Tarantino at the Tiki

There was a Quentin Tarantino party in Perth last night. The 5678's were hit on by a couple of Crazy 88's. Pai Mei, Oren Ishii, and Gogo Yubari got a little drunk. Elle Driver served drinks and swore at the ATM machine. A post-overdose Mia Wallace ended up on The Bride's couch. Tarantino himself was seen begging for drugs at a nearby gay bar.

(Apparently. I wasn't actually there, but my overbearing friend forced me through threats and blackmail to blog this non-event. Ezekiel 25:17)

Fowl Play Friday

Fowl Play Friday at the YU, Potts Point. Pretentious deejays, a revolting fashion show, and swarms of street fashion photographers documenting sleazy Sydney nightlife. I was unlucky enough to recieve a quantity of alcoholic beverages free of charge, and was consequently far too inebriated to take many photographs.

But please, take a closer look at the wallpaper:

Soirée fétichiste à la Loco à Paris

Do you believe this? There recently was a fetish party in Paris, where ladies wore leather underwear, dwarves got their hair pulled by dominatrix sluts, half-naked submissives had a good old chat in their cages, and a hot bitch in vinyl platforms sipped her cocktail while a writhing, nipple-clamped man lay under her feet.

This kind of event is really beyond my wildest dreams. Who on earth wants to attend countless boring backyard barbeques, beer in hand and gesticulating, cheaply-clothed mall rat in another, when there are sado-masochist orgies to feast your eyes with?

In all seriousness, I'm not really an S&M kind of girl, but if anybody happens to hold an Eyes Wide Shut-esque party in the near future, and are in need of a skinny blonde Asian chick to decorate their guest list, then give me a call. Fo shiz.

Eidecan & Heineken

Regular readers and social acquaintances will be aware of my recent awakening from a dull and mould-scented hibernation. It comes as no surprise then, that an otherwise contrived gathering of adolescent metal/punk bands competing for two-or-three highschool groupies infront of a sweaty, rigid audience proved wonderful entertainment for my usually lacklustre Saturdays. Ofcourse there was a little assistance (okay, alot) from numerous varieties of beverages and chemicals consumed from 11am until 4am the next morning, but despite only managing to witness two of the ten-and-some-fucking-number of bands, I had a rollicking good time and extended my inebriated self to capture some photographic evidence of my townfolk's trashy behaviour for your amusement.

Behold, the Toowoomba Eidecan Youth Festival!

Le Bands

Twist Oliver, Twist! , fronted by my fashionable friend Dave, the musical genius pictured blurrily above. I hate to get all salivating-fan on you, but they are going places and worth your attention if you happen to appreciate a quality intermix of electro-pop/rock, with moody vocals and catchy, repetitive beats that quiver against your sternum and drive your soul full-speed through busy red-light intersections.

Flamingo Crash failed to impress me, but perhaps that was due to their reputation of obnoxious backstage antics and my urgent need of a refuel, if you get my less-than-subtle drift. The keyboard player donned the ubiquitous black pencil skirt/pinafore with a rather covetable Campbells soup t-shirt, while the lead singer reminded me strongly of an early Jim Morrison. His moves were hot, my friends.

Le People

Le Toilet Humour

Rural Australian Night Life

Saturday night I went out for no particular reason. (Kindly remind me never to do this again.) I didn't get inebriated enough to enjoy it, although I did manage to stay up until dawn, and take some photographs of the various personalities for your enjoyment.

Welcome to Toowoomba, via 'The Tatts' and 'Rumours'.

The night began with boredom and the taking of one's picture with others ...

(I realise I look terrible, you moron)

... however, some appeared to be enjoying themselves ...

... a smoking break unearthed some bewildered strangers ...

... and a strange older man who kept appearing in all the photographs ...

... until the end of the night, at which a poor drunk was slumped over a table and self-procliamed Bat Man II introduced himself and warned me off drugs ...

Le Fin.