miss my workmates

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 05:10:00 +0000

From a former workmate via email today:

"It’s funny, when you write “mother fucker”, I HEAR it, I’ve worked alongside you enough. And I SEE the cigarette out of the side of the mouth, and how the word falls out of the other.

I like that."

Sorry that I've been quiet. I wrote a book. More on that later.

Now to locate my social life...

Amoir fills in the blanks

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Thu, 14 May 2009 12:41:00 +0000

I see… my laptop not looking all that cheerful

I find… that my nights are beginning to drag on forever out of sheer boredom

I want…. that would be telling and besides that, Buckley’s chance of that, so no, I don’t want anything.

I have… a lot on my mind.

I love… baths. Especially those that don't run over when I forget about them. While hosting a dinner party. Seriously, this happened last night.

I hate… putting my foot in pudding. This happened. Today.

I miss… travelling. Right now, I'd love nothing more than living somewhere different.

I fear… deadlines. That I ignore by doing a blog post.

I feel… there's a party in my tummy. Of acid.

I hear… the quiet drone of a politician, which makes a change from all the vampire films I've been watching of late.

I smell… the sweet smell of excess (fried bread and eggs).

I crave… a job overseas.

I wonder…if they'll ever ring with that dream job?

I regret… my credit history. But mostly nothing.

Something I've been waiting to tell you...

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Tue, 07 Apr 2009 09:04:00 +0000

Friends and lurkers alike would be under no doubt how much I love working. I love going into work each day and seeing the people I consider family, spending time with them doing the stuff I love, the challenges I love, the technology I love.

These simple lines don't give it justice but I loved my job with a passion. Well, until I got retrenched. I'm no longer sad but it did take a while to admit it via my blog, not due to shame but admitting it was over was a task easily deferred when there were diversions, freelance writing jobs and underpants dancing to be done.

Now to find a new family, new challenges and new fun.

Conversations with the Effusive Complimenter

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Thu, 02 Apr 2009 23:03:00 +0000

*pondering the need for distraction due to a newborn-baby-snorgle-vist resulting in high hormones*

Me: Mmmmm sitting on the couch, snorgling a baby. Life doesn’t get any better at that point.
Maybe I need a monkey. One that wears a tuxedo and gives me cigarettes. I think I’d prefer another baby though.
Effusive Complimenter: It is so not you, this baby thing.
Me: Really? Why so?
Effusive Complimenter: I don't know. There you are in the doorway, exhaling sharp streetlight, red in tooth and claw, proffering a ticket to the Scenic Railway, and all of a sudden you pull out a rattle and make goo-goo sounds. You know?
Me: No, I have absolutely no idea what that means but I love it.
Effusive Complimenter: Oh you do so A_Gra, don't play coy with me. Or rather, do it's kind of cute

Amoir: needs a reality tv show

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Tue, 24 Mar 2009 10:56:00 +0000

I've realised that for too long, TV programmers have ignored the Amoir demographic. Sure, it's a demographic of one. Sure, it's of a person who counts smoking, sitting and swearing as hobbies. Sure, it might scare the nation. But it might teach them to love again.

So, jaded TV programmers: sign me up, slather me in spackfiller and Supre and cast me in the following Amoir-friendly reality tv shows.

Farmer wants a surly chain smoker
Dancing with the SARS
MasterSnark
The Amazing Sit Down On The Couch With a Cuppa
From Zombette to Zombie
Taken Out (by people who only see me as a friend. An embarrassing friend.)
Who wants to get Legionnaires?
The Biggest Oozer (I get to squeeze pimples)
Project Lie-Down-And-Have-A-Nap-Way
My Super Sweet 16 Gyoza In One Sitting
Girls Gone GHD

Hong Kong Hissyfit

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Mon, 16 Feb 2009 01:35:00 +0000

I understand how she feels. I'd be majorly pissed if I were stuck in Hong Kong again.

Tragedy vs Comedy

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Sun, 08 Feb 2009 09:13:00 +0000

Tragedy is when the Seagull starts screeching at the busy supermarket that "Mummy has a boyfriend! Mummy has a boyfriend!"

Comedy is when the Seagull starts screeching "Daddy has a boyfriend! Daddy has a boyfriend!" as we leave.

Signs you're getting cranky at work during the heatwave

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Tue, 03 Feb 2009 20:15:00 +0000

Colleague mentions something about my hair, bouffy from the humidity.

C: You should wear a skullcap and a wig. I have some nice wigs at home. You'd look smart.
A (storming off): I have an IQ of 145! I don't need to look smart, I AM smart!

Sanity saver

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Thu, 29 Jan 2009 19:47:00 +0000

Unless you've been living under a cool, air-conditioned rock, Melbourne has been schvitzing through a massive heat wave with successive days reaching 43 degrees.

This is the only thing that has kept my sanity:

And the dog ate my homework

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Wed, 28 Jan 2009 03:51:00 +0000

I have masses of news to share but time has just been spinning, just like me after eating a whole jar of Tang and spinning in a desk chair for an hour. I've been rushing about with work, with projects and a tsunami of administrivia. May I just mention that none of these things come with complimentary chocolate or cigarettes?

There are some big posts planned and I promise they will come soon. Sooner than my next smoke? No. But definitely before the apocalypse.

Bear with me.

The best idea ever

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 11:52:00 +0000

Seriously, it's a better idea than that time I thought the mash could use more butter.

I was struck by the thought I have been smoking for 20 years. Now, quite frankly, smoking and I are the real deal. Long have I claimed that Peter Stuyvesant is my "plus one" in life and dammit, it's time those nearest and dearest recognised this special moment.

So smoking and I will have a 20th anniversary party down in Chinatown (20th anniversary gift) to celebrate 20 years of that first smoke in the morning, getting into kinky threesomes with coffee, looking for change behind the couch to buy another pack and long flights around the globe desperate to consummate our lurve. And force my friends to watch.

Do you want to come?

* So it's 20 years if you don't count the odd childhood cigarette under the age of 10 and the "long weekend" that was being pregnant and raising the Seagull to the age of 1.

An open letter to late night programming

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Sun, 18 Jan 2009 12:58:00 +0000

Dearest Late Night Programming,

You're like a sister from another mister. How you look deep inside my minds, past the sirens and discarded hamster wheels, to see what it is I really need.

And what is it?

Re-runs of Taken Out.

Let me spoon and coo at your cathode of truth,

Amoir xoxo

The reason I love the internets in one YouTube clip

noreply@blogger.com (Amoir) — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 13:21:00 +0000