If there was one thing that Cervantes the Spaniard didn't know it was how much alike he and El Greco the Spaniard are. You could throw a blanket over their output and have a picnic on a field day. To say that the writings of El Greco and the paintings of Cervantes were identical except for the sense that they are appreciated through sounds perfectly reasonable. Defecating in a jam jar and spreading it on your toast doesn't. The number of times that I'd say you can't compare art and lit properly without slipping into your pants in a trance would be manifestly numerous. There's no denying the serious humour of both these natural phenomenons. To equate slipping into your pants with fingering a supect is ample evidence of booby-traps. I'd always say one shouldn't look at Cervantes without reading El Greco; if I was right in the head. As the headless horseman told his stable-hands: "Hold steedy." There are many ways to scan a cat and this is just one of them. El Greco and Cervantes: equal.
El Greco, the Spanish artist, was a greek with a whopping arm and a sizeable balance. It's hard to say if Salvador Dali, the darling of his mother, ever really knew his mother. More likely is it that he knew El Greco. In knowing himself, as he surely might have, he must have known that he might have been the verso to El Greco's rectum. His own recto was never quite right as you can see by the scale of his fish. If you don't care that his moustache was not a beard, as surely as El Greco's was, then look no further than your ownership of personal affects. Now I could prattle on all day about how and why they were as they were and are as they are but nothing can quite say it like: El Greco and Salvador Dali: opposite. To prove my point I would have you reflect upon the various, and quite tangible, aspects of their art. In a sense they were of the same mind on many hinges.
For those who missed my first Underbelly post, Underbelly (the Channel 9 TV series that isn't showing in Melbourne) started half an hour ago. I'm trying to give Melbourne peole constant updates so they don't feel like they're missing out.
The chick who gave a statement to the police, and her girlfriend (also a witness) have been put in witness protection. What a joke. Witness protection in Australia. The police have put them in a caravan at what looks like Werribee.
They're a bit scared. As you would be. But they still manage to romp around naked. (Probably the director or DOPs idea. You know, keep the viewers watching. Nothing like a bit of tit to keep guys watching TV).
Now there's a noise outside. They try to ring the police but can't get through. Now some dude playing Jason Moran has rocked up posing as a copper and told them to come to HQ. Of course the stupid bimbos believe him. They live in Melbourne. They probably drink lattes in some Toorak Rd cafe in South Yarra once a year and think they're cool.
Jason frisks them, so the viewer gets aroused by scenes of a bloke feeling chicks up. This might even keep chicks watching it, even though they'd rather watch a repeat of Desperate Housewives or put Lara Croft Tomb Raider in the DVD player, or pull out the Buffy episodes.
Now he's taken them to a false police station, and Vince Colossimo has come in and offered them a fully paid trip to Europe to 'disappear'. One of them asks, 'Can you get lattes in Europe?'
Okay, the adverts are on again.
Underbelly (the Channel 9 TV series that isn't showing in Melbourne) just started.
It's really good. In the first half-hour, Vince Collosimo's character, Alphonse Gangiatano, shoots this guy, Greg Workman, who owes him money. The police turn up and interview one of the witnesses. She gives a statement but refuses to sign it.
Then Vince's character is at home in the laundry getting rid of his murder clothes. He seems quite upset about having to throw out his favourite pair of shoes. They're those typical soft leather shoes Melbourne wogs wear in Lygon Street. He then goes up into the bedroom. His missus asks him what he was doing in the laundry. I gather she was worried he was doing the laundry and hadn't put enough Dynamo in.
Okay, the adverts have finished.
I'll keep giving updates right up until the final episode so you feel like you haven't missed out on anything. I'll try to get the ending right so you don't even have to watch it.
Nicole Kidman has agreed to pay to publish L Ron Hubbard’s book ‘If I am Suri Cruise’s Father’ written by ghost writer Casper the Friendly Ghost with a preface by OJ Simpson. “Tom often wanted to wrap a page from the signed copy of the original Dianetics manuscript onto his old fella when we had sex,” Nicole said. “Tom claimed it had L Ron’s DNA on it because he sweated on the pages writing it. Tom couldn’t produce any sperm. When I refused to play a part in his bizarre sexual fantasies, he used to put cryonically frozen, left over ice-creams L Ron hadn’t finished in his underpants and want the lights out when we had sex. There’s no way Tom is Suri’s father. Tom once told me he had L Ron’s sperm in the locket he wears around his neck, and one day he would use it to populate the world with superior beings. This book will expose Tom and Scientology and L Ron’s evil plan to have children.”
I know this in unofficial but I have a friend in the US who is a psychiatric nurse who works at the UCLA and she rang me two minutes ago to say that Britney suicided in the toilet about half an hour ago. My friend is not the sort of person who would ring me and tell me it had happened if it didn't. Half of me says wouldn't this be great if what I was writing was a world Orble exclusive and the other half of me says I really shouldn't write this. I don't know what to think. I just hope she didn't give my phone number to people like Oprah. I want to live a quiet blogger's life.
Norm
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