Vintage Fablogs 2005
Lord my head hurts. Holidays, it seems, are all about hangovers. I've had seventeen just this week. And it's only Tuesday!
Last night I had a Monday club reunion. Monday club was when a good friend of mine (who is a celebrity - all of my friends are famous, and if they aren't, they should be) and I would catch up with the pretense of watching Alias or Buffy or some other program. We'd have a bite to eat and a bottle of wine. Well, when I say "a" bottle of wine, I mean 6. This was back when I was working at Triple J and it still continued last year when I was working at Fox FM for about five minutes a day. This year, Monday club has gone by the wayside. One of the hideous realities of breakfast radio is that you have dinner at 4pm. It's bizarre, I know, but it's what I do. So last night was the mother of all Monday Clubs, and we did a full twelve months worth of drinking. We emptied several bottles of wine, and like gin-drenched aunts at a family xmas do, we got a bit emotional and needed hugs. It was glorious. It's the best way to start the week, nobody notices if you are a bit slack on a Tuesday, trust me...
I just got back from Lorne. Stayed at the Cumberland Lorne Resort. (That's the view from my balcony - I took that photo with my phone) It was bliss. Although I am still fetching sand from my various nooks and crannies. I had a visit for a couple of days from Cabaret Star Wes Snelling. I bought a big hat for the ocassion so I could be Hilary Whitney and lie on the beach dying of a bizarre ailment, while he as C.C. Bloom fetched things for me. Wes soon tired of the phrase "C.C. - Hilary wants you to..." and the various demands that followed. He had to do what he was told, however, because Hilary is very sick and needs help. When at the beach, homosexuals must always play Beaches. I'd hate to think what the people of Lorne thought was going on when two loud corpulent poofs were flouncing around under the mistaken belief they were Barbara Hershey and Bette Midler. If, like many people, you are wondering what happened to the child, C.C. told Whitney she buried her in the sand. She stuck the straw from her milkshake in so the thing could have some air, though. C.C. is a deeply feeling person, she feels things. Deeply.
Have a Merry Xmas everyone. And a happy new year.
I'd love to write another fablog entry before that all happens, but you know how slack I am when I'm working. Imagine how shit I am when I'm on holidays?
Last night I made my favourite dinner - what my friend Troy refers to as Heart Attack on a Plate. Macaroni and Cheese. I know what you're thinking, it comes in a box and is microwave madness. Not so! Mine is from a cookbook I inherited from my mother, the Women's Weekly Original Cookbook, not to be confused with the Women's Weekly New Cookbook. For simplicity's sake, I call them the old and new testament. My sister Michelle and I sometimes refer to them as our heirlooms.
They're from the 70's and they're spectacular. Completely out of print, mind you. You can probably get one on ebay or an op-shop. It was the Stephanie Alexander of the 70's. There is a recipe for "How to host a Cheese and Wine Night" which basically says, buy some cheese and wine and put it on the table. There is also a spectacularly lurid photo of some canapes - Ritz biscuits with bits of meat and traffic light cocktail onions on them. If the appetising bucket of boiled meat on the cover isn't enough to entice you in, let me tell you that there are some gems from the golden age of cookery hiding within - a lot of pineapple rings. The new testament, which has a red cover, has some full three course meals and how to cook them. No rocket lettuce or stir fry here my friends, everything is cooked in three inches of butter.
The Macaroni Cheese recipe is a delight. Not only does it have mustard and worcesteshire in it, but a can of tomato soup! It looks positively radioactive when it comes out of the oven, but my lord, the flavours! You will burst. And it's great cold. Here it is, as I remember it (I rarely look at the recipe anymore).
Make macaroni - you know, boil water, boil mac, rinse, drain, blah. If you can't manage that, ring a pizza for frig's sake. In a big saucepan, melt 90g butter (which is just under two of the little marks on the side of the wrapper). Remove from heat and stir in dry ingredients (dry mix: 1/2 cup flour, teaspoon dry mustard powder, 1/2 teaspoon sweet paprika, salt, pepper). Cook 1 minute. Add 1 cup milk gradually. Stir until sauce boils and thickens. Fry lightly chopped onion (1), capsicum (1) and bacon (3-4 rashers, about 125g) then add to sauce. Mix well. Add 185g grated cheddar and 1/2 can tomato soup (small can!). Gently heat sauce, do not boil. Add 1/2 teaspoon worcestishire sauce and cooked mac. Pop it in a casserole dish and shove it in a preheated oven - 180celsius - for 25-30 minutes. For the topping, sprinkle any of the following: more grated cheddar, grated cheddar and parmesan, or my favourite, a tablespoon of melted butter mixed with a tablespoon of breadcrumbs.
Eat and don't think about the butter.
Apparently Teri Hatcher refused to have her photo taken with the Emmy Award she didn't win. What a mole.
Hey Kids! Mamma's on holiday in Sydney. The sun is shining, so I'm hiding indoors typing.
If you really miss shouty poof, you can still hear me with Becko after 1pm with the One O'clock One Hit Wonders. How do I manage to do it, even when I'm on holiday? Expensive technology, and a commitment that many of my peers lack. Just don't ask why I still have a blocked nose on Friday.
The Glamorous Life keeps rolling along (preferably the Mr Timothy and Inaya Day version, I'm not so sold on Melissa Tkautz and her $15 for three songs at a gay nightclub version...) I'm going to movie premieres, tv show tapings, the casino, the theatre - and I get to stay up late and drink all the free champagne! It's non-stop fun in a bun. Although I do still have this snot problem, and zitzilla on my forehead. The beaty of radio is, zitzilla is no hindrance, and I can still be fabulous wearing tracksuit pants and ugg boots. Nobody knows.
Okay, I'm off to the sunshine and the funshine now. Have a great day girls!
Oh my god. What a breathtaking photo. If you can see where I'm looking. I have such a dirty mind...
The real me, the at home away from the microphone and the spotlight me, has a very different sense of humour to the 'fabulous' Adam Richard. I'm more the dark and nasty Adam Richard when I'm alone with friends. There is one person in my life who makes me laugh more than anybody else in the world. In fact, I have gone on record a number of times saying that she is 20 times funnier than I am. She does her funniest work sitting on the couch, flipping through the new or the day, or watching the channel ten news. (I don't know why first at five is so much more mockable than the others - perhaps it's all the padding. in Sydney, Ten News has a helicopter that does a traffic report. Surely, if you're at home watching the news, you don't give two shits about the traffic?)
For privacy's sake, and because she may not want to be associated with the following comment, I am going to call her "Bunny." If you've met her, you know the casual way in which she would have said the most hysterical thing I've heard this week. It concerns the photo of Jessica Simpson below, captured at the MTV VMA white carpet in Miami.
"She looks like she's gone to a fancy dress party dressed as a French Maid and been gang raped."
Let the evil email flow. Bunny has spoken.
What a scandalous headline. I've been away from this blog so long I thought it best to come back swinging. I saw some frightening pictures of Tom Cruise cross dressing in Holy Moly! (a fantastic website if you like the seedier side of celebrity life, and my favourite c-word being bandied about with abandon). They have links to these outrageous pictures of Tom Cruise, dressed as a woman. Now, I know he's all of ten or something, but that's where it starts. I'm not saying he still does it, dress up as a pretty ladyman, but why does he own a million dollars of jewellery?
Look, I'm sure he's not gay, because a gay man would never dare stand on Oprah's yellow leather couch - how does he know whether she's scotchguarded it or not? And in shoes? I don't care how excited he is about his publicity marriage to Joey from Dawson's, you take your shoes off if you are going to stand on furniture - especially if you are a visitor! I'm ruling out gay, but I'm not ruling out pretty dress ups. And if the girls he dates are bigger than him, then their lovely frocks should fit just right around his little manly chest. He may need to take the hems up a little, he is after all a hobbit.
How do you take a holiday off from being fabulous? It’s not as difficult as you might imagine. Sure, Tuesday night I ended up drunk at drag karaoke with Logie Winner Kimberly Cooper and Bachelor of the Year Andrew G, but that was in Sydney – it’s par for the course there.
The rest of the time I’ve been sitting at home on the couch trying to be as non-fab as possible. On Monday I watched every single episode of the new Doctor Who series back to back. All 13 of them. I’ve been to the cinema to see Batman Begins, twice. Alright once to the Melbourne Premiere (which is a little bit fabulous, I admit – and I got to see Ricki-Lee! I love her!) and once in Gold Class in Sydney with Kim Cooper, which was also a bit fabulous. (When Kim was Gypsy on Home and Away, she beat Rebecca Cartwright at the Logies).
I’ve been squatting on the internet like a chicken trying to hatch an egg. Catching up with my depressing British soap operas (Corrie and ‘Stenders). Reading comic books. Eating whole sticks of cabana and pickled onions from the jar.
It’s difficult being fabulous 24/7. Even asleep I’m fabulous, thanks to my Peter Alexander pyjamas (which he gave to me personally). For my entire holidays I’ve been sleeping on flannelette sheets. They’ll have to go back to the Egyptian cotton when I start back at work Monday.
Being fabulous takes its toll. Thank god I can go back to being a fageek slob for a couple of weeks here and there.
Review: Batman Begins.
Before I even begin to tell you about this movie, I have to disclose some information. Information beyond the fact that the film’s distributor, Village Roadshow, is the majority shareholder in the company I work for. (The hand that signs the cheque has never influenced my opinion on a movie, however – if you had heard my review of Catwoman, last year, you would know exactly what I mean).
No, I need to tell you that I am a nerd. That’s right, Adam Richard: huge, comic-book loving, Batman-purist nerd. Self-confessed fageek. Does that mean I will be more or less harsh on a Batman movie? It didn’t stop me from hating Catwoman. Or Daredevil. It does mean I will lose my tiny mind over X-Men or Spiderman when they’re done right. (I gave Spiderman 2 a rating of 6 out of 5 – possibly due to the fact that the screenplay was by Alvin Sargent*)
The last four Batman films, I don’t really want to discuss. Tim Burton was great and made Batman in his own twisted image, Joel Schumacher was not. Although, in Schumacher’s defence, I am starting to love Batman and Robin more and more these days. It is fast becoming one of my Helluloid Classics – right up there with Showgirls and Glitter.
The first remarkable thing about Batman Begins is the cast. The big names go on and on and on. They’re not just famous either, they are some of the finest, and much awarded, names on the planet. Christian Bale, Morgan Freeman, Michael Caine, Gary Oldman, Liam Neeson. There were even a few surprises, like Linus Roache, Rutger Hauer and the always superb Tom Wilkinson. Cillian Murphy is chilling as The Scarecrow, and poor Katie Holmes ends up the weak link in the chain – which would not have been the case were she surrounded by other Dawson’s refugees.
The performances are uniformly excellent, even Gary Oldman – a man with the ability to chew scenery from the wings, turns in a restrained and sedate performance as the man who is to become Commissioner Gordon. The direction, by Christopher Nolan (Memento, Insomnia) is controlled and grounded in reality – like a gritty crime drama from the seventies. After all the CGI malarkey that is infesting our screens of late, it is nice to see a movie that could be The French Connection with capes.
This is Batman for grown-ups, for the now-adult fans of the grim Frank Miller noir-style comic books of the late eighties. It is believable and exciting and everything a comic nerd could hope for. As good as Sam Raimi’s Spiderman and Bryan Singer’s X-Men, but without the whimsy that blurs the edges of those films.
The FAB-O-METER was twisted by the dark psychology of Batman Begins. 7 out of 5. (well, it was better than Spiderman 2…)
*Alvin Sargent wrote the screenplay to the Robert Redford directed Ordinary People, one of my favourite movies of all time, and not just because it stars Mary Tyler Moore, but that did help a lot.
Can any film hope to live up to the hype that surrounds Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie and their “relationship?” The answer is no. Look at the disasters spawned by tabloid fodder – Affleck and Lopez in Gigli, Cruise and Cruz in Vanilla Sky, Cruise and Kidman in Eyes Wide Shut, Ryan and Crowe in Proof of Life. (I would add Madonna and Guy Richie for Swept Away, Madonna and Warren Beatty for Dick Tracy, or Madonna and Sean Penn for Shanghai Surprise, but I think they had more to do with Madonna’s painfully incompetent acting than her relationships with her co-stars/directors).
This isn’t even a new phenomenon. There are disasters starring couples like Elizabeth Taylor & Richard Burton, Kim Basinger & Alec Baldwin, Corey Feldman & Corey Haim… To be honest, I can’t wait until Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore decide to join forces and create something so offensively disastrous, it completely rehabilitates our sensibilities, to the point where we think Mariah Carey in Glitter is high art.
“Mr. & Mrs. Smith,” however, is not a bad film. It certainly doesn’t reach the heights of “Dead Man Walking” (Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins) or “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” (Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton), but it is a disposable piece of popcorn cinema.
Brad and Ange are hired killers, who meet while on the job in some dodgy South American nation. They spend the next five or six years in total oblivion of each other’s true nature. She thinks he works in construction, he thinks she works in IT. That is where the hyper-reality starts: as if someone that looks like Angelina Jolie would ever stoop to crawling around under desks fiddling with USB cables.
The movie goes on to become the kind of guns and explosions action romp that I always find incredibly satisfying. It is not so dissimilar to James Cameron’s True Lies, or a domestic James Bond. There is a worrying subtext about domestic violence, and the age-old notion that a good fight ends in good make-up sex. The most exciting part of the movie however is not the bang-bang of guns or bodies, it is Brad and Angelina themselves. They are both so beautiful and compelling on screen, you don’t really care much about what is going on around them.
As well as being drool-inducing divine specimens of humanity, Pitt and Jolie are both highly skilled performers, creating a fascinating couple, whose relationship is atrophying around the web of lies woven to keep the other safe from their dangerous careers. The passion has gone out of their marriage, and the thinly disguised growing contempt they have for each other is a palpable presence in the film. What is less evident is the passion itself. They are magnificent in a fight scene, but it is far more difficult to believe that they have any kind of desire for one another. Given how deliciously sexy they are, you would think that to be the easy part of making this movie…
Mr. & Mrs. Smith is a good fun night at the movies if you like either of these performers, or you like a bit of mindless action. The big fight scenes take place in hilariously domestic settings; a shootout in a suburban home, a military insurgence into a homewares store, and a car chase in a Tarago. It’s fun if you like that kind of thing, but don’t go for the love story. You’ll be let down.
The FAB-O-METER swung both ways for Mr. & Mrs. Smith. 3.7/5
What a busy time I've had. Let's catch up shall we?
First off, I spoke to Delta Goodrem on the phone last week, and she assures me that Brian McFadden did not say those hideous things about Madonna. Well, that's what he told her. She was almost as upset as I was! I may have said something to her about the songs on her album being dour, but I meant it in a nice way. Soon as I work out how to podcast my own malarkey on here, I will give you the unexpurgated interview. You can hear it Tuesday morning on Fox in Melbourne, and this weekend all over the country on Australian First - check your local station for the time.
Had my special fabulette screening of Mr & Mrs Smith at the Gold Class at Crown on Thursday. Thanks to everyone at Village Cinemas, 20th Century Fox and Fox 101.9 for pulling it together. Loved the movie. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. So hot. And guns. And explosions. And dancing. Detailed review to come.
Saw some sneak scenes from Fantastic Four this afternoon. Looks amazing - I only hope it's as much silly fun as the comic book. I've been re-reading my the old John Byrne issues. I bought them in trade paperback, because my old ones are hilarous old black and white Australian reprints from the eighties. They've been massacred somewhat - I used to cut out panels and make birthday cards out of them. I would colour them in and everything. I am truly nerdy Tonia Toddman.
Speaking of the Toddman, if you want to see what kind of crazy craft I get up to when I've had a champagne or fifty, head over to my friend Adam's blog at The Merkin. There is a delightful photo of me doing creative things with sticky tape. I am the bastard love child of Martha Stewart and Chopper Read. I caught up with Adam on Saturday night at Spin Cycle, a new night at The Commercial in Yarraville, where I had an absolute ball. It's on every Saturday until late, with the divine Mz. Kung making the dancefloor heave like a bouncey castle full of kids on Ritalin. My favourite tracks from the night were a revisitation of Superfly Guy by S-Express, and The Captain and Tenille, whose love has truly kept them together.
big air kisses
People keep harassing me about the spelling of the word sacrilege in the Brian McFadden FabWah entry. I, more than anyone, am a stickler for spelling and grammar, especially on the internet, where there are no editors or proofreaders. I do realise that the word has been misspelt, and I was contemplating correcting it, but I think bad spelling lends verisimilitude to the faux-religious fervour of the piece. Have you ever looked at a religious anti-gay site? It's like the love of the lord precludes the use of a spellchecker.
Here is a particularly hilarious jesus freak. He loves jesus so much, he thinks he is jesus! There are some particularly disturbing sections with evil photos. Showing you explicit sex and bondage, and then explaining why it's evil...
Then there is the deliberately hilarious...
Delta Goodrem's hideous boyfriend, Brian McFadden (formerly "The Fat One From Westlife") must be taken to task by any self-respecting homosexual man.
Like the Fatwah placed upon Salman Rushdie, who offended Islam with his statements about Allah in 'The Satanic Verses,' we must enact a similar religious vendetta, which I am calling a FabWah.
Brian, who I used to like because he thought I was funny on Rove Live, must now suffer a severe slapping, or at least some unkind comments to his face about his limp hair. He has trespassed where only Elton dare tread, but unlike Elton, he has neither the clout of the fabulous, nor the history of ability.
The following statements are attributed to Brian McFadden in reference to Madonna, the Patron Saint of Homosexual Dancing (and Dire Acting): "People are saying Madonna makes great music, it's really rubbish. She doesn't have a good voice and she is boring. Just because she's Madonna everybody says 'brilliant' and 'genius'. I don't think she's ever been a good musician, I don't know what she's got. Maybe it's because she's been naked in some movies and excited a lot of men."
The man must be made to pay for his crimes against our deity. Even if you do not love Madonna, you must be mindful of her impact in the greater community of gay men.
It is in this spirit that I implore you, take this FabWah and use it as indemnity against any act of spitting, biting, disdainful glance or deliberately loud derogatory comments within earshot. Brian McFadden must not be allowed to make these outrageous and inflammatory statements without reprisal. What would he know about music anyway? With his boring cut-price Brian Adams pastiche noise. And his dull girlfriend with the piano and the year ten poetry lyrics.
This is all I will say on the matter, Brian McFadden. Retract your statments immediately, or feel the wrath of homosexuality - there is no corner in which you can hide!
Hello and welcome to the all-new Fabulounge, here at adamrichard.com. I
hope you like what we've done with the place. I haven't quite finished
dictating all my tasteful furnishing decisions to the interior designer
and the removalists, but it's getting there. We have the fablog, which
you are clearly looking at right now.
You can subscribe to the fablog
if you have an rss xml news reader, and you'll be instantly updated
when I bother to log on and type things. You can also subscribe to the
podcast - at the moment it's just a link to a podcast of the Matt and
Jo show at Fox FM, but I will be putting my own podcast on here in the
coming weeks. Absolutely loving work at the moment. Matt, Jo, Troy and
myself have far too much fun in that studio. Both on air and off.
Listen to the podcast, or jump onto the http://fox.com.au website to
hear the show streamed live 20:00 - 22:00 GMT (6-9am AEST) if you don't
Today, we had a snake in the office. We're planning some
fun stuff for Matt and Jo's Panic Room, where people can win a grand by
facing their fears. I love snakes! I had it around my neck for about
half an hour. They are so smooth and gentle, yet so strong. It was a
python, about 8ft long, and the feeling of the undulating musculature
moving across my shoulders was like a massage.
I'm sure there are a
hundred and twenty snake innuendos I should be making here, but I can't
be bothered to be honest. Make up your own dirty insinuation. You can't
just rely on me to be the filth-maker in your life, you have to stand
on your own two feet sooner or later. Let's start with innuendo baby
steps. The easiest way to make a dirty remark is the 'Carry On
Inference Method.' I say "I had a snake on my neck" and you say either
"ooh, matron," or "oh, vicar!" It's not that hard! (again, the word
hard should be followed with the 'matron' or 'vicar' outburst). It can
go on for hours.
Practice at home with friends! Have a good weekend,
kidlets, and I'll be back in here soon. mwah ad/. ps - if any of these
terms confuse you (rss, xml, podcast) or you are bewildered by a word
(undulating, inference) check out these handy reference sources:
http://en.wikipedia.org/ - an open-source free encyclopedia, updated by
anybody who wants to update it.
http://www.m-w.com/ - dictionary and
thesaurus, with audio pronunciation guide. you can have hours of fun
making it say rude words.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/ - Don't Panic!
Just like the Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, this is the guide to
anything and everything. Like the Wikipedia, but fun!
Thanks to the hilarious Defamer for the link to these gruesome photos of Katie Holmes with Tom Cruise pash rash. Perhaps after they've finished kissing, Katie can use his head to grate some cheese.
I'm going to start updating this thing more often.
First of a design
refresh. Lord, the old fox logo down there in the corner is shaming me.
And let's not even mention the title of the show...
My life has become the most hectic thing in the world. I'm going to
hand the website over to someone else, but I'll still contribute to
this little bloggy thing. Also, I want to put some audio up here for
you to get. Outtakes from interviews, me having a rant. A podcast
Oh yeah, I got plans! No time to execute them, but plans nonetheless.