June 2, 2003

• Secrets.

  
  

  My daughter thinks I am boring. I don't surprise her anymore, she says.  Well fuck... I've finally turned into my mother, but my kid is bored by me and she's only three. She's not even old enough to slouch against the doorjamb with her arms folded, a look of pained condescension on her face and do that eye-rolling thing that I had down pat at 15.

  
  

  Humph.

  
  

  Confessions of a Boring Old Fart:

  
  

  I have a sneaking affection for monster trucks. For some reason, all my middle-class upbringing goes straight to the trailer park  when I can see big big trucks with big bouncy wheels pop wheelies in big old dirt arenas. I especially love interviews with the drivers who are inevitably named 'Junior' and who allus wear Caterpillar baseball caps.

  
  

  I can only take about 6 or 7 BeeGees songs before I start snorting with laughter. Funny thing about that trio -  you hear one of their ballads and you think 'that's such a great song' and then by about the fourth one - you are retching and gagging from the sheer paucity of the lyric offering. My favourite is the one about the guys dying in a mining disaster. I wonder which of the  Brothers Gibb thought that would be an excellent top- 40 tune. Especially when the melody is so knee jiggling and bouncy. "Hey, let's do a song where everyone gets buried alive and maybe we'll get on American Bandstand and everyone can dance to it". HUH? And the depth of feeling that their fans have for this light-weight group just astounds me. I mean, they are three guys who wrote clever slick pop songs, sang like girlies and one of them got the other two's share of hair. And women  are still shrieking, for cripes sakes. News flash: they all have bad teeth, lousy bods and they are about 100 years old... except for the short bald one, who's dead. So who cares what kind of meals they like???

  
  

  I don't like Ani DiFranco. She's whiny. And she always seem to promise more than she actually delivers. Actually - I don't think I like many so-called rock chicks. Or women artists that are supposedly intellectual and earnest. If I want earnest, I'll read a book, not listen to Ani. Or Jewel. Jewel sounds like she's 4 years old and writes godawful poetry. Do not buy this book. Your retinas will bleed. If you want your eardrums to bleed, try deciphering Sheryl Crowe.  I can't understand any of what she is saying, in any of her songs. Is it just me or is she singing in a different language? Melissa Etheridge is Bryan Adams in drag. Okay, I don't like any rock chicks.

  
  

  I do however, like rap. I own 'Straight Outta Compton' and I love it. Eminem is alright, but other black artists did it first and did it better.

  
  

  I can dance. I dance all the time. To me, nothing is more pathetic than a bunch of white people trying to seat dance at a concert. If they were black, they'd be dancing. If they were black, they'd look cool. Instead, white folks just bite their bottom lips and shake their shoulders while staying bums-on-seats. A bunch of sardines wiggling on pins.  I wish to apologise to any musicians who have had to endure this.  It's an embarassment to our race. On the other hand, I will get up and dance exuberantly at anything.  I fully intend to wiggle my way through my children's recitals, just to embarass the hell out of them, and to show everyone how it is done. That is, when I am not waiting at the door of the school in a big rubber chicken suit, waving and screeching to them down the hall... he he he.

  
  

  Kids bore me stupid. And yes, I  have two. But I find most toddler activities boring as hell, and I cannot wait until I can put away the glue stick and the glitter and actually do something that doesn't make me want to  internally shriek with boredom. Oh, and I don't like your kids. Some days, I barely like my own - and I can tell you, I certainly don't like yours. I don't care how cute they are. The only reason they are in my house is because they will keep my kids occupied and you and I can get stuck right into the wine and  the trashing of mutual acquaintances.

  
  

  I think Queen was a terrible rock band.  I think they were talentless buffoons and I will die a happy woman if I  never ever hear another rendition of 'We are the Champions'. And yes, I did own that album. When I was like 13. I also owned all of Alice Cooper's albums too, but I don't delude myself that it was anything more than some crap-ass rebellion. It wasn't good music. Nevah evah.

  
  

  I don't like nature. That means, you will never hear me exclaim over how beautiful a flower is, or see me hunched over the remote control, jealously guarding the Discovery Channel. I can appreciate animals and all the flora and fauna best when it is behind glass - preferably at least 10 inches thick. Fuck camping, too many damn bugs. And dirt everywhere. I will leave it up to the educational system to teach my children the wonders of the natural world. I will teach them how to order two double strength espressos in Italian.

  
  

  I hate exercise. I hate it even more when it's good for you. I love to walk places, cos you get to look at things, but only if I am going somewhere on purpose. I don't walk unless I need to get from point A to point B. And I certainly don't have special shoes. And for all of you runners out there - you look in pain, and you look stupid with your shorts going up your ass and the only thing I think are stupider than runners jogging in a downpour, are bicyclists puffing uphill in their leetle tight black outfits in the hot Australian summer sun. Whoa. That's why cars were invented.

  
  

  I like shopping, but I detest clothes shopping. I only like to shop if I have nothing to get. Nothing better than pissing off sales assistants, or pulling out a wad of crumpled 50's out of your ripped jeans when you want to buy some useless toy. Ditto to paying the waiter cum actor between jobs in some fancy cafe.

  
  

  I have phoneaphobia. I hate hate hate using the telephone. I never call anyone, because I am convinced that I am calling right in the middle of some spousal warfare, or, even worse, they are hissing at each other to make up excuses to hang up on me. The answering machine is the bestest invention ever. No matter when someone calls me, it's the wrong time. I might be staring off into space, or looking forward to the next chapter of a book or painting my toenails bright red or watching some shite on the telly - I never want to answer the phone. I don't know why - I think it's something to do with me being a control junkie. When you call me, I am not in charge. That's pathetic, isn't it? But it's not you, it's me, okay? I like emails, they can be answered when I feel like it, at my convenience, and don't require me to drop everything I am doing at the toll of the bell.

  
  

  Okay, I'm done now. Baby is crying. Toddler is whining. And the phone is ringing.

  • 11:46 pm
  • 19 Comments