Huy Le, Egomaniac

When I started writing this blog I had no intention for it to become a forum for airing personal greivances. Unfortunately, that was somewhat naive of me. After all, blogging is all about the disenfranchised seeking a soap box from which to whinge. So listen up, good readers, and hear me complain about my "friend" Huy Le. Huy has an ego that is OUT OF CONTROL. It's evident in every aspect of his behaviour. Who else could care so much about the tightness of his shirts, about the number of mirrors in his one bedroom apartment and the amount of sweat that can pour from a bald guy's head? He's so self-centred that he complains about the fact that I don't write about him in my blog. I mean, it's like he's just ASSUMED that I have nothing better to write about than him and his total lack of perspective on the world. I mean, it's not like there aren't plenty of interesting things happening in my life that are far more important than Huy's warped sense of fashion. So listen carefully, Huy-Pac - my readers don't give a stuff about your super-pointy shoes or your skin-tight, stove-pipe, straight-leg, flat-front black pants. They're interested in more important issues. And I'm fully intending to write about some of those issues some time in the near future. So there.

Inspired?

Here's my latest art work for your review. What do you think? A work of rare genius? Or merely the greatest artistic statement of my generation? I will let my public decide.

How sad am I?

Pretty sad is the answer. I'm bored at work again. I mean, I've got a few things to do, but I'm not exactly run off my feet. I went through a brief (3 day) busy period last week when I had to work late, but that's over now. Sitting around for hours on end is pretty mind-numbing and right now my mind is so numb that I probably wouldn't feel anything if you opened up my skull and poked my brain with a fork. I mean I'm following the US Open golf online by watching the scores tick over on the leaderboard. And I've started to read up on golf statistics. For example, did you know that Ernie Els' average score per round over the 2004 golf season was 68.98. Not bad, hey? Um, yeah.

All the world's a stage

Jenny and Rob were in London last weekend and were kind enough to stop by my place to say hello and spend a bit of time with me exploring London. We managed to pack quite a bit into only a couple of days, but the highlight for me was definitely catching a show (an utterly fantastic production of The Merchant of Venice) at Shakespeare's Globe theatre on Southbank.

For those of you not familiar with the Globe, it's a fairly authentic recreation of the theatre in which Shakespeare used to put on his productions some 400 odd years ago. It's got a great atmosphere, because the seats go straight up, rather than on an angle, which means the whole crowd stays close to the action. And for the punters without much cash, there are £5 standing tickets, where you get to watch the play from the Shakespearian equivalent of a mosh pit.

We'd actually been hoping to get some cheap seats, but they were all sold out, so we went with the standing option, which turned out to be a brilliant choice. The standing crowd gets right up close to the action - you can even lean on the stage if you like (though you need to watch out for actors randomly vomiting off the stage during certain scenes). Being so close to the actors really gets you involved in the play and engages you in an entirely different way.

The play itself is of course a work of genius. Despite the blatant anti-semitism in parts, which is pretty confronting to a modern audience, the themes of love, trust and revenge that run through the play have enduring relevance. I've got to admit that I haven't always been a big Shakespeare fan - mostly because I'm not sharp enough to take in all the dialogue at the speed at which it's delivered. I mean, I did study The Tempest and Hamlet at school, but I didn't ever feel like I got a good handle on them. Even with this play, I got lost in parts, but the acting was good enough to carry me along anyway and even when the words were lost on me, the drama of the events unfolding on stage was not.

As you'll have gathered by now, this is not so much a blog posting as an excited rant about how great the Globe is, so I'll end it here and put you out of your misery. But next time you get a chance, I highly recommend that you get along to the theatre and check it out for yourself. You won't regret it.

Ir-re-placeable

Let's set some things straight before I get stuck into this post. I eat red meat. I drink beer. I love watching football, particularly when there's a bit of biff on the field. I have fairly relaxed standards of personal hygiene. I like environmentally unfriendly cars with big engines. Got it? Now, on the other hand a brief survey of last weekend shows that I also enjoy eating chicken caesar salad, drinking sugary-minty cocktails through a straw and spending evenings sipping champagne and reading Cosmopolitan magazine. And, on top of that, I'm also a MASSIVE fan of Beyonce Knowles. And I'm totally comfortable with that.


Now that we've sorted that out, let's get on with the real business of this post, which is to rave about the Beyonce concert that I went to last night. Without overstatement, it was stunning from start to finish from the opening blast of "Crazy In Love" to the final massed sing-along to the chorus of "Irreplaceable" it was quality all the way. Beyonce herself was fit with a capital F, I and T (think thighs and think fine) and her costumes were flattering to say the least (let's just say she was showing plenty of jiggle when she was getting her wiggle on). The all-girl band was tight too - and not shy about showing off their skills (particularly the drummer who insisted on eating grapes and french breadsticks while in the middle of her drum solos). But the back-up singers stole the show for me - let's just say that BIG is most definititely SEXY, particularly when you wrap it up in black sequins and mix in a healthy dose of 'tude.


So if the Beyonce Experience ever rolls through your part of the world, do yourself a favour and GO SEE IT. Sorry the pictures don't give you a better idea of what it was like. The first couple didn't come out exactly the way I intended. But I seem to have gotten it right with the last one.

A night out

What does a normal night out in London involve? A pint of alcoholic milk at the Fat Badger. Trying to pass yourself off as a 5th year architecture student to get into Trellick Tower (built by a Hungarian called Erno Goldfinger - no joke) - one of the most notorious and architecturally disturbing council estates in London. And here I quote:

"Women raped in elevators, children attacked by heroin addicts in the basement, and homeless squatters setting fire to flats were among the more lurid. So bad was the Tower's reputation that one urban myth told how the architect (ie Goldfinger), wracked with guilt at creating this monstrosity, threw himself from the roof."

Finishing at a "members only" (yeah, right) club that was an odd mix between a high school disco and sophisticated inner-city bar (complete with a DJ who sounded like he was just pressing the skip button to move between tracks on an "'80s remixed" CD. Fun.

Excuse me, dear sir

Today I went to Lords, the home of cricket, which conveniently enough is located only 20 minutes walk away from the home of me. My ticket came courtesy of Walshie and his boss Rex - thanks guys and shout outs to the crew at Eversheds. Walshie, Warwick and I agonised in the morning about what constituted suitable attire for Lords - there's nothing more embarrassing than being turned back by the bouncers at a cricket ground because you're wearing the wrong sort of shoes. On the one hand, there was the traditional Aussie dress of board shorts, singlet and thongs. On the other hand, there was the safe choice of neat jeans and a blazer. Luckily, we went with the safe choice. The crowd at Lords must have been the most refined, quiet, well-dressed and polite that I've ever seen. Where else does the crowd reward a fine shot from the opposition team with a round of applause? Where else do people say "My dear sir, would you please excuse us" when they're trying to get past you to take up their seats? Where else do they serve alcohol in glass glasses at a sporting event? All round, the Lords experience feels very strange and unnatural. It also felt strange and unnatural to watch cricket being played by two countries which were both not Australia. I mean, I've got plenty of time for the West Indies and watching England play is always entertaining because they've got no skills and they've got Monty Panesar in their team. But it's not the same as watching Haydos flex his muscles at the crease or Ricky Ponting flourish his bat like he's opening an umbrella every time he wants to let the ball go. And there's something special about the sustained abuse that Glenn McGrath can hurl at the opposing batsman that other cricketing nations just can't replicate. So after sitting through a couple of sessions, we'd had enough and decided to wander off to the pub to watch the FA Cup Final, which deserves a posting of its own, but will have to wait until another time.