C-mon, at least I'm not just photographing random stuff, posting them, then making quips about them. I mean, that would be pretty amateur

One must invest some faith and trust in me on this one (given there are obvious ways in which this could have been fabricated). But, if you are willing to take my word for it dear reader, then you would agree that the alphabet according to Etihad Stadium is quite unique:







Row G follows Row F, then

















Row H follows Row G, then

















Row J follows Row H?









Oversight by staff, or rip in the space time continuum? I was watching the game so I didn't get time to check.

Digression! Here is a sign:
















"Splendid!" I hear you chant as one. A way to avoid traversin' the cruel and unbridled sea tha'is Melbourne town, yar!

One drawback though I noticed did I:


















The corner of Russell and Lonsdale Streets. So, in order to get to the city bypass, one must go through the city.

Sneaky tourism department staff. I'm all for bringing more tourists into experience Melbourne's CBD, but this is the city-planning equivalent of donning a trench-coat with some candy and hitting up the nearest playground.

That is all.

You don't wanna mess with him. He knows Hugh Jackman!

Well.. at the very least, he knows Blanchet, who would be happy to provide Wolverine's number I'm sure.

Anyway, here is Mr. Crowe at a train station. He's looking awfully two dimensional, which is at least one more than how he acts:

















It seems at least one Station Rat has found the other half of his/her wit.















Now, that's just asking for a phone in the face.

Awkwardness

I saw off some relatives who were bound for Europe today. As the send-off party and I drove out of the airport, I decided to phone them to see if they got through customs without the words "this may feel a little cold and weird" being uttered to them.

As I made the call and was promptly directed to the relative's voice-mail, a wanker driver cut us off. The next few seconds were a blur. Essentially though, I decried the wanker's driving style as "asshole-esque" in a somewhat loud tone not long after "leave a message after the beep (BEEP)" came through on the other end of the line.

So, mum, once you land at the airport, there's another Mothers' Day present waiting for you on your voice-mail.

That is all, except for this, which I thought a novel way to start a book:






The book in question.















Page 1.

The Canberry Juice II

I believe Marlon Brando's finest role was in Apocalypse Now. It's the one where he runs his own empire in the rain-forests of Vietnam during the war, drives Blanche Dubois to insanity, then gets assassinated in a mob hit whilst shopping for an interstellar crib to transport his son away from Krypton. This paves the way for Al Pacino to take over as head of the family. Then James Caan gets shot at a toll booth because he asked for a receipt.

Robert Duvall was there too!*

Then Rage comes on and you trip out from Styx's Domo Arigato film clip.









("Now, is it still your dream to have a robot for a best friend, Timmy?")



And then I turned to the Prime Minister and said...

Come to think of it, perhaps my memory is a little hazy from what occurred in our fair capital this weekend just gone. Apocalypse Now was definitely on at some point during the night. And the obligatory Rage-athon occurred sometime after 3.30am.

Canberra amigo #A5389 was giving fun facts about the movie, one of which was that the director blew the budget badly (true) and it totally ruined his career, resulting in him never making another movie (hmm). After doing some arduous research, Wikipedia told me that the director was Francis Ford Coppola, who has made many a film post-Apocalypse (dohoho, see what I did there?)






(Whether some of these films should have been made is a whole other kettle-o-fish)














Canberra amigo #A5389 must have got confused with Frances Ford Coppola, the younger sister of the legendary Francis. Like her older sibling, she did not mind the odd sequel. But, as is the case with most things in life, it is matter of degree, and alas, Frances was a bit of, and known universally as, a "sequel slut".

Case study: Casablanca 2 was her first feature. Here, Sam was still playing. But instead of piano, it was a significant role in the US civil rights movement.

'Blanca 2 bombed, but in fairness to the more feminine Ford Coppola, the seeds for a sequel were planted in the original:







"Play it, Sam".














"Orders from a white lady! Gah'damn, cracker! Your boy Rick 'as already gah'me posin' in dis'here white suite! What'chu playin' at girl?"









"What's next? Your boy Rick goin' Mister Bumble on me? Puttin' mah black ass up foe'sale onda side of d'road like a common slave?"










"(Sigh). Here's lookin' at you... gettin' yo pasty white ass stomped, Rick!"








Danger! Danger! Reference overload! Probability of this post passing the obscurity precipice: 78.34%!

Very well. Onto what I was in Canberra for- A dance festival named Wharehouse. My favorite song was the one that went "doof, doof, doof, doof", though the one that went "mmph, mmph, mmph, mmph" was good as well. To the writer's of "bow, bow, bow, bow, bow, bow, bow, bow": Far too predictable.

On the plane back to Melbourne, the attendant implored us to "keep our seat-belts on because the plane was still being refueled". I'll leave it to you to ponder the nexus between those variables.








("Stop you fool! Mr Takahashi of 23B just got up to go to the toilet")













*Man, this post is gonna suck if you haven't seen any of these films. Actually, you know what? If you haven't seen any of these films, you suck. Onus on the reader, dag nabit!