Elyse Sewell (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} elysesewell) wrote,@ 2005-07-18 22:46:00 |
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merry merry queen of the bush is she
Boring note to those who read my last entry: I now have an Australian work visa or else I wouldn't be able to do the job under the strict rules of the client's Australian production house. The only reason I flew here without a visa was that the client abruptly changed my ticket to four days earlier so that I could do a bunch of fittings and bullshit before we started shooting. Barely so, but I'm legal nonetheless, so don't get your hopes up if you thought Tufty was going to sentence me to life in a Tasmanian stockade when he caught me trying to fly out of here.
Quite a day at the salt mines today: picture me on Sydney's chilly Cockle Bay Wharf, unseasonably dressed and wearing a silly hat, nose-to-nose in the loving embrace of my male-model fauxsband. My Turkmenistani fauxsband.
I was happy about being able to check off another entry on my list of Stanis To Meet (just Afghani and Krgyz to go!), but less than enthused about illustrating youthfully affluent matrimonial bliss by standing with my face millimeters away from a total stranger's for 45 minutes on end. Thankfully, the photographer's request for us to kiss never came; though it has occurred blessedly infrequently in my illustrious career, I still absolutely dread this bit of model drudgery. The last time I had to kiss a male model for a job, he had said this to me just before we began hair and makeup: "'Sup, I'm Zhames. Oh, are you American? Sweet. Me too. Dude, I'm so freakin' hung over right now, yo, I just came here straight from the club. I had to get the cabdriver to pull over so I could puke, yo!" True, man, true, and in a matter of hours the photographer was insisting I touch my lips to this outrageous jackass, and the worst part was that when the advertisements came out, they hadn't even used the kissing pictures I suffered for.
Anyway, me and a male model down by the wharf dressed all ye olde, faces frozen into ricti of isn't-this-lovely-darling, simultaneously gazing pleasantly and, through our clenchtoothed smiles, having a conversation in which I learned many interesting things about Turkmenistan. Here are two: canned Campbell's Chunky is the only American soup whose quality rivals that of the soups of Turkmenistan. And, for two full months out of every school year, all able-bodied Turkmenistani children must work picking cotton. "Why, to teach you the value of physical labor?", I asked. Sunny isn't-this-lovely-darling continued to shine from his face while dark you-stupid-fucking-American rumbled in his voice: "No! To bring in the cotton harvest!"
There you have it, Americans. I'm asking the dumbassed questions so that you can play it cool with the next Turkmenistani you meet. In other news, we all know about "colour" and "queue" and chips/crisps, but, my countrymen, have you heard of "pitta" bread or "fetta" cheese? To Australians, a piece of bacon is a rasher, not a slice. A latte is a flat white. McDonald's is "Maccas" not only between friends but on McDonald's commercials. A pillbug (roly poly) is a slater, a music video is a film clip, a bell pepper is a capsicum (I embarrassed myself the first time I was here by inquiring, "What the hell is a "ca-PIS-cum?"). Americans may not have sultanas (smaller than a raisin, bigger than a currant), but we know what the cool kids call the last letter of the alphabet (not "zed" for heaven's sake!).
My roommate insists that Australians really say "sheila" for woman and "seppo" for American (a Yankee's a yank which rhymes with tank, the worst variety of which is the septic and there you go), but I would advise sticking to these mildly derogatory terms next time you're in Sydney to avoid sounding like you've been reading the Seppo's Guide to Aussie Slang: "Pom" for Brit, "poofta" for gay guy, "bogan" for lame suburban person or thing. Never think, always reckon, never a lot, always heaps.
Making out is pashing, fucking is rooting, the vagina is the fanny (so there's a second possible explanation for why Cruise never sired on Kidman, zing).
Oh, and while we're at it, I forgot about this bit of Chilean tomfoolery until I was flipping though my paper journal last night: ron is Spanish for rum, so, in Chile, Dianetics was penned by L. Ronald Hubbard. Ha!
Unrelatedly, my examples could be a little more interesting (surprise, they're all of me), but if you have a Canon digital camera, try fucking around with the "little guy with a star next to his head" flash setting to achieve astounding effects!
Lesson 1 in how not to make nonslutty cutoffs. They're under there, I swear.
moroccomole, there are...no words:
Boring note to those who read my last entry: I now have an Australian work visa or else I wouldn't be able to do the job under the strict rules of the client's Australian production house. The only reason I flew here without a visa was that the client abruptly changed my ticket to four days earlier so that I could do a bunch of fittings and bullshit before we started shooting. Barely so, but I'm legal nonetheless, so don't get your hopes up if you thought Tufty was going to sentence me to life in a Tasmanian stockade when he caught me trying to fly out of here.
Quite a day at the salt mines today: picture me on Sydney's chilly Cockle Bay Wharf, unseasonably dressed and wearing a silly hat, nose-to-nose in the loving embrace of my male-model fauxsband. My Turkmenistani fauxsband.
I was happy about being able to check off another entry on my list of Stanis To Meet (just Afghani and Krgyz to go!), but less than enthused about illustrating youthfully affluent matrimonial bliss by standing with my face millimeters away from a total stranger's for 45 minutes on end. Thankfully, the photographer's request for us to kiss never came; though it has occurred blessedly infrequently in my illustrious career, I still absolutely dread this bit of model drudgery. The last time I had to kiss a male model for a job, he had said this to me just before we began hair and makeup: "'Sup, I'm Zhames. Oh, are you American? Sweet. Me too. Dude, I'm so freakin' hung over right now, yo, I just came here straight from the club. I had to get the cabdriver to pull over so I could puke, yo!" True, man, true, and in a matter of hours the photographer was insisting I touch my lips to this outrageous jackass, and the worst part was that when the advertisements came out, they hadn't even used the kissing pictures I suffered for.
Anyway, me and a male model down by the wharf dressed all ye olde, faces frozen into ricti of isn't-this-lovely-darling, simultaneously gazing pleasantly and, through our clenchtoothed smiles, having a conversation in which I learned many interesting things about Turkmenistan. Here are two: canned Campbell's Chunky is the only American soup whose quality rivals that of the soups of Turkmenistan. And, for two full months out of every school year, all able-bodied Turkmenistani children must work picking cotton. "Why, to teach you the value of physical labor?", I asked. Sunny isn't-this-lovely-darling continued to shine from his face while dark you-stupid-fucking-American rumbled in his voice: "No! To bring in the cotton harvest!"
There you have it, Americans. I'm asking the dumbassed questions so that you can play it cool with the next Turkmenistani you meet. In other news, we all know about "colour" and "queue" and chips/crisps, but, my countrymen, have you heard of "pitta" bread or "fetta" cheese? To Australians, a piece of bacon is a rasher, not a slice. A latte is a flat white. McDonald's is "Maccas" not only between friends but on McDonald's commercials. A pillbug (roly poly) is a slater, a music video is a film clip, a bell pepper is a capsicum (I embarrassed myself the first time I was here by inquiring, "What the hell is a "ca-PIS-cum?"). Americans may not have sultanas (smaller than a raisin, bigger than a currant), but we know what the cool kids call the last letter of the alphabet (not "zed" for heaven's sake!).
My roommate insists that Australians really say "sheila" for woman and "seppo" for American (a Yankee's a yank which rhymes with tank, the worst variety of which is the septic and there you go), but I would advise sticking to these mildly derogatory terms next time you're in Sydney to avoid sounding like you've been reading the Seppo's Guide to Aussie Slang: "Pom" for Brit, "poofta" for gay guy, "bogan" for lame suburban person or thing. Never think, always reckon, never a lot, always heaps.
Making out is pashing, fucking is rooting, the vagina is the fanny (so there's a second possible explanation for why Cruise never sired on Kidman, zing).
Oh, and while we're at it, I forgot about this bit of Chilean tomfoolery until I was flipping though my paper journal last night: ron is Spanish for rum, so, in Chile, Dianetics was penned by L. Ronald Hubbard. Ha!
Unrelatedly, my examples could be a little more interesting (surprise, they're all of me), but if you have a Canon digital camera, try fucking around with the "little guy with a star next to his head" flash setting to achieve astounding effects!
Lesson 1 in how not to make nonslutty cutoffs. They're under there, I swear.
moroccomole, there are...no words:
