Pinup of the Month

Handsome chappy, isn't he? I'm researching the Romanian chapters of my novel now and dug up this photo of Daniel Petru Corogeanu, the Romanian priest accused of killing a villager in an exorcism. Starved and chained his victim to a crucifix, apparently with the help of four nuns.

Indiscreet Pleasures

What a gay time was had by all at Sydney's Seymour centre last night when Bob Downe and Mitzi Macintosh hosted Rupert Everett for a conversation about his scintillating autobiography Red Carpets and other banana skins.

Subjects ranged from the size of Bob Geldorf's cock to Sharon Stone's sexual technique to the new trend among Hollywood female stars to have their genitals injected with collagen to make them look prettily engorged. (Why are we not surprised?) The audience of mostly middle-aged gay men seemed very keen to know if Rupe was a "top" or a "bottom," which he deflected cleverly. There was much camping around on the Ikea set by Bob and Mitzi, fueled by vodka toasts in Swedish style, and the bemused Mr. Everett was an all-round good sport.

Rupert will be marshall of the parade at the gay and lesbian Mardi-Gras next Saturday night. In the meantime, read his book, which is hilarious, bitchy, self-deprecating and unputdownable. Beyond this, he writes like an angel, with breathtaking passages of literary brilliance, especially in his insightful observations of the downside of fame and his relationships with complicated women such as Paula Yates and Beatrice Dalle. As Bob said last night, as a showbiz autobiography "it's right up there with David Niven's The Moon is a Balloon and the Dirk Bogarde books." But methinks it's even better than that.

Dregulator Videocast #1

In honour of Dick Cheney's visit to Australia this week, please enjoy this commentators, Cintra Wilson.

The Decolletage has Bolted

The following is an abridged version of my column, Deeply Superficial, which appeared in the (sydney) magazine today:

I have just finished reading Nora Ephron’s ever-so-light little book, I Feel Bad About My Neck And Other Thoughts on Being a Woman (Black Swan.) The American director and screenwriter (When Harry Met Sally) finds herself at that age when she has to wear sweaters that rise almost to her chin because of the crêpey – and creepy - state of her neck.

“According to my dermatologist, the neck starts to go at 43, and that’s that,” she writes. “Short of surgery, there’s not a damn thing you can do about a neck… the neck is a dead giveaway. Our faces are lies and our necks are the truth.”

Like Ephron, I wish someone had told me about necks earlier, although I do have a vague recollection of a female teacher advising we schoolgirls to stop pulling at our throats while we were studying. But who listens to anyone at 16? Least of all a fiftyish schoolmarm who, in retrospect, was having her own neck crisis?

Now that I am the age of Kim Basinger, Oprah Winfrey and Condoleezza Rice, I see the folly in neck neglect. I’ve always been careful about my face, in a modest way - always wearing sunscreen, not drinking too much, not smoking and never wearing makeup to bed. But all this care and attention stopped at the jaw, as if my face were a delicate hothouse flower and the neck just the bit of old wire that held it up. I had a lot of neck disrespect, I can see that now. And I’m certainly not alone in this.

The sun, of course, is the enemy here. We love to wear low-cut dresses and tank tops in summer and we have an unshakeable belief that a tanned bosom is superior to a white one. (That thudding sound you hear is Casanova and Lord Byron turning over in their graves.) Beyond this, there is another culprit – the drying alcohol in the perfume we spray on our necks and between our breasts. From the chin down to the bosom there is a swathe of unchartered and unloved territory that becomes a war zone by the time we are fifty. Some women say goodbye to plunging bras forever. Others discover chokers. Now I understand why women love jewellery – there’s nothing like a few strands of pearls for hiding a chest that looks like an unironed bed sheet with wet tea-leaves sprinkled all over it.

What to do? There are quite a few neck creams around but I haven’t worked my way through them yet. A few months ago I hit on the genius idea of using the anti-stretch mark cream, StriVectin-SD, on my neck and décolletage, thinking it might reduce the depth of the lines. No luck so far. I’ve had more success with simply doing to my neck and décolletage what I do to my face. (Although, actually, that’s not that simple these days.) Right now, I’m trying La Mer The Lifting Intensive (it comes in a tiny bottle with the serum) teamed with Dr. Brandt’s The Specialist V-Zone Neck Cream and it seems to be making a difference to the fine skin on my neck but, let’s face it, this is an extravagance if you’re on a budget and it does little for my chest, where the skin is tougher and the lines deeper.

ModelCo has just released Erase Those Fine Lines, a clever little wand that temporarily firms and tightens the skin around the eyes (great under makeup before a night out) but I find myself wishing they’d also release Erase Those Deep Crevices for my chest. Basically, the horse has bolted.

Girls – button up your blouses this summer!

Is it all Krapp?

Ralph, darling...if you're going to have toilet sex with a flying kangaroo, for God's sake choose one who doesn't find your conversation about Samuel Beckett "boring chit chat." Some of us have honours degrees in English Literature.

The Divine David

And here's a little sample of his work...

The Divine David

Divine indeed...Sydneysiders should run to The Royal Sydney Soap Opera House for this week's performances by brilliant anarchist comedian David Hoyle, who takes comedy into the unchartered territory of child abuse and political assassination. Gives a new meaning to the expression "killing them in the aisles."

Anna Nicole Smith died like Marilyn? She wished. If Anna Nicole was a midday soap with tits then Marilyn was a Shakesperian play. In time we will find out that Anna Nicole was having a clandestine affair with Dick Cheney and Howard Stern had been hired by the neo-cons to bump her off.

Vertigo

It took me long enough to discover it...but the best cocktail and view combo in Sydney is from the 36th floor of the Shangri-La Hotel at the swank Blu Horizon Bar. The glass walls are vertiginous but if you can get over the woozy feeling, the cocktail list will make you even woozier. Say nothing of how you'll feel if you seriously work your way through it. I love a great cocktail list and this is one of the best. Such decadence doesn't come cheaply - but a tipple here is an event.