Does it matter if I ask the ladies so many questions? Do you ever wear lycra? Your make-up looks smudged, or is that a trail of mustard on your top lip? Do you like cream buns? What’s the current temperature beneath your armpit? Why does lettuce go soggy anyway? Have you been to Uranus? Why won’t you talk to me? Do you have problems expressing your emotions? Come on, admit it, you’re in love with that guy from The Strokes and you secretly write fan fiction based on your imaginary encounters, don’t you? Oh come on, are you telling me you don’t know what I’m talking about? Are you alive? What makes you happy? Does Run Lola Run make you cry? Would it make a difference if I said it made me cry? Why do you persist with these vile rumours about us? Don’t you know I have feelings too? Do you think germs have to spread? What’s wrong with you anyway?
Category: Clint Bo Dean (page 5 of 5)
Clint Bo Dean, the world’s most private poet, possesses Australasia’s worst wig and proudly maintains that his influences include Enya, Stevie Nicks, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Chris de Burgh, Elton John, Arcadia, Cat Stevens, Noiseworks, Boom Crash Opera, Big Pig, Wa Wa Nee and Stryper. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Clint was born under the influence of narcotics in the Bahamas in 2004. Despite his penchant for interpretative dance, Clint has so far failed in his stated career aim of joining the Bolshoi Ballet. He spends most of his time penning ridiculously grandiose orchestral arrangements for two flugel horns and one triangle. Clint’s debut DNRC single, Private Poet, was judged a form of torture by the International Criminal Court and subsequently banned from use in Australasian jails. His breakthrough album, Never Go Ashtray, violated several international whaling protocols.
I know you’re curious about me. What makes me tick? How do I have my tea? Are my underpants red? Am I wearing underpants? How do I get my hair to stay that way? Do I like pets? Is my fridge running? How do I manage to write such emotionally retarded music? How much did I pay the engineer to record my songs? Did I really audition for “Cats”? Am I a true tabby? How do my socks fit? What’s metal? Do we really die? How many jelly beans do I have in my pocket? What am I listening to right now? Has daylight savings started yet? How do they make belacan? Is my true name Roger? What’s my starsign? Do I really enjoy champagne as much as the rumours suggest? Is my portfolio photograph airbrushed? Why do you cry? Does pain cause it? Isn’t Paris elegant at this time of the year? Can I guess where you’re calling from? Have I been to the Paris Hilton? Does playing a tennis racquet instead of a guitar make me an idiot? Do I enjoy spending time with llamas? Can we expect a similar set of questions addressed to “the men”?
Well, it’s another day in the life of Clint Bo Dean and I’m loving it. Pulled out my vinyl copy of “Cats: the Musical” today and boy, did it look good. The record was in pristine condition, basically never played. I just put it on top of the record player and watched it for a while. Then I jived to “Jellicle Cats” for a few minutes in my brain, experiencing the rare pleasure of esctasy as the tears flooded down my cheeks, disrupting my extensive make-up. They call me Panda-eyes but those of you who really know me know already that I am a tabby cat with a penchant for profiteroles, memories and two litre jugs of Baileys and Coke. I count Taylor Taylor, charlotte sometimes and the Artist formerly known as the third guy from Bros. as my friends. Andrew Lloyd Webber is a genius. I wonder, did he also invent the barbecue known as the Webber? Sometimes I suspect I too may be a genius. Some of the songs I have been writing lately simply blow me away. The two track recording equipment does give me curry sometimes, and is currently on the fritz but that’s okay. I’m Macavity the Mystery Cat. I’m also an interpretative dancer, wearing three bandannas. Count them. Watch me dance.
Simply The Best, ‘s’all I wanna say. The woman is a genius, having recently sang for Oprah’s 50th birthday, which would have been like de ja vu for Tina, having turned 50 herself only twenty years ago. Last week I channelled Tina’s spirit at a karaoke bar in Sydney by singing my all time favourite Tina tune, “Private Dancer”. The lyrics to that song, they are so scathing, so real. What a life Tina has had. She’s survived Ike, Mad Max 3, Rugby League (perhaps the last time a woman involved with the NRL escaped unmolested) and more haircuts than I’ve had private dances. Sure, “We Don’t Need Another Hero” has a few good moments, including that sax solo, but it’s not a patch on PD. Yarn and Sarah both reckon, though, and this is my final word on the subject, that “Simply The Best” would be the perfect wedding song. The sax solo is, imho, superior to WDNAH. So SOTAR.