Is Jeff Lynne your favourite Travelling Wilbury? Don't you just wish you would hear Chris Rea's 'Let's Dance' just once an actual dance floor? Do you wish that James Taylor was your real Dad? Meet FEMBOTanist!

Thursday, June 29, 2006

A sign of the times.

You know you are past it when you go to delete ‘Dirrrrty’ by Christina Aguilera on itunes and you nearly have a heart attack when you realise you may have just deleted “Dirt Laundry’ by Don Henley.

It was a false alarm, just in case you were wondering.

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

King of the foam ring.

My friend and lab buddy Carlos lent me a scientific paper to photocopy yesterday, which in turn has allowed me to partake in my favourite hobby – using the English to Spanish translator on the Mac to write a thankyou note. I do this despite the fact that Carlos probably speaks better English than I do after being in Australia for only one year.

I began with…

"Thank you for lending me the scientific paper, my super intelligent man friend. Perhaps I could thank you properly by buying you a milk shake from the donut king some time."

this translated to...

"Gracias por prestarme el papel científico, mi amigo inteligente estupendo del hombre. Quizás podría agradecerle correctamente comprándole una sacudida de leche del rey del anillo de espuma una cierta hora."

Which when translated back into English, reads…

"Thanks to lend the scientific paper, my wonderful intelligent friend to me of the man. Perhaps it could be thankful to him correctly buying a milk shock of the king of the foam ring a certain hour to him."

I will never get tired of that widget...or that Colombian.

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

My mighty heart is breaking.


The last time I felt this much sporting pain
was when Australian walking champion Jane Saville was disqualified just before entering the stadium at the Sydney Olympics in 2000, resulting in Jovana and I falling to our knees, unplugging the TV and turning it to face the wall. Before that, it was 1993 when Carlton was robbed of the flag by one point and a dodgy free kick* by Essendon Football Club.

It would have been okay if we had lost in a shoot out after a 0-0 result, or because of a legitimate goal on Italy's behalf. At least it would have been fair, and nobody could have said that WE WERE ROBBED. All I'm saying is, we weren't necessarily robbed of victory - we were robbed of the opportunity to have a fair shot at victory.

I’m so heartbroken, I’m going to go downstairs, get on my bike, ride to the gym and take it out on the ol' punching bag**.

*7 goals
**Go downstairs, drive to Krispee Kreme and gorge myself in the front seat of my car, silently weeping and staring at my hands.

Guus, we love you BADCORE.

Friday, June 23, 2006

Not wearing the brown undies for nothing, Botany crew @ Bluezone, 7AM

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Did I ever know that I'm my hero?

I’ve done it.

Conquered my Everest.

Walked the Kokoda track.

This morning at 9.25AM, E. Lewis set out on her bicycle from Westmeadows, and two hours later pulled up to a standing ovation (complete bewilderment) at Blue zone café, University of Melbourne.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am BIKESEXUAL.

After an arduous twenty five-kilometre slog, I have now fulfilled another goal that that I set out to achieve after enrolling at university at the turn of the millennium. The silly part is, it took over six years for me to get off my bum and do it, and it wasn’t even that hard!!

Mind you, I was moving pretty slow. This lady likes to take in the plethora of sights and sounds on the Moonee Ponds Creek trail. Perhaps I’ll stop by the fetid stench pool in Broadmeadows and wet my whistle, or find a nice patch of dog shit to ride through in Strathmore so that Stu can get it on his hands when he locks up my bike, and then James can get it all over his car after I forget to tell him about it when he picked me up.

Anything could happen on my bike ride.

I discussed my riding technique with James over a well-earned Japanese dinner tonight, and we came to the realisation that if I wanted to move any quicker, I would have to actually lift my bum of the seat when peddling. I don’t know why I have such an aversion to standing up and pumping those pedals - I guess I’m just a car driver at heart. I sit on my bike like I sit on the toilet – it’s a comfort thing. I suppose the downside is that instead of having rock hard thighs and a sexy bum, I’ll end up with huge triangular quadriceps and be stuck permanently with my thighs at right angles to my shins, forever moving from herbarium to laboratory like a Thunderbird.

Oh, and just in case anyone was concerned that I did a good thing today, RELAX. To make up for the carbon emissions I didn’t release by driving today, I will be filling my car with anvils and circling my block for five hours tomorrow, just because I Am A Car Owning Cunt And I Can Do Whatever The Fuck I want.

I just hope there aren’t any of those lefty, pinko cyclists to get in my fucking way when I do it.

Photograph of me somewhere between the Western ring road underpass and Strathmore footy club.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Finally, a reason to live.

Thankyou for pointing this one out, Nudge Prentice.

Monday, June 19, 2006

This scientist loves you.....

But she's still too ill to be funny.

Sunday, June 18, 2006

Too sick to be funny.

I have a head cold.

I know exactly how these people feel....

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Woman down.

Thanks to dad taking "my" modem, I will be without internet until Friday, forcing me to concentrate on things like this

instead of this.

Oh, the humanity.

Sunday, June 11, 2006

Carlton Football Club Support Group

One day, Carlton supporter, you will feel this good again.

Keep the faith.

Sunday Night’s All Right For Shit Fan Fiction III

Okay, put the kids to bed and get out the after dinner mints, because Sunday Night’s All Right For Shit Fan Fiction. Here’s one from the vaults of M*A*S*H* fan fiction, delving into some good old-fashioned homoeroticism involving Alan Alda. Enjoy!

Cold nights

“Scootch over Beej!” Hawkeye exclaimed as he stood over BJ’s bed. His bedding was draped around him like a cloak. Hawkeye shifted from socked foot to socked foot on the cold wooden floor.

“What?” BJ asked sleepily, but he moved over, complying with his friend’s request. He lifted his own blankets to allow the man into his bed.

“Jesus, it’s damn cold!” Hawkeye said as he climbed in and spread his own covers over BJ’s.

“What are you two up to?” Charles asked crankily from the other side of the tent.

“The abominable snowman awakens!” Hawkeye said, snuggling behind BJ, who willingly accepted Hawkeye’s arms as they came around his waist.

“Come on Chuck. Drag your bunk over here and we’ll have a sleep over,” BJ said with a laugh.

“I thought this already was,” Charles said, ignoring the jab at his name and settled back down into his bunk. No matter how cold he was, he wasn’t getting into bed with them!


Charles woke the next morning before the other men in the room. He dressed in all of his warm clothes and made his bed. He walked over to his tent-mates bed, fully intending to wake them with a splash of cold gin. But he stopped.

The two had created a protective cocoon around themselves with their blankets. Charles could see the outline of them, wrapped tightly within each other’s arms. They were face to face, breathing the same air. He didn’t know what it was about it - maybe it was the serenity of the situation or the small resemblance of something normal about the image they presented, but he couldn’t wake them.

Charles decided he’d leave his wake up call for another morning. He was going to keep an eye on these two. He left and headed towards the mess.


“Best sleep of my life,” Hawkeye mumbled after Charles had gone.

“Yeah,” BJ murmured. “Maybe you should have meant it when you asked him to join.”

“I always mean what I say, Beej!” Hawkeye said in mock dismay, but his tone changed suddenly. “Nah, give it a few days. Besides I like sleeping over here with you all to myself.” Hawkeye smiled as he reached up and brazenly kissed BJ on the lips.

“More time for that later,” BJ’s smile held promise as he untangled himself from Hawkeye. He grabbed his clothes to dampen the chill.

“Aw... Beej! Charles takes forever to eat! We have time,” Hawkeye said as he rolled over and lounged in the space BJ used to occupy.

“Later you bum!” BJ said grinning, and delivered a light smacked on Hawkeye’s exposed shoulder. Hawkeye yelped flamboyantly and BJ laughed gleefully.

Thursday, June 08, 2006

A Kodak Moment.

I know I keep posting photos instead of writing - however I just couldn't resist putting this up. Thanks to Aunty Maz for sending this to me in an email with the caption 'Another reason to get married in a church'(and for slipping it innocently amongst photos of my Nana).

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Family ties.

Monday, June 05, 2006

"It's not easy having a good time... even smiling makes my face ache."

The Rocky Horror Picture Show is clearly one of the finest examples of cinema ever produced - but I'm sure I don't need to convince you of that, you Internet boffin you. I did happen to watch it on cable the other night though, and that got me on a ye olde trip down memory lane.

I have seen Rocky Horror many, many times. I have performed the soundtrack with Stuart in his lounge room after one too many Botany Christmas party drinks, to the combined horror of Sui and Lesleigh. It was my first purchased and most played DVD, and I have seen it on VHS, television, cable and even once at the Astor Theatre on New Years Eve with my cousin Lydia. In fact, Lydia was the lady in charge of showing my sister and I the movie when we were ten years old, and I remember the first time like it was yesterday.

Faced with the prospect of spending another day on the town in Edenhope with little else to do but eat chicken chips at the Top Cafe or watch that slow guy who always played the drums down at the lake, we took a trip to the video store (shelf of videos at the service station) to pick up something for an afternoon flicker show at grannies house.

Having told Lydia that we had been watching the movie ‘Clue’ constantly for months and that we thought that “Tim Curry was so totally cool”, she recommended we get Rocky Horror because Tim Curry was in it. I’ll never forget the anticip……………ation of the first time Dr Frankenfurter walked out of that lift and into the hearts of Amy and Emma Lewis forever. As soon as we were home from our holiday, mum was given orders to pick up a copy of Rocky Horror from the video store whilst Amy and I busily continued with our Burke and Wills role playing game in the backyard. Soon, the Rocky Horror soundtrack was obtained in the only way that that two ten year olds in 1991 knew how – a cassette recording made with Amy’s tape deck as the movie played on the VHS. We watched it over and over, we forced mum and dad to play it in the car on long trips - Amy even rewrote one of the songs for a Primary school project, entitled ‘In just seven days, I can bake you a ham’. We begged our music teacher to let us sing Rocky Horror songs in class, and amazingly the only one deemed suitable for our age was ‘Hot Patootie’ as sung by Meatloaf. I may have only been ten years old, but I was pretty sure what ‘Hot Patootie’ was, and that we probably shouldn’t have been singing about it in grade four.

All of these experiences over a decade ago led to a decision I made whilst walking along West 44th between Broadway and 8th one Saturday afternoon last year. It was our last night in New York, and I had already spent hundreds of dollars on discounted Broadway tickets over the previous few days. The only two shows that were selling out and selling full price only tickets only were Wicked (starring everyones favourite Golden Girl, Blanche Devereux) and Spamalot, starring the one and only Dr. Frankenfurter. Standing in front of the Shubert theatre, I had to make a choice. With one hundred US dollars in my purse, I could either walk in and buy a ticket to Spamalot, or exchange the money for pounds and take it to London the next day so I could afford a small coffee at Starbucks.

It wasn’t hard to make my choice. To see Tim Curry in the flesh is to fulfil the prophecy handed down from cousin to cousin so many years ago. It was the opportunity to send text messages to Amy and Lydia and make them die of jealousy. I had to go in and see if there were any tickets left.

I asked at the ticket box if there were any seats available for that nights show, half expecting to walk out empty handed and empty hearted. Instead, I was informed that I had just reserved the last seat in town, and I was about to be empty pocketed in a big way.

But I didn’t care. It was Saturday night, and Emma Lewis had the hottest Broadway seat behind a pylon that New York City had to offer. As the great Dr. Frankenfurter himself once said himself, I was no longer dreaming it – I was being it. I had given myself over to absolute pleasure, and despite sitting wedged between New Jersey’s Loudest Jewish Woman™ and The Worlds Fattest Man™, I nearly weed my pants with joy as the curtains went up.

There he was, the all singing, all dancing man of my dreams who once looked like this....

....and was now somehow trapped inside a man that looked like this.

Later that night when Anthony and I headed down to Nolita for a few drinks, I knew that I was the only woman in New York with a fully imported VB in her hands who still had a thing for Tim Curry and who had checked off another item on her 'Things to do before death' checklist.

Come to think of it, that night puts a lot of pressure on the other items on my checklist. I'm just not sure if Derryn Hinch will ever snort cocaine of Neil Mitchell's chest with me at 3AW headquarters, or if I will ever be asked to join The Travelling Wilburys for a once only Las Vegas show.

Perhaps I should be satisfied with what I have already achieved....

Dear (insert your name here).

Thanks to some great advice from my number one fan (you know who you are, Fanta pants), I have fixed up my comments dealy so that all readers can make comments now, with no site membership necessary.

I am assuming that this change will be as significant as the introduction of talk-back to the radio world in 1945.

I also look forward to the Nigerian bank account spam that this will inevitably attract.

Huzzah for the comments section!

Sunday, June 04, 2006

Sunday Night’s Alright for Shit Fan fiction II

Yep – Sunday night has rolled around again, and that means its time for me to trawl the depths of to find you some more shithouse fan fiction.

Looking through the ‘Happy Days’ section, I came across a nice little story that hooked me in with the following synopsis.

Something's seriously wrong with Potsie, and if Richie (and others) don't figure it out soon, it may be too late...

I should also offer a language warning and suggest that you put the kids to bed before reading this – Potsie does say fuck once or twice.

The Art of Drowning

Potsie stared out his window. It wasn’t like he had a great view, in fact all he saw was the side of his neighbour’s house from his second-story bedroom. But he wasn’t really looking at anything, just staring and trying his best not to think. If he started to think, he started to feel, and emotion wasn’t on his side lately.

So in order to avoid such a pesky thing as thought, he stared at the bricks on his neighbour’s house. And it almost worked. The problem was, as soon as he got his mind good and blank, one little thought would worm itself into his mind without his consent.

He was in the process of emptying his head when he heard his name being shouted.

“WARREN!” It was his father. He subconsciously bit his lip. This could be bad…

“TELEPHONE!” Potsie relaxed. He hadn’t heard the phone ring. Just a phone call. He wondered whether or not he should answer it, then decided, hey, if worse comes to worse he could always hang up. He reached for his phone and picked up the receiver.

“Yeah?” He said flatly.

“Potsie, it’s me,” Richie said.

“Oh. Hi Rich.”

“Listen, Potsie. I’ve talked to Fonzie-”

Potsie hung up.

Even if it was his best friend calling, he didn’t want to hear about Fonzie. At all. He’d just spent the better part of an hour trying not to think about him, and boom, his own best friend throws it in his face.

The phone rang, just as he knew it would. He also knew it was Richie, but he picked it up anyway. “Yeah.” he answered.

“Potsie, don’t do that! You need to hear this, okay? Trust me. Promise you won’t hang up again?”

“No, but I’ll try not to,”

A pause. “Okay, fine. Listen. I talked to Fonzie, and he feels bad for what he said earlier.”

Potsie scoffed.

“No, really Potsie.” Richie always believed everything Fonzie said, Potsie thought. Richie pressed on. “He was just upset, you know, with everything that happened with his bike, and then what you said just pushed him over the edge.”

“Okay, whatever.”

“Potsie! That’s almost an apology! And you know Fonzie hates saying he’s sorry.”

“Well, maybe that’s his problem, huh? Maybe he needs to get over himself. He’s always been vain and self-centered, and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of him treating me like I’m subhuman, like I’m not up to his level. And his ego is inflated partially because people like you are always sucking up to him! Oh Fonzie, you’re so cool! You’re the best, Fonzie! I can always count on you, Fonzie! Just because I said what I really thought, all of a sudden I’m a lowlife? Fuck that, Richie.”

Silence. “Potsie-” Richie started, stunned.

Potsie hung up once again. This time the phone didn’t ring.

I think that there is something in that for all of us.

Please find attached your complimentary colour-cut-out-and-keep Fonzie for every reader.