- No red carpet. Bugger. As generally amusing host Steve Martin quipped, "That'll send 'em a message!".
- Christopher Walken looked dead. It was really quite disturbing.
- Catherine Zeta Jones v. Queen Latifah in the Battle For The Biggest Stage Presence!
- The disappearing microphone was Hollywood ingenuity at its best. But why not go one step further to really ensure those speeches don't drag on? I'm predicting spring-loaded, taser-enhanced mic stands as the hot new item in amplification technology for next year.
- Note to orchestra: I believe that Chicago is a musical and as such, doesn't it stand to reason that you could use snippets from a lot of different songs from it and not just "And All That Jazz"?
- Boos for Michael Moore! Not that I necessarily approve of course (he's a clever filmmaker but just a tad on the self-aggrandising side) but I haven't seen a good old fashioned boo-off for years. There hasn't been this much hubbub since Elia Kazan picked up his little gold man in 1999.
- What's up with Renée Zellwegger? She looked like she was chewing broken glass all night.
- Peter O'Toole is sheer class.
- Somebody get the Bo Peep crook for Adrien Brody already! Sheesh. Nice snog with Halle though.
- Wellington got two big shout-outs ... excellent stuff! (both were in the speeches by winners for their work on LOTR: TTT).
- Was it just me or did you think that when Kirk Douglas ripped the card announcing Chicago in half he may have been just a tiny bit senile and was about to do something really outrageous? Like pash Halle?
Now, go read Cintra Wilson's round-up over at Salon: she's been doing them for years and they're damn funny. Her book A Massive Swelling: Celebrity Re-Examined As A Grotesque Crippling Disease And Other Cultural Revelations is a work of minor genius too.
* These thoughts were audited by the independent accounting firm PriceWaterhouseCoopers and were not thought of by anyone prior to the opening of my head. Or something.
‹ 25.3.03
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One of the most ridiculous statements in recent memory comes from the Washington National Zoo and was reported by BBC News in their story "Congress delves into zoo mystery". The passage reads:
The zoo has admitted that the two pandas died after eating rat poison, but has refused to release post mortem reports on the causes of other deaths, saying the animals have a confidential doctor/patient relationship that protects their privacy.
Riii-ii-i-ght.
‹ 21.3.03
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‹ 21.3.03 / 0 comment(s) ›
Well, the final leg of the travelling trifecta is now well and truly over and life has returned sufficiently near enough to normal for me to write about it. Todd and I arrived at Wellington Airport on Thursday morning (that's the 27th of last month ... yes yes, I know) at the gut-wrenching time of 5am for check-in. Fortunately, Todd's nice shiny Gold Koru Club membership let us queue for marginally less time that we would have otherwise, which maximised our duty-free shopping experience (although staring at row after row of bottles and cartons and inhaling that awful every-fragrance-in-the-store mélange at that hour of the morning really is a stupid idea).
One dodgy movie and a mediocre breakfast later we were in Sydney ... warm, muggy and raring to go (that was the city, followed by us fifteen minutes later). After dumping our respective luggage at Todd's hotel we took off into town for a coffee, met ex-BT staffer and all-round top chick Cheryl, followed by a certain perpetually-travelling cheeky Liverpudlian, picked up our tickets for Saturday's party, then headed off at a brisk pace to pop my Oxford Street cherry.
First impressions? Not too bad at all - kind of like the main street in small town New Zealand except about twelve thousand times gayer. We lunched at Café Comity which was most pleasant, then looked at party wear for Iain before finally checking into our respective hotels, sidestepping the assorted denizens of King's Cross as we did so. The rest of the afternoon consisted of brief look around the main shopping precinct, then a wander down to Darling Harbour late in the afternoon and - joy of joys! - dinner at Wagamama. Yep, everyone's favourite little London noodle chain has managed to extend its claws to the opposite side of the globe, much to my surprise and delight. The prices were reasonable, with the food being only a little bit below London's par. From there, it was on to meet Luke at a fine city establishment - cheap beer, reminiscing and catching-up were the orders of the evening, after we'd waited for what seemed like an age for several score of bezitted first year uni students, dressed in costumes to no apparent theme, to stagger down the stairs ahead of us. After leaving the Lukester, I trundled northwards to meet Cheryl, her beau Scott (who both turn out to be regular 'sluice readers ... hi guys!) and their posse for free champagne at a swankish hostelry called The Establishment. Of course, your stupid author hadn't bothered to change out of his shorts from the afternoon (when holiday mode hits, it hits hard) so it was up to Cheryl to sweet-talk me in. Which she did of course, in her own inimitable style (and no, certain parts were kept under wraps this time! (long story)). A third member of the old BT crew - Gary - was there as well, fresh of the plane from Christchurch and Iain showed up too so the bubbles subsequently had quite a hammering.
We ajourned to "the Strip" after that and met Todd and his chum Warner (who has a possible future career in Rupert Everitt impersonation) there; Warner having flown in from Auckland that evening. The Columbian and The Midnight Shift were both done, with the former becoming a firm favourite over the course of the trip (review here) and the latter unfortunately being not quite my cup of chamomile. When it came to the point where I'd been awake for basically 24 hours, I decided to call it a night ... you know, the light that burns twice as bright and all that.
Shit, that's only the first day told. Methinks I'd better speed the proceedings up a little ...
Friday was a little more subdued for most of the day - another meandering stroll around Sydney, and down to Circular Quay for a while to watch the city hustle and bustle on by. I met Gary, Iain and his old school mate Jo at The Rocks for a quick pizza dinner and no alcohol (the reasons for which will soon be made apparent). A few blocks away stood the object of the evening's activities: the Sydney Harbour Bridge. No, not walking across it ... that would be too easy. No, we're going to climb the fecker! After the requisite breathalyser test (successfully passed), we suited up in our quasi-futuristic jumpsuits, donned the requisite climbing gear and safety kit, had our training session, then set off for the bridge itself.
We'd been hoping to catch the sunset but were slightly too late, worse luck ... however, seeing Sydney by night more than made up for it. The lights looked fantastic and we had awesome 360° views across the whole city from the apex (you basically walk up half of one span, cross over, then walk down the other side - more info here). Around 1300+ steps and three hours or so later, we were back where started from and absolutely gagging for a beer. A quick trudge up the road and we were having just that with Cheryl and Scott in what claimed to be the oldest pub in Sydney (they even closed at 11pm - how quaint!). Brideshead Oxford Street was again revisited but another earlyish night was called, in anticipation of the main event.
Another leisurely start to the day and I moseyed into the CBD at lunchtime to meet Aussie Paul ... one groovy bastard and someone I miss a whole lot (as he's holed himself up in London). Iain and Jo joined us there too and we ventured back down to that street (you're beginning to detect a pattern, no?). To the strains of "Happy Mardi Gras!" up and down the drag, we lunched at Café Comity again and had a few afternoon beers in the sun at The Columbian (yes, your pattern-detecting skills are excellent). Todd and Warner duly joined us, as did the much-mentioned-in-Wellington-circles Stephen and Michael (aka Stella and Marsha). And a lovely pair they were too. After they decamped to frock up for the evening, and I left Jo and Paul to head home and change and Paul in the clutches of some eligible young thing, I repaired to the hotel for a catnap, then taxied to Rose Bay with Warner to sit on Cheryl and Scott's amazing front patio. The sun went down, the sea sparkled, a pelican drifted past, the duty-free vodka was supped and a delicious barbecue fish was whipped up by Cheryl's own gang of oft-topless burly kitchen bitches. Sheer bliss.
It was battlestations after that as we dashed back into town and tried to get a decent view of the Mardi Gras parade itself, parking ourselves south a bit from Taylor Square. That particular mission was accomplished when some kind touristy soul let us worm our way in front of his milk crate to get closer to the barriers. We managed to spot Todd (who'd been roped into the "Camp-berra" float), frolicking with the federal police and as happy as a pig in proverbial. The parade itself was great - a lot more organised than San Francisco's and the crowd were a lot more vocal too. Having it at night when the majority of attendees have had a fair skinful already also helps I suppose. Weirdest float of the evening = the Gay and Lesbian Raelians ... "Gay parents make great children" (geddit?).
After a quick shower and change, a much elevated Iain and Gary joined me in a taxi to Fox Studios, site of the big party. And big it was - around 15,000 people they reckoned, in two main halls (one trancy/poppy, the other more housey), with a funky-house-enabled dome shaped structure, and the obligatory food and beverage stalls, chill out areas, medical teams, portaloos and other big gay shindig accoutrements. Standing in the main courtyard between the halls was an experience in and of itself - the array of humanity on display was truly amazing, even for this seasoned old professional. The bedraggled, the befeathered and the bemused ... all in one glorious melting pot (see for yourself). And everyone seemed to be on the move too - busy busy busy ... a whole lot of Pam Ann-esque touching of the trolly going on. I did quite nicely on the beer as the night wore on and lasted through until about six in the morning when I decided a Red Bull would be in order to keep me perky (aside: what crazed marketeers decided that sugar-free Red Bull would be a good idea - bye-bye to 50% of the whole point on that one). And ... nope, no Red Bull left. Okay, that's the cosmos' way of saying you've had enough Pannett, so I tracked down Mr Croll and we rode off into the sunrise.
[Okay so I know I'm still wittering on after specifically stating that I'd try and speed things up but there you go ...]
Now, if you need definitive proof that God is not gay then look no further than His supposed day of rest. I mean, who puts their feet up on a Sunday when there's still more imbibing and fraternising to be done? After another eastern-inspired feast at Wagamama (Todd was quite taken with the place I tell you), we returned to you-know-what-locale and ensconced ourselves in the somewhat plush surroundings of the upstairs bar at the Stonewall. The music was pumping, the troopers were still partying from the day/night before and we, somewhat foolishly, ordered multiple cosmopolitans ... which were served, of course, in the largest martini glasses known to mankind. These were quickly dubbed "the drag queen martini glasses" for their amazing ability to make even the largest of hands look remarkably petite. We found out later that the roof had collapsed on that place last year which was quite encouraging. A quick check on The Colombian proved it to be rather dead so it was a return to the hotel room after that and more much needed sleep.
Again, nowt was accomplished the following morning. Todd and I ate an overpriced lunch by the Opera House (but I mean, what better view?), meandered about Circular Quay, snapped some snaps, checked out the big outdoor M.I.L.K exhibition, did a final dash of shopping, then went up the Centrepoint Tower for a quick bird's eye of the city. Todd farewelled Warner that evening, then we we graced The Colombian (yes, it is a fucking good bar) with our presence one last time. Gary and Iain were already there and were in fine form - they'd started at about four - so we did our best at playing catch-up. The DJ was spot on, the vodka/lime/sodas were mixed to perfection, we met a charming North American by the name of Colin and after an unusual (for moi) bout of P.D.A., the night was eventually called.
Evil flight times ended this awesome trip too ... let's just say I was looking damned dishevelled at Kingsford Smith that morning and after another crap movie, average breakfast and fitful napping, Todd and I touched down in Wellington. So, did we have fun then? Did we fucking what! Sydney, you and I have another date in a year or so's time ... you can count on it.
‹ 11.3.03
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