Orble - Stuff what I like

Stuff what I like

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Subterrenean stuck-homesick blues

Wow, you've turned into a right sexy wee bastard. Do you know that?

What are her prospects? Does she play the viola? Does she embroider? Is she kind to the servants?

You're the echoes of my everything, you're the emptiness the whole world sings at night

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...that you have the most beautiful face?

November 22nd 2011 10:20

I defy anyone, in their infinite jaded-ness, occupation of Melbourne/Brisbane/New York/Manila-ness, in their griping about first world problems-ness, in their woe-is-me-I'm-such-a-tortured -artist-ness, to find the left over pieces of harlequin confetti in their handbag/shoes/bra and NOT recall with a sigh the true, life-affirming magic that is The Flaming Lips. To honestly believe with every fibre of their being that their is nothing of any value in life, that all it is is a mish-mash of meaningless occurences, that nothing is interconnected and there is nothing worth believing in.
I defy you.

Sometimes, just sometimes, when life is so tough you don't even know how to fathom it- when the people you love the dearest, and even yourself, are so sick you don't even know if they or you will make it to see tomorrow, and their suffering is so palpable if you could take it and swallow it whole you would, you need a miracle.
When one of your dearest friends has been deployed to fight a battle they don't even believe in just because they have no other options, and they are so brave and tough but just a faint shadow of what they once were, because the battle and the front has kicked the shit out of them, and made them believe the only thing in the world that really matters is honour, when the people who put them in these Godforsaken far-flung places away from the ones they love (and even the ones they loathe) don't have the sack to put aside ancient grudges and some false sense of national pride no-one even remembers the derivation of, you need a miracle.
When someone takes a mallet to your self esteem- and even then in light of the latter, this can mean nothing- (those with such problems understand that what you wear/look like/act like means zip in comparison) and smashes it to smithereens just because they can, because it is a matter of their personal growth, you need a miracle.

When you make as much small talk down the phone as you can to that dear friend in that God forsaken place just so there are no pauses for lamentations, and even if they wanted or were allowed to talk about where they were or what they were doing you wouldn't want to know, and they don't want to talk about it anyway, because they don't want to scare YOU, you need a miracle.
Anyone who doesn't believe that music is a miracle cure, doesn't believe in anything. Anyone who has held their hands aloft, dressed in some ridiculous costume, with their beloved siblings by their sides, to catch the constant rain of multi-coloured confetti, and hear that glorious Wayne Coyne-trembletto voice echoing through the venue, through their heart, and through their soul, I implore you. Before you give up, give it a crack.
Sometimes miracles come in the shape of lasers, and songs, and Oklahoman rockstars.
All you have to do, is believe.

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Posted By: Anneliese Prasser - Category: No Category

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She came from Greece, she had a thirst for knowledge...

August 25th 2011 11:01

Okay so what I am about to gripe about is kind of a good thing. I want to mention that first as a disclaimer, like those infamous asterixes attached to everything in banking and insurance "our policy covers you for anything***" ***anything except flood damage, terrorist threats, civil unrest, car accidents, acts of God, thunder, lightning, hail, kangaroos, cows, unhappy clowns and any other animate or inanimate object, thing, climactic affect or change.
It is a good thing that more and more people have access to and use wisely all the benefits a Western society has to offer; education, deregulation of finance and the banks, fashion, culture and fancy food smothered in jous and coulis and plates smeared with some kind of reduction or air.
But seriously. When I went to high school with you, you had an undercut during the Vanilla Ice phase, had to argue with your parents over buying a pair of Aerosports at Speeds and the fanciest pair of shoes you ever owned was a pair of cherry red Doc Marten eight-ups. Your parents did up their house using that tack on faux wrought iron-but plastic coated junk and painted a tyre with a plant in it and plonked it in their front yard. Your Mum and Dad worked in a factory and came home stinking of sweat and melted plastic and, well, Mum and Dad.
So look at you now! You're a hardcore, fancy-pants with your kids stuck in private schools and driving around in a Merc you got on finance. You renovate yourself to save money, but take ridonkulously expensive holidays at a host of luxurious and far-flung locations. You won't get cable but you'll spend thousands of bucks on a jumping castle and children's entertainer for their parties, so all the other folks know how good you've done.
I don't get it.
If living hand-to-mouth teaches anyone anything, it teaches you to value all those wonderful glorious moments achieved with absolutely nothing but the loving company of people you actually care about and for and doing things that cost nothing an having the time of your life. I remember the days when we counted down the sleeps until the night we were eating McDonalds and now, we're in the throes of a childhood obesity crisis while the kids in the third world starve through another uncertain night. I remember when what was dished up for us for dinner was so utterly repugnant it took a reminder of said third-world kids to be duressed into eating said pile of inedible shit.
The worst thing about all this nouveau riche, two-bob snobbery are the new opinions you have. You rant and rave about coughing up a few extra bucks for a flood levy "because those people should've had insurance" but, as my opening spiel said, insurance comes with all kinds of terms and conditions, one of which in most of their cases was, they weren't going to pay for flood, subsidence, or any other definition of the damage done.
Also, the opinions about what constitutes poverty now. You are not poor when you have two investment properties and have to fork out all your hard earned cash on those. You are savvy, and clever, and I am certain will wear the fanciest of high trousers in your retirement age custom made at Fletcher Jones but, you're not poor. You're just spending a lot of the lots of money you make on something that is going to make you lots of money in the long term.
And poor people don't live in your city-fringe suburb just to shit you. Sometimes they live there, in government housing, because they can't afford a car, and have to be proximitous to public transport. And sometimes, they don't just live there out of choice. Sometimes, their circumstances just mean they are left, without support, and want to be able to be independent without relying on family or friends for support, or worse still, they don't have family or friends to rely on. I don't agree that kicking them all to the kerb to reside in a far-flung suburb so the land can be sold to the highest bidder for the greater good of the community since y'know- no-one who can actually AFFORD to live there wants to look at a whole bunch of poor people.
So two-bob snobs of Australia, I implore you. Remember that poverty is an indiscriminate beast that can bite anyone at anytime and bites hard. If you, the newly independently wealthy, supposedly educated young populace are so full of bile towards them, what next? We are a nation built on torrid histories of theft and skullduggery- let's not allow the next generation to be a pack of greedy, vacuous, master-of-the-universe ignoramuses. That was the attitude that made people come along and steal that thing that wasn't theirs in the first place. Y'know that thing? Australia?

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Posted By: Anneliese Prasser - Category: No Category

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This modern love wastes me

August 21st 2011 13:28

There're these rules right, or so I'm led to believe, around all the many varied (and often pathetic) aspects of what may or may not be construed as a date in this day and age. It seems that what society really needed in this troubled day and age of warfare, famine and social disorder is a subculture of professional singletons overlaying the already nerve-wracking process of "getting back in the saddle" with the same level of politically correct nonsense that permeates every workplace in Australia. It seems Australians these days are so terrified of labelling anything that you cannot even allude to the fact you like someone, and if you do like someone, you can't call them, and if you do call them, don't do it the next day, and if you do do it the next day, send an SMS, and if you do send an SMS, don't email them, and whatever you do, just don't let them know you like them.
And apparently these rules mandate that you cannot even unequivocally refer to what may or may not constitute a date as a date when two people go and have a drink with a view to a possible romantic connection, as this is apparently breaking rule number one: alluding to a romance that does not exist yet.
Rule One: don't allude to a romance that does not exist yet.
In this modern era- it seems one cannot even openly refer to what is probably best referred to (because I don't wanna break the rules and thusly be ostracised by the single's rules commission) as "two people having a social beverage with a view to potentially having another social beverage and sucking face, or potentially more, depending on the outcome of beverage a". I recently went on a (Beverage A) with a very distinguished, eloquent chap. It seemed this fellow took exception to me referencing (Beverage A) as a "date", a "quasi-date", a "rendezvous", or any word, English, Gallic or Klingon, that could potentially nod to some kind of even vague romantic connection between us.
Rule Two: don't suck face on the first date
Apparently it's cheap. Holy shit sticks. What the flip would I even bother spending more than eight minutes coiffing my quiff to within an inch of it's life if I'm not even going to have the slightest iota of physical contact, the infamous first smooch? Who thought of this rule? What twat thought this was smart to implement- this means you have to groom all over again, then sit through an additional evening of innuendo-laden conversation only to find out that gorgeous slice of fried man gold has the kissing prowess of a Dyson bagless vacuum cleaner with a faulty salivary gland. You get left schlepping home alone after having wasted two weeks (the bare minimum period of time you are permitted to spread beverage a and beverage b across).
Rule Three: don't, whatever you do, admit you like them, tell them they're attractive, call them, or inform them in any way, shape or form that you are even vaguely interested.
In fact, it's probably best they just think you think they're repugnant. In my mind, at the end of the first date, you'd either be in one of two possible situations:
1. Sucking face in a public place, making everyone within a fifty metre radius physically ill;
2. Swapping civilities while one is thinking to one's self if I ever had to look at that person's douchebag face again or listen to their mindless banter I think I'd gnaw off my own arm.
That's it- there's no in between. But no- in 2011 apparently the acceptable and appropriate way to end Beverage A is by either chastly kissing your up-until-this-juncture-and-un til-proven-otherwise-by-way-o f-a-blood-test-or-some-kind-o f-personality-assessment-comp anion (i.e.not date) on the cheek and exchanging vague plans for some means of contact in between the incredibly important things you have to do- like shining your Kia up to a high polish or seeing if you can get your hair into the style of Kid and/or Play.
And these things will occupy your time for a sizeable amount of time.
Is it just me, or is it not preferable to nail this life partner business down as soon as possible? I know I've spent one too many nights home watching South Park in my underpants. I want to watch South Park in my underpants with somebody! It's not that I think anyone should rush into seriousness but if this dating caper is becoming like a secondary task one HAS to do under the strict dogma of a dictatorial societal rule then what chance have we got? When I was in high school I hearted my BF before the first date, usually sucked face all the way through a Christian Slater film and then we'd split by the time we got home because he actually liked the friend you bought along with whom he only exchanged a few muffled snorts while his tongue was planted down your throat.
I don't know anymore. For realsies it's a challenge. It seems there's only one choice for a woman of certain age if said woman wishes to be a renegade and not adhere to strict dating dogma- Couch. South Park. Underpants.

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Subterrenean stuck-homesick blues

March 27th 2009 10:54

MATURE CONTENT

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Posted By: Anneliese Prasser - Category: No Category

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Oh, men don't notice what they got, women think of that a lot

January 11th 2009 15:02

As I age (both rapidly and significantly) my faith in this Brigadoon-esque something begins to dissipate. I find myself so utterly unremarkable and yet also, terribly unrefined. The evil pyromanical leprechauns that reside in my head can easily be extinguished and sedated with copious amounts of alcohol, sometimes they even speak sense. "Don't go to The Fratellis, Anna" they say in a hurried Dylan Moran-ish brogue "they'll be pretentious and overpriced and there are only so many times they can play Chelsea Dagger". And you know what, they were right. Other times, when they urge me to not drink my body weight in Domain Chandon at $10 a flute or command me not to attempt to eat an entire box of Krispy Kremes in one sitting I also don't listen, to some questionable, and also projectile, results.
What a twat I am, really.
With age and singledom comes a kind of vaguely liberating resignation- call it that because I don't know if I am potty or the breeding, be-spoused majority of those in my peer group are the bulk of the time. I cannot think of a nicer name. The knowing sigh when you are the victim of a horribly thinly veiled set-up attempt, or when a family member suggests a possible candidate for matrimony was 'a terribly handsome French' Medicines Sans Frontieres door-to-door salesman. Like you are a carton of eggs, and at any moment, someone is going to drop you or you will spoil and start to fill the air with your pungent stench. I like to then stretch that analogy to what if someone picks me, and turns me into an omelette

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Posted By: Anneliese Prasser - Category: No Category

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Wow, you've turned into a right sexy wee bastard. Do you know that?

October 10th 2008 14:34

MATURE CONTENT

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Posted By: Anneliese Prasser - Category: No Category

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Who comes down? What people? Why are you giving me the secret signal to shut up?

September 9th 2008 14:21

My friend said to me last night "Did you know that gullible people die 15 years earlier than everyone else?" to which I said "Why?"
PING- as the penny drops then...
ARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHH

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Posted By: Anneliese Prasser - Category: No Category

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Dogs really ARE the best people

August 3rd 2008 13:57

Hmmm... as I continue my daily descent into crazy-cat-lady-ville, I have been appointed the temporary primary caregiver of two small-ish dogs. One I assume was once a poodle however is now much akin to a morbidly obese llama, and another very shaggy teenage white terrier. One is racked with neuroses (poodle) and the other has what I lovingly refer to as DADD (doggy attention deficit disorder). This is a volatile combination, and results in some serious sit down discussions with the two to discuss their vastly disparate issues. Needless to say, the one with DADD is sufficiently lower maintenance, yet commands more attention due to his demeanour, and the neurotic one as a result of this grows ever more paranoid as the days wear on.
Dogs are funny creatures. They are more excited to see you when you arrive home than any ungrateful human has ever been. They couldn't care less if your hair looks poxy or you've whacked on a kilo or two. All you have to do is pat your lap for them to hop up on and you're in. They are generally genuinely repentent when they do something naughty and even though a lack of long term memory means they'll do it again, they'll be genuinely sorry the next time, too.
If only more people would be so kind as to jump around and yelp at the prospect of dinner, of a walk with you, or just for you telling them how cute they are. The poodle is so much like a set in his ways old man that the actual owner, having left the house in a hurry with the intention of taking him (poodle) with them, forgot him in the garage. Neuro-dog sat patiently and waited beside the garage for around thirty minutes, with every opportunity to escape to the scary realm of a major road outside, but no, there he sat until the distressed owner returned to retrieve him

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Posted By: Anneliese Prasser - Category: No Category

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What are her prospects? Does she play the viola? Does she embroider? Is she kind to the servants?

July 30th 2008 15:46

Hmmm... Guess where I've been. P-to-the-Olyphonic Spree Dogg... and although I walked in a hater, I walked out, well, somewhat different. Call me Jaded - okayJaded, I'm Anna, but I was seriously doubting deriving any kind of enjoyment from this bunch of tree huggin' hippies and their ragtag team of starving musician types. Seriously.
My sister's big on the weirdos, I mean, she likes to see the pomp and over the top antics only occasionally displayed at events where most would prefer to maintain their musical dignity and be all emo, moody and stroppy. Hand me a screaming Jason Cruz on the mike and Strung Out with their shredding guitar chords and blisteringly irascible lyric anyday, being the slightly unpleasant bear I am, because some antics are just not rock and roll and therefore, not cricket. Everytime I see Faker I half want to hide from the cringeingly Po-Mo writhing of a slightly potty Nathan Hudson, yet part of me cannot look away, and Hurricane is the best flipping live song this side of Newcastle.
So the Polyphonic Spree, right

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You're the echoes of my everything, you're the emptiness the whole world sings at night

July 27th 2008 16:56

How in God's name does anybody really know who, or what, is it?
And when do you know when is the time to make a complete walloping toolbox of yourself and prostrate yourself at the altar of (insert chosen one's name here)? Is it really like a bolt of lightning, or more like the unpleasant tingling sensation one gets from say, a impending coldsore, or the nice tingling sensation one gets from sitting over the airvent in a spa bath?
It seems like everything is right in the beginning, it always does

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