Friday, December 30, 2005

Happy New Year From Quick Tweezerhands

Bloody hell. Three years of sitting on my arse staring at a computer screen, then I go into work with The Dreaded One, deep in the bowels of the Opera House, and my God I'm out of shape. I mean, I can stomp for hours on end and I can do the occasional hill sprint, but when did standing at a kitchen bench chopping things become so gruelling? So utterly gruelling.

AND I only chopped things for eight hours. Tomorrow it's going to be a fifteen hour day... what the hell have I gotten myself into? And get the numbers - 1,200 canape munchers on the forecourt, a private cocktail party for 880, and a three course sit down dinner for another couple of hundred. I've been a forecourt canape muncher in the past, and let me tell you, those people are animals.

So just know that when you are watching on your television the sky above Sydney Harbour explode in a frenzy of dazzling colour, The Dreaded One and I will be slaving away deep inside the Opera House... actually I think at midnight the kitchen staff are sneaking up to the forecourt to ogle at the pretty colours.

But make sure when you see the Opera House, you say Happy New Year, Quick.

Happy New Year everyone.

PS: I'd forgotten how working in food prep makes you smell funny. Right now I have coriander fingers. Wonder what they'll say tomorrow when we have to puck herbs again when I ask, "Cool if I use tweezers this time?"

The Ultimate Cure For Hiccups

Holy fuck. Forget ice cubes down the back and scaring people and paper bags over the head and drinking water upsidedown... have you ever tried any of those? They don't work. They just don't.

However, there is a fail safe way of getting rid of hiccups, and that is to administer orgasm. Fucking brilliant. It was hilarious - hysterical bouts of hiccups followed by light-bulb-over- the-head moment of random inspiration followed by application of said orgasm... and no hiccups!

Man, if I don't get a Nobel Prize for this...

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Normal Things

I did normal things today.

I finally got around to sending a friend's birthday present to her, which involved a lot more time standing in a post office queue than I would have liked. The thing I am sending her is so utterly at odds with the unbearable humidity here that just touching the thing... just knowing of its existence in the large envelope was enough to make me pass out in the lengthy post office queue. Also, her birthday was last July or something. This perhaps gives an indication of how slack I am. (Expect an abusive coment from her telling me her "birthday was in August goddamnit you retard.")

When they revived me and I sent the damn thing the hell away from this hemisphere, I decided to go and buy a fan. There was me and everyone else in Sydney trying to buy a fan. There were regular sized fans made of shitty plastic and chrome, and there was... there was one enormous fucker that was black and claimed to be industrial strength etc. A heavenly light shone down and there were ethereal harmonies and it looks fucking sensational in our little tiny apartment.

Unfortunately on its lowest level, it means business. Basically, you can't hear the TV over the hum of the motor, which is drowned out by the flapping sound of papers and other household debris tearing about the place like there's a cyclone inside. If you stand in front of it you get that G-force thing going with your wobbly cheeks and freaky eyes.

I may have to take it back.

Dreaded One and I are also getting the plan down for the Turkey trip. Bloody hell - we might be away for five weeks. Five weeks of overseas trip and no job to come back to. Hmm. Not normal... but interesting.

Also, I am trying to make a website for my freelance writing happen. At the moment it feels as funny as when I changed the tyre on the car... I dunno. I reckon I can do it. I changed the friggin' tyre, didn't I?

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

A Christmas Call

Not having much in the way of families close by, The Dreaded One and I spent Christmas pretty much alone in an orgy of food and booze and giggling. I'm not entirely sure what we found so amusing, but we seemed to giggle a lot. Yesterday when everything was open again I had the urge for steamed mussels so we went down to Darling Harbour and drank more booze and I ate a big bowl of steamed mussels. I didn't giggle at the mussels because they were too yummy.

I also didn't giggle at this: sitting at Homebar, my phone rang. I didn't get it in time and I didn't recognise the number. The Dreaded One wanted to know who called. I didn't care. I was more interested in the clouds and the crowds and what a big blue glistening harbour we had spread before us. But The Dreaded One can be a bit of a terrier when it comes to things like this. I didn't really notice that she was fiddling with my phone, but suddenly she handed it back to me looking very satisfied with herself.

"I found it," she told me proudly.

"What?" I frowned at her, absently accepting the phone.

"It's ringing," we both said in unison, one of us pleased, the other less so.

I don't know... booze, giggling, idle musing about silly things, then a call through to my talkative aunt from the bush. God. When I finally established who it was that my phone had just called, The Dreaded One just about fell off her chair laughing and I stood bolt upright and tried to be sensible and chatty and all I'm-going-to-get-you-for-this at the same time. With the noise of the bar and the confusion at both ends of the line (she didn't know why I had called her and was having to ask who I was speaking to) was the most awkward phone conversation in the history of awkward phone conversations.

I must plan my revenge.

Sunday, December 25, 2005

Mini Doof

Went to a little doof in a park in an industrial area of town yesterday. I enjoyed it about as much as I was hoping I would. Really friendly people, lots of talking, laughing and dancing. Kinda good, too, to arrive straight and actually talk to people who you've known for a long time, but who you know little about. Just what they do for a living, that kind of stuff. It was good to have preconceptions dashed as well. One person, I'd kind of developed an opinion of them, and they were straight this time and quite talkative, and I was amazed at what a different person she was to what I thought she was. I thought she was a hopeless trashbag, but she came across as intelligent and a really caring person. Just said little things that implied bigger things. Was very cool. She's heading over to Turkey too.

The people who put on these parties always amaze with the effort that goes into them. Decent sound system that they have to hire I guess, the set up and packing up, decore, BBQ... and they do it because they get a kick out of it.

Right. It's a sensational day out there - mid 30's, clear and sunny, and I think we're heading to a psytrance party in a dingy warehouse somewhere. Hmm.

Oh - apparently our shop, Psydeways, turned two during the week. We've managed to keep going for two years. Pretty damn funny considering how little experience we had. Yay for us.

I would wish you a merry Christmas, but I'm not that kind of person.

Saturday, December 24, 2005

Woops

As far as I know, the Herald did not print that leter about the Idiot's Guide To Clubbing. But at the magazine's work party yesterday someone mentioned the article and I said I didn't like it. One of the mag's ex contributors, who I hardly ever see, said, "Yes. I heard that a certain someone wrote about it on their blog."

I thought there might have been some fallout if the letter went to print, but I totally didn't expect any of that bunch to know about this blog. How did they find out about it?

Anyway, doesn't matter. I stand by what I said. Music snobs are pretentious wankers.

Still, it was pretty funny and completely unexpected.

Thursday, December 22, 2005

Normal Household Stuff

I was chatting to my friend in the UK on msn last night. The Dreaded One arrived home after her work christmas drinks thing. I could tell by the way she called out hello from the front door that she had brought someone home with her and was hoping I wasn't watching porn and masturbating or wandering around in my underpants or whatever. She came into the study munching on that drunk person's staple, a doner kebab. I've never seen her do that before.

"Hello," she said brightly around a mouthful of kebab. "We're eating kebabs. We're drunk."

"Ah," I replied, wondering why I found it so amusing that she was scoffing down a kebab.

"I brought Simone home. You haven't met Simone. She's drunk and eatinig a kebab too. We might go out onto the balcony and eat our kebabs."

With that, she turned and left the room, and I noticed that her new hair-do involved having a lightning bolt shaved into the spiky blond hair on the back of her head, right between her multi-coloured fluro dreads.

I heard this Simone person go into the bathroom, so I seized this opportunity to walk quickly into the bedroom to put some pants on. When Simone came out she left the bathroom light on. We shook hands, and her hand was still wet and for some reason that bothered me more than leaving the light on. We said pleased to meet you and she wobbled out to the balcony to join her new kebab-eating friend.

I sat down at the computer to tell my friend what was happening and that I would have to go out and be civil. She wrote: "Say hello to The Dreaded one for me. Kick Simone in the head for me. I don't know who the fuck Simone is. I don't like new people."

I might take a photo of the lightning bolt and post it.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

More About Quitting

Well that's that then. After three years I'm leaving the magazine in about 12 weeks. Funny - a couple of months back I was going through a low patch, felt I'd lost my sense of humour and my edge and my value to the mag and its readers, and I had been wishing that I had decided to leave when I had been doing well. Leave on a high note, as they say.

Well now my confidence has come back, I have been writing funny stuff with confidence again, I know that the others who work there like my stuff and that management does value my input somewhat, so I'm on a high. And it's a bloody hard time to leave because I have nothing lined up, enjoyment-wise it's without a doubt the best job I've ever had, and it would be easy to cave and stay longer. I have contacts and dance music knowledge (of sorts) and a kind of place in the dance/clubbing scene, and I'm saying goodbye to it.

Pretty hard to be leaving on a high note. But I am going to do it because it is better, I think, to leave them with a favourable impression than to leave them when they think, "Meh, he's lost it." Pathetically, I hope the readers will miss me, or at least notice that I have gone. I was writing my last Acid Tongue column in my head on the way home. It made me sad.

Right at the moment, I'm going to miss that job, and I really hope I'm not doing the wrong thing.

Next post will be funny. Promise.

Random Voicemail

Below are a few messages left on our phone. We publish the more creative ones in the mag I work for (until March - it's official). I made up two of them and one was sent as a standard email by a friend (can you guess which ones?) but the rest are real. Enjoy.


SMITE ME
“I actually poured tobacco into my eye and I'm crying outside. I'm coming down the stairs and I'm on a million different levels at the same time and praise the Lord because he smited me good. You wanna talk to Dave? I think you might. Want to come to a tea party?”

I HEART ME
“So... is it so wrong to love yourself? I think if we all just loved ourselves a little more there would be a lot less shit in the world. In fact, you know... if you just stopped worrying about trying to get other people to love you and just loved yourself you'd be much happier. Look at me. I'm happy 'cos I love me. I love meeee. I love me a lot. Ooh. Oooh, naughty me, stop it you horny little me...”

PEN vs HEAD
“Just a few words of advice for up and coming head bangers: if you're going to run into a fuckin' pen at a hundred k an hour, don't do it with a motor cross helmet on your head, 'cos you're gonna fuckin' hurt yourself.”

KILLER
“So I went to the Casino, came out after the State Of Origin and someone had broken into me beach buggy. Fuck me! They took me jacket and me bag and I've been chasing them… trying to hunt them down all night to KILL them... well not kill them, I'm not that kind of person. I don't like to hurt anyone. But I'm really cranky.”

BALD, STINKY SOCKS GUY
“I'd like to report a bald guy lying on the floor. His socks stink. He was the only one out of the 50 or 60 people there who was on the floor. I thought he worked for you, but he didn't. Plus, I wrote to the Ed and he said he loves me. He loves me because I paid out on some people at Coles. Oh yeah - and it was my birthday last Friday. Happy birthday to me...”

EVIL DICKS
“We watched the news on the news last night and went hehee (no one hurt so can laugh) then I went 'GRRRRR DIE HOWARD DIE HOWARD DIE along with DIE BUSH DIE BUSH DIE BLAIR DIE TRIAD OF EVIL DICKS EVIL DICKS.' That is all for now. Toe pie toe pie car pie tennis ko toe coat hanga car pie (I am making up new Maori language I call it Deboraori).”

INTO THE VOID
“I... man... there is a spectacular void. How does that happen? I had it all planned out and it's gone. Where has it gone? I'd better go look for it. If I find it I'll call youse back and let youse know. Bye bye.”

MOISTURE PANTS
“This Lisa Lashes lady… I would just gently massage the camel toe... oh my god - did I just say that? I'm so, so crazy. I am filled with moisture right now. Oh my pants, they are so moisturised... it's crazy my friends.”

MORE MOISTURE PANTS
“My friend Ricardo, he's the moist Dutch man, if want, or if you will. Once upon a Wednesday night he produces paste from his eyebrow, secreting into his nose bag. Spreading it over the thigh region. It's crazy. I would not even touch his thighs unless I have dishwashing liquid ready.”

THE LONELY SONG
“I'm alonnne/ There's no one here besides meeee... (besiiiides meeee...)/ the trees are pink and orange/ and there's some thing greeeen/ My toes smell like bubble gummm/ and my nipples smell like creammm...”

WHAT ARE YOU ON?
“What are you on?” “Nothing.” “What are you on?” “Nothing.” “What are you on?” “Nothing.” “What are you on?” “Nothing.” “What are you on?” “Nothing.” “What are you on?” “Nothing.” “What are you on?” “Naaaaaaarthiiiing.”

NOTHING TO SAY
“What am I talking to you for..?” [Hysterical laughter. Lots of it. Really, LOADS of it]. “I don't have anything to say to Off Ya Dial.” [Barely audible sound of someone mumuring prompts] “Someone bought a new hat.” [Murmurmur]. “And it's pink.” [Murmur]. “Shut up Vanessa.”

POTTY MOUTH
“You dirty rotten tooth ridden vagina, you toasted cheese sandwich you... you fucken putrid faggot... faggot... fak... fak... aaaaayyyy mmmmotherfucker... did I say that?”

ON THE JOB
“Hello. Is that what you expect me to do? The job? Theeee Jooooob. Jobjobjobjobjobjob... joooooob.”

THIEVIN' SEA MONKEYS
“Maddy, can you please come find your number in my phone so I can ring you. Maddy I really need to speak to you, the sea monkeys have my money. The sea monkeys Maddy, the sea monkeys…”

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Tampons In The Daintree

Well it looks like The Herald is too scared to publish my letter. Nice to know that The Wrath Of Mee makes major newspapers pooh their nappies.

Actually I am kind of glad they didn't run that letter. It was pretty angry and I didn't include anything about how I do respect TC's knowledge of music, even if I always hope to get really pissed off with commentators who take themselves too seriously.

And speaking of tampons... the person behind the Piehole blog is one seriously funny writer. I am very impressed. Recently she posted something about getting her boy to carry her box of tampons to see just how far his devotion for her goes, and it reminded me of my own boy/tampon story.

Recently I have been getting back into running, and I've had a couple of flashbacks to when I was really hooked. Man, I was completely obssessed. Hard day at work, late finish in the middle of winter, bitterly cold outside? No problem; I'd change into my gear and head out. Crackling lightning and booming thunder? Even better - that kind of shit really got the juices flowing. For a while there I was racking up between 60 and 80 klometres a week.

Anyway, whilst holidaying in the Daintree Rainforest a few years ago, I started getting itchy for a run. It was an amazing place, a luxury eco-resort in the middle of the rainforest right on the coast. Frogs, bats, moths the size of bats, enormous wild boars trampling through the undergrowth, humidity that made you sweat if you thought about moving... God, I can still feel the moisture in the air.

So running was not the ideal activity. But I had that itch. Swimming in the pool was nice (beach was off limits that time of the year due to box jellyfish), but I wanted to cane myself over a few kilometres of road. I think I had been a little too obsessed and knew that telling The Dreaded One I was going to head off in 40 degree heat was going to sound silly, so I just fidgetted and sipped my poolside cocktail.

Until The Dreaded One gave me the excellent news that it was that time of month and she was out of tampons... Happy dance? Fuck yeah!

"It's cool. It's all under control," I reassured her as I leapt out of my deckchair to bolt up to our jungle bungalow to change. "There's a tampon shop ooh... three or four K up the road? I reckon I can be there and back in 25 minutes. 30 tops."

And off I headed.

I fucking loved that run. No traffic. Unbelievable heat. Swimming in perspiration. And it was the first run in days. I can still see the road, smell the air, hear my foot-fall and see the the enormous snakes moving off into the dry grass at the side of the road at my approach. Our bodies are meant to be pushed, and by Christ I pushed.

I arrived at the convenience store that was in the middle of nowhere, a tanned and sweating city freak (naturally I had pushed myself because it was a short run, and I wanted that endorphin hit baby), and the guy behind the counter looked a little surprised as I staggered through the rusty screen door.

"G'day mate. You all all right? What can I do you for?"

"Good. I'm good," I rasped. "Need Tampons."

He tried to look unphased, but I could see he was phased. He looked me up and down and said, "Tampons? We got tampons. Erm, you want regular or - "

"Those ones," I said, pointing at a box I recognised, still out of breath. "That box there. Gimme."

He asked if I wanted a bag. I said no. I paid him. He told me to have a good day. Still a little high from my exertions, I turned and opened the squeaky flyscreen door and headed off into the humid rainforest heat once more.

Sunday, December 18, 2005

Lazy Sunday

This is ridiculous. I have so much to do, and I have been struck down with chronic lazy. I had breakfast with The Dreaded One, she left for work, I put on some music (Protoculture and an assortment of wicked psytrance) to wake me up, and I crashed out on the couch. At one point I got up off the couch and went into the bedroom and lay down on the bed. Then I thought this is ridiculous, got out of bed and went back to the couch.

The only vaguely productive thing I've done is get cranky and write a letter to the editor of The Sydney Morning Herald. An ex editor of the dance mag I work for wrote something called The Idiot's Guide To Clubbing in which his sneering contempt for forms of music outside his own taste was in full flight. I fucking hate that kind of superiority, that elitist music-is-a-science bullshit. Sure, get into it, understand it, but don't make out that you are somehow better than others who like other styles. He basically said that people only like house music because they don't know any better. Dude, shut up and put your head back up your arse.

It will be funny if they print my letter because the ex ed and I know each other, and everyone in the local scene pretty much knows both of us, so yeah, it will be funny.

I also found myself scrubbing the cupboards in the nude and thinking, "Fuck... imagine if I died right now. Like if I had a brain haemorrage or a heart attack and they found me lying on the kitchen floor in the buff with a scourer in one hand and a sponge in the other... at least the cupboards would be clean, and that's nice."

Saturday, December 17, 2005

I Hate Banks

Another lazy post. My Acid Tongue column from the current issue of the mag. Why a lazy post? I really have to write a sample column for the arts mag. And other assorted stuff.

Just briefly though - there was a contributor party last night. Was quite fun. Ironic that now that I've decided to leave I should start getting along with my workmates in a social way. They're good people. We're having our Christmas party at the end of this week, so I get to go out with them again. Should be fun.

What was funny with these contributers was that a couple of them told me who they were, and I'd never heard of them. One of the other Eds said the same thing. What the hell was going on? I only met one of the contributors I deal with. Totally cute blonde came over and asked which of us was Mee, and I said me and we talked and I tried not to keep thinking about how totally cute she was. She was pretty cute. And she is a funny and intelligent writer. And somehow I knew from her writing that she was cute. She was cute.

Anyway, the night got totally shit-faced and started slurring its words and falling over, it got a little flirty and a lot messy. I left with someone from work and a group of her friends who were big, rough looking guys. Waiting at the lights at one point, Broken Tooth Guy turned to me and said, "Quick - ya mind if I ask yer a question mate?"

Somehow I knew what was coming and I couldn't help laughing. "Shoot," I told him.

"Are you gay mate?"

Fucking ironic when back at the bar there was a group of flirtygirls doing the flirty thing. I dunno. Thing is when guys like that ask me that question, I interpret as them basically telling me that I have a good sense of style. I can't help wondering why he asked though. Like, what difference does it make? I reassured him that I am straight, and that if I was gay, sorry but he wouldn't be my type. He didn't seem to think that that was as funny as I did.

Oh - at last week's party. Talking to S and her friend C, S said something about C being a lesbian. They laughed a little and S told me that the company that C had started working for was really conservative and that because she has short hair, she feels like she's the office short-haired lesbian.

Without a pause I said to C too loudly and like a simpleton, "I don't have a problem with lesbians. In fact I like lesbians. I'm the kind of cool guy who even has token lesbian friends. So, you know, if you want to talk about lesbian stuff, you just go right ahead because there's nothing wrong with talking about lesbian stuff in front of a cool and open-minded guy like me. Yeah, hehe, lesbians..."

S thought it was funny because she knows me. C wasn't sure for a couple of seconds.

Crap - I have gone on for longer than I intended. Anyway, here's Acid Tongue#788...


I don’t know about your bank, but my bank feels more like a special friend than a bank. It looks after me the way only a true friend can. And generous? Gosh I wish the rest of my friends were as generous as my bank. You don’t have to ask and they raise the limit on your credit card, sending you one of those chirpy letters they’re so good at writing. That increased limit comes in handy when things go pear shaped and you need to live off your credit card for a bit. Sure, you may find yourself juggling things to make repayments and keep up with the hefty interest charges and all those extra account-keeping charges, but hey, at least they keep your line of credit open. And if things temporarily get really pear shaped and there’s a short delay and you’re temporarily overdrawn by a small amount, in steps your special friend with another of those chipper friendship notes informing you that you’re overdrawn, but that the good news is, they’ve covered you to ensure everything is aaaall right. Brings a tear to the eye, really. Of course, they don’t make much fuss about the penalty they’re going to slam you with because they don’t want to take the edge off the “good news.” After all, what kind of friend is it that rains on your parade? Then the bank makes things easier for you to do all your banking on the internet because it’s cheaper and more convenient for everyone... although they then have to start charging you for internet banking too even though they replace the local branch and its humans with a machine that is always out of order so that you’re forced to use an ATM from another bank which incurs yet more fees... but hey, whatever – they have to make their 800 million dollar (after tax) profit somehow. Speaking of internet transactions – you transfer an amount from your account to pay off some of your credit card, and you see the amount vanish from your account, you see your available credit limit immediately adjust up by that amount, but you’re told it’s going to take a day or two to clear and for the amount you owe do drop. Huh? Where does that money go for that day or two? But that’s just nitpicking. My bank is my special friend, and I want to show my love for my special friend; I really want to bend that jolly green dragon over and fuck the bastard right up the arse.

Grumpy

Thursday, December 15, 2005

Me? Vague?

I think I might have a moderate case of extreme vague. Well known is the story of me walking up the flight of stairs at work to be confronted with a new door, and my resulting bafflement at why no one told me there was going to be a new door, and my insecurity overload at wondering what it could mean that they would put a new door there and not tell me or give me the new code to the new door, only to realise after a bit of investigating that I had been so lost in thought that I'd walked past the regular door and up an extra flight of stairs.

Sadly, I have done this on more than one occasion.

But then today I asked the human across the desk from me if he was going to the contributors' party tomorrow night. "You going to the Dolphin tomorow night?" I asked him.

"What? No. Yes. What? Tomorrow?"

"Yeah," I replied, finding his confusion quite endearing. "The contributors' party."

"Next week?"

"No. Tomorrow. "

"At The World Bar?" he asked.

"What?" I asked, wondering what the fuck he was on about.

"The contributors' party is on tomorrow night at The World Bar."

"Really? Oh. Oh, all right... is there something on at The Dolphin? At some time?"

"That's next week."

"Oh."

Also, I squirmed a bit when someone in the office was talking about all the lots and lots of people who had RSVP'd for the contributors' party and I realised I had not invited any of my writers. So I started emailing out the invitation and telling them not to worry about it being past the RSVP date and I'm really sorry, and one of them wrote back and said "Silly you - you sent this to me last week and I'm coming."

I need to get not vague.

Quickula

Also, in case you are wondering, yes, I was being a bit of a martyr in that last post: "Ooh ooh ooh, look at me doing some extra house duties." Twat.

Still, The Dreaded One has all of next week off work, and oh man do I expect to be treated like Caligula for the entire week.

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

No Time To Blog

Sorry to disappoint, but I have no time to blog tonight. I finished work at 6, did the shopping on the way home, washed the remaining dishes from the night before (I cooked last night as well because The Dreaded One is not finishing her job until 10 or 11 each night and although The Rule is that the one who doesn't cook does do the dishes, there was no dishwashing liquid because I used the last of it last night doing a post cook-pre-dinner wash), threw a load of clothes in the washer, found myself poking my tummy and being depressed about the weight I haven't officially put on according to the scales but which I am more than capable of convincing myself is there, found myself shortly after the tummy poking episode locked in an enthusiastic bout of arm curls, push ups and sit ups whilst watching the news, quickly juggled some of our meagre funds to pay some bills, waved my clenched fist for a few minutes at the new upstairs neighbours because they are completely horrible people with a child and they make far too much noise and have about ten baths a day and splash about like it's an indoor swimming pool and I wish they'd at least put bath oil in there to stop their buttocks squeaking and making whale song against the ceramic, decided that the mild summer evening with its shining white full moon was perfect for squeezing in a quick run, showered after the run and that brings me almost up to cooking dinner time (crap - it's 9pm already) even though I have to write a CD review, write my list of top 10 albums of the year, write another Acid Tongue column, write a new sample column that I've been promising the arts magazine, and I really should get started on the next feature for Men's Health, and at some point I would like to get pleasantly drunk before going to bed at an earlier time than I bet I do...

So, therefore and ergo, there simply is no time for blogging. Sorry. I am very sorry about that. I do hope you will cope. And I do hope you will find it within your heart to forgive me.

Sorry.

I'm sorry.

Luv,

Quick.

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

Madness In The Burbs

Last week a couple of surf life savers got beaten up on Cronulla Beach, so I wrote this Acid Tongue column on Friday for Monday's issue of the mag:

"You know what’s tops? Fighting. Fighting is unreal. You know, when you get a bunch of friends together and you just go out and pick an easy target and you get stuck into the prick. It’s the fucking best. And it’s no fun if you do it by yourself – you’ve got to do it with a heap of friends. Less risk of getting hurt and then you’ve got guys to sit around and laugh about it with when you watch the news reports on TV.

There are soooo many good things about starting fights... it’s free, and you feel tough and you really show people who’s The Shit, and it just makes you feel good to know you’ve put some fucker in hospital. Pricks deserve it because... well anyway, it’s just the best. And the absolute best thing about it is that the media laps it up and they put it out there and the police have ‘spokespeople’ announcing that there are going to be increased numbers and fuck it, if they’re going to increase numbers, so are we.

Everyone gets involved then because it’s us against the police which it makes it even more real. It’s like... it’s fucking a war! They’ve declared war and that makes my balls tingle and my little itty bitty dick go stiff. Shit escalates and it’s on the news again and you get to shout and carry on like a mad fucker and it’s like you’re a celebrity, and you blame everything on society and the police and with any luck we’ll put a few cops in hospital too, because who the fuck do they think they are? They think they’re going to stop us? No fucking way! Cops are the worst because... well they’re just fucked, that’s all. They think they’re so tough with their uniforms and riot protection shit and their reinforcements, and it’s just a great chance to show them and everyone else who’s in charge because we rule the streets and the beaches and we’ll do whatever we want because, you know, we’re, like, warriors...

Meh, it’s no good. I was trying to get inside the feeble minds of the sorry dipshits that beat up the surf patrol guys, and I made myself laugh with the warrior line. Tragedy of it is, I bet it’s not that far from the truth.

Grumpy."

I thought something might flare up, but arriving back from the Erisian Fields party, watching the news on Sunday night, I was absolutely appalled at the scale of what was going on out there. Full scale riots, bashings, stabbings... madness in the suburbs. What the hell is wrong with people? This is a peaceful country with (white settlement aside some 200 years ago) a comparitively mild political climate, a general ethos of racial and religious tolerance and acceptance, and now race-motivated riots making world headlines. Over what?

Clearly this place is not as tolerant and as accepting as we like to believe, and it makes me think - not for the first time - that multicultualism, in the long term, cannot work, because there will always be some testosterone saturated moron who needs to vent their aggression, who needs to rail against the insignifigance their shitty little mind has mapped out for them and who will surround themselves with like-minded dolts and lash out at what is different to them.

The scale of stupidity displayed by both sides of this whole sorry affair is utterly mind-boggling.

http://www.abc.net.au/7.30/content/2005/s1529509.htm

Sunday, December 11, 2005

Ouch

Ohgodithurts.

Drove to a party called Erisian Fields at about 2am last night. Got there in time to see Hallucinogen play a morning set, which rocked. My funny piece of paper was a bit stronger than expected - have realised that those particular little pieces of paper are perhaps not my friend (although now that it's just about over, there was some fun to be had... no, must be strong; remember the bad bits), and I am sore and sunburned and sore from dancing and the level of dirtiness was hitherto something not forthwith hithertoed to...

My brain is mush my skin is burned there is music in my head it was a gorgeous party... get this: looking for a place in the bushes to go pee, The Dreaded One and I came stumbling through the bushes (which had been decorated with strings and tiny, twinkling mirrors) to find this amazing enchanted clearing with soft green grass and little blue flowers and butterflies everywhere that landed on you and everything. It was really pretty.. And there was a big ostrich in a field which some had tried to make friends with, and survived to tell the story. Seriously, who tries to make friends with a huge angry looking bird in a field when its serenity has been crashed by hippie freaks and psytrance? Trippers.

More later. I have to go try to figure out a way of making the headmusic stop and the words to stop and everything to stop...

Brilliant party, just not sure it was worth the trouble. I don't think... look, I'll go into detail later. Okay? Good.

Saturday, December 10, 2005

I Can't Think Of A Title For This One

I was at a works drinks thing last night and it was nice. I'm a bit reclusive and aloof at work (I like to think of it as being mysterious) and I sort of developed a theory that everyone at work doesn't like me and thinks I'm a snob and a twat and I also thought no one liked the writing that I do for the mag, but it turns out that most of that is wrong.

Anyway, one of the people who I hardly know offered to get me a beer and then they forgot and when I got it myself they said sorry, and I have this thing where I get all hurt and let's-not-make-a-drama-about-thisie, and I tell the person something like, "Fuck you. It's all right. Fuck you. You can just get fucked."

I sometimes forget that the person I am doing it to should ideally be someone I've known for more than half an hour because I'm reasonably sure she didn't realise I was just being silly.

It's like the time The Dreaded One and I were at this slightly hokey pizza place in Byron Bay. We were waiting to be seated and I looked around and realised it was a bit of a theme restaurant, and I quietly said, "I'm not sure about this."

"You want to go somewhere else?" she replied pleasantly.

"No," I replied like I was really angry and at the end of my tether. "We'll eat here, it had just better be really fucking good."

We knew I was just being faux cranky, but Mr Family Man standing next to us didn't. He tried to melt me with death beam eyes. It was pretty funny. I think he couldn't understand why The Dreaded One didn't slap me across the face. Apparently he looked like he wanted to slap me across the face. I was oblivious. The Dreaded One told me how appalled he had been when we sat down.

Also, how's this - the other day when I was going on about how the funniest person on the internet said I was "an excellent funnyman"? Turns out it was a case of mistaken identity. Poo.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Tuna Man

I've been doing the shopping by myself because The Dreaded One works such long hours at the moment, and something happens when I wander the aisles of the supermarket alone.

I decide it's way too hot to cook, so I'll throw together a tuna salad, which involves shopping for bits like good fetta cheese, plump olives, an assortment of vegies, and the tuna. The tuna involves an encounter with the kind of guy who you can tell just by sneaking a look at him believes in aliens and wizards. I'm standing there looking at the tins of tuna, and there's a kind of vibe about him and I just know he's going to say something to me. I'm about to reach for a tin of tuna and get the hell out of there when he says, "Uh uh."

I sneak a look at him. Oh yeah - alien dude all right. Thing is though, I pause because he disapproves of my choice of tuna. What's that all about?

"That's the best brand of tuna," he tells me, "but over here, now this is even better."

Oh God. Why me?

"You see..."

Oh fucking bring it on. Whatever.

"I've found they've stopped putting enough oil in the brand you were about to choose. This one has more oil. And you know what else?" he says too enthusiastically, like he's letting me in on some long guarded secret. "The weight varies from can to can. You can feel the weight, and the heavier ones are the ones with more oil in them. You have to be careful about these things."

Then the fucker stands there waiting to see which can of tuna I go for. I pick up one of his brand and feel the weight, and he nods to himself and moves off, satisfied that his work here is done. Like, what the fuck? For a start I'm not buying a can of oil, I'm buying a can of fucking fish. And where does some freaky alien wizard dude get off having the power to make me change my mind?

In an act of rebellion, I put HIS tuna right the fuck BACK and I pick up a tin of MY tuna.

And feel very nervous in the checkout queue in case he catches me red-handed with the wrong tuna.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Names And Games

Being so hopeless at remembering people’s names, I tend to try to make a bit of an effort. Even so, there’s no rule; some names and faces lodge in my brain immediately and with ease, others vanish instantly and simply refuse to stick around.

At the club on Saturday night a guy saw The Dreaded One and me and broke into a big smile and said Hello like he was really pleased to see us. I hesitated and did the same, feeling another of those bluffing conversations where you don’t say anything too specific, let them do most of the talking while you stall and hope the details of who the hell they are and how the hell you know them come to you.

“How... um... are you?” I asked. There was simply no hint of his identity or relationship, no mutual friend standing by to jog the memory.

“Yeah good. Really good. Hey - it's really funny - for a second there it looked like you didn't know who I was."

I just didn’t feel mentally sharp enough to play the game tonight. "Um. Actually, that's really perceptive of you. You’re spot on. Who are you?"

He could tell immediately that I was not joking, and he looked totally crushed. I realised that maybe I should have been a little more diplomatic than that. But there you go. Blurt. It was out there. I looked closely but even the crest-fallen expression he was now wearing gave nothing away.

"The name's Michael,” he said wearily, like he couldn’t believe he was having to tell me his name yet again. “Greg and Laura’s friend."

Right. So we definitely knew each other, but I still couldn’t remember anything about him. If I told him that, however, it looked like the prospect of tears might be a very real one.

"Oh yeah,” I lied through my teeth in the name of diplomacy. “Michael. Of course. Sorry dude."

Michael couldn’t even bring himself to look at me now. He looked around at the sea of faces and up into the air as though watching a bird weave about. “Yeah. Well. We've met about, like, 15 times now."

And suddenly I remembered. There was another conversation we'd had maybe 18 months earlier that was almost a carbon copy of this one. On that occasion he had also been hurt that he remembered my name but I drew a blank on his. On that occasion I had reassured him that generally took about four or five meetings before the names of clubbers stayed with me. He had whinged to our friends for weeks about that, and I felt pretty sure they were not going to hear the end of this. At least this was finally one way to make himself memorable, because no fucking way have we had 15 conversations.

A short time later I ran into someone who has always been on the scene, but is someone I don’t particularly like. She needs to be the centre of attention, needs to be popular, fully believes that she is. She also thinks she is awesomely intelligent. She is also mean and if you don’t treat her like the princess she thinks she is, she will make what she thinks are clever and vicious insults that are meant to go over your head but which fall lump-like at your feet. I find her quite dreary.

Nevertheless, I play the game. I act civil and endure her presence for as long as I have to and leave her to it.

We came face to face. We both smiled our plastic smiles and said hello.

“How are you?” I asked.

"I'm great," she replied.

"No you're not," I heard myself saying.

"Yes I am," she insisted, all playful smiles.

"No you're not," I smiled back. "In fact you really should get of that fucking high horse."

It all happened so quickly that it took me a minute to realise I had said it. We both stood there laughing about it like we were chums and this was our little joke, but I think she knew as well as I did that I meant it. Oh yes.

Monday, December 05, 2005

Two Fat Ladies

One of the absolutely funniest bloggers I've come across - so funny it's beyond laugh funny; it's shake-your-head-and-read-it-over-and-over funny - called me an "excellent funnyman". This makes me feel really good and really not good. Really good because... well it's obvious why it makes me feel good. But it also makes me feel bad because these last few posts have not been very funny. So until I get properly funny, if you want funny the best I can offer are the posts are in the archives called Oral Sex Advice, Mr Fix It, erm... maybe Moopert Murdoch (you don't have to read that one, just say Moopert Murdoch out loud. It's fun. Do it. Go on - say it!), umm... Waaaaandaaaa! is okay, Toilet Humour maybe, Ping is a bit funny... that should do for now.

I would figure out how to do the that clever link thing but my brain is not very good at figuring out such things. Plus I have naked mannequins to deal with.

Also, my profile counter appears to have stopped on 88. Why is that? Were only 88 people interested in finding out more about me? Should I be offended by this? Or is it broken? Do such things break? How do they break? And how do they get fixed? 88 is a nice number and everything, but I was kind of hoping to eventually have a much bigger number. Some bloggers have had their profile checked out thousands and thousands of times. 88 by comparison is really pathetic. People are going to see that it's only 88 and think, "Shit this guy must be boring. Let's get out of here."

On the otherhand, it's kind of reassuring, that 88. No matter how crappy things get I can always think yeah, but my profile counter thingy eh? It's 88.

Also, I think it's me. I think I am a kind of curse on the shop. I think people must look in here and see me and go, "Oh, it's him. Let's not go in there today." Maybe the word has spread and they say to each other, "Yeah, he's that 88 dude. Loser."

Also, I think I am hooked on that fizzy pink grapefruit juice. It's excellent. Trouble is it's not all that easy to find, and when you think about it you have to have it. It's annoying. Nothing else quite cuts it once you've thought, "Mmm... fizzy pink grapefruit juice."

Also... oh nothing.

A Girl Called Geoff

What a good Sunday that was. My head problems went away and I just had a really good, relaxed time and was able to be more the me that I like to be.

There is a long distance friend in town who I mostly keep in touch with via email and text messaging, and I went to meet with her at the day club yesterday. There was still a small part of me that wondered if we were going to get along as well in real life as we do electronically. I guess in reality we haven’t really spent all that much time together and it’s a legitimate worry. You hear about it happening, and real life conversations are rarely as neat and witty as written ones. In many ways the written ones are more honest, if you’re an honest person. But they can also be misleading in that you can plan and re-write and this can belie the fact that you’re not really all that funny or all that interesting or interested in them. But I think the last shreds of that concern vanished, and I had a really chilled, relaxed and fun time with her. There was no drama, no effort, no demands. There was lots of talk and lots of laughs, and it was just very cool. I sometimes wonder if I give her the impression that I am better than I am; better with people, more popular, things like that. And I guess when I’m with the right people and that relaxed thing is happening, I guess looking at it I am a little like that (not saying I'm popular, just meaning that I can be a bit of an idiot and get people laughing etc). But I don’t think she really knows how rare that is. (I found out yesterday that she reads this blog, so I guess she now knows).

There were lots of people there who I knew which was good. As the dynamics changed I could drift to another group and join in and it was easy. Had a couple of quite serious conversations which always seem a little out of place in the club envirnoment.

On the other hand, there was another group and I found myself being introduced to someone and it went a little like this:

“Hi. I’m Quick,” I said through the loud music.

“Hi Quick. I’m Jen.”

“Geoff?”

“No, Jen.”

“Okay,” I replied, hearing but thinking what the hell. “Pleased to meet you Geoff.”

“It’s JEN!”

“I’ve got to say, I’ve never met a chick called Geoff before. It’s a pretty fucking odd name for a girl.”

She gave up and everyone was laughing, realising that I was playing the fool.

I have been missing my silly.

Left early. Was pleasantly surprised that my long distance friend – let’s call her Betty Boop – wanted to come back to mine. But she did. Her and a friend came back and we talked and just hung out and I wish I enjoyed hanging out with people like that more often. You humans can be quite cool.

When The Dreaded One came home she seemed really happy that I had gone out and had such a good time instead of staying home by myself, which is my natural tendency.

Right. That’s enough for now – I have some mannequins to undress.

Sunday, December 04, 2005

I'm A Geek

So I went to Home nightclub last night to see James Zabiela and Sasha. Zabiela was more relaxed and seemed more into having a good time than showing of his (considerable) talent on the decks than the last couple of times I've seen him. It was good to see. And the place was pumping. Sasha was okay, but... I read a quote on a forum a long time ago that went, "Psytrance will make you its bitch." It's so true. If you develop a taste for psytrance, nothing will compare, and so people like Sasha become players of background music.

Don't get me wrong - Sasha is good and one of the most memorable gigs I have ever been to was the Airdrawn Dagger gig at the woodchopping pavilion at the Sydney Olympic site (a seriously magical day), it's just that the energy level of psytrance is so much more intense than any kind of house. And not the way hard house or happy hard or any of those genres are. It's as intricate and complex and 'intelligent', for want of a better word, as progressive, it's just got something that growls at you and gets the juices going.

I've been listening to Juno Reactor since coming back from Earthcore, and holy fuck it's intense. Twisted and crunchy on the surface, with kind of primal undercurrent... hmm, that's all wrong because the primal thing is very pronounced...

Thing is, it's awesome. And apparently I am more of a geek than I like to think I am. Writing about music has in many ways diminished my enjoyment of the music itself. I guess to be fair it's also enhanced my appreciation of it. I dunno. I'd like to just enjoy it sometimes without analysing what it is about it that I am enjoying.

I told my employers that I am leaving. They seemed surprised. I was surprised that they were surprised. I am not made for working in an office. There's something about it that really fucks my head up. I have to get out.

March next year is looking like the time. That's when the Soulclipse Festival happens in Turkey. I could stay with the mag, I probably won't. I don't know what I'm going to do. I'll still contribute a little on a freelance basis, if they want me to (which I think they do), and that will be good. It's actually been an awesome experience, one I never expected. And one I owe to a former editor. I don't think she'll ever know how much I appreciate getting the job. I was a random contributor, and she liked my stuff. A lucky connection.

Crap. It's a brilliant day out there. I'm heading to an outdoor day club. I'm going alone - just dropped The Dreaded One off at the Opera House. She won't finish until 10.30 tonight. I'm gonna be very relaxed by then.

Saturday, December 03, 2005

A List Of All The Things I Hate About Christmas

1. All of them. There are no redeeming features whatsoever.

2. See above.

That was the shortest and most efficient way of doing it. Trust me. There is not one thing about Christmas that I like. The overall aesthetic is ugly in the extreme, the ritual of lying to the children about the existence of that generous fat bastard and his gang of gnomes or whatever they are is illogical in the extreme - do you ever think they get over the fact that you lied to them about Christmas and the tooth fairy and the rabbit and all the rest? No fucking way. They spend the rest of their lives wondering what else you've been lying to them about... and in much the same way that families raised in an atmosphere of violence re-create that very atmosphere of violence with their own families, Children Of The Christmas Deceit go on to lie to their own children, thus perpetuating the whole sorry cycle. Thank god some of us manage to break the cycle.

As for the "ooh but it gives us an excuse to get together with love ones" brigade... blow me. If you loved 'em so much you would have been in touch through the year more often and you wouldn't have that knot of dread siting in your stomach over the confrontation that is Christmas Dinner. You wouldn't be wondering how long you can put off the conflict between you and your mother that you know is going to happen. And it will happen.

Thing is, I don't think I'm alone in my seething contempt for Christmas. No one really enjoys it. Or do they?

Space, Man

Who has time for quality blogging? Really. I've been reading various blogs and some of them are so crafted and well-written and frequently poetic, and who has the time?

Someone left a comment here about the fact that I live in Sydney and they love Oz, and another friend said something about the fact that she appreciates Sydney more than I do because she doesn't live here and therefore how can I possibly appreciate this city as much as she does?

Thing is, I fucking love this city and I do make the most of it, but how to find the time to write in poetic detail about it when life is so full?

Also, have recovered from Earthcore. Have not been to any theatre lately. Have discovered an artist called Erwin Wurm who is exhibiting some quirky stuff at the MCA. Am Going to Home Nightclub tomorrow night to see Sasha. Also, I told the people at work that I am leaving either at the end of the year or in March when I am going to the Soulclipse Festival in Turkey. That was interesting. Oh and Shiney Le Fai from Loonaloop called and my grandmother died and I didn't go to the funeral and I've finally severed ties to the family (I think) and... really. Who can get poetic when so much happens?

I'm going to make some time soon to get into the writing. You know when you kind of go in there... into the rabbit hole... Just need some fucking space, man.

Thursday, December 01, 2005

Doof Polite

Lazy post. Wrote this for the mag for tomorow. Appologies about the layout - I'd do it differently here but it has to fit into a set column space.

Acid Tongue

Why are we so hopelessly shackled by civility? Kicking back at an outdoor festival recently, sipping a drink in the shade of our awning, unwinding between acts, a fellow doofer wanders by and waves. The Dreaded One (she has fluro dreads) and I wave back. He says hello. We say hello back. He comes over and stands in the shade of the awning. He appears to recognise The Dreaded One but says he can’t remember her name, so we introduce ourselves and have the standard doofer conversation: seen you at other parties, when did you arrive etc. All very civil. Uninvited, he sits down. This is okay; it’s hot. Finishing our drinks, we have no choice but to offer him one. He accepts. This is okay because it’s the kind of thing you do and what goes around comes around and surely, I think, he and The Dreaded One have chatted before, thus the friendliness. Conversation’s a bit thin, but that’s okay because not every conversation has to be a work of art. Soon it’s time for another drink, and I don’t know, I just feel we’ve reached the end of this encounter. It seems I’m wrong. The guy picks up his cup to take a sip, but his cup is empty. He smiles and shrugs as he places the cup back on the ground. What else can we do but offer him another drink? This is more or less cool because it’s just a drink after all and I’m sure he would do the same for us... but then he takes his shoes off and stretches out and makes himself just that biiiit too much at home. “Who the fuck is this guy?” I manage to ask with some nifty eyebrow semaphores. “I’m fucked if I know,” The Dreaded One replies in the same language, “never actually spoken to him before.” “What are you two doing?” the random asks with furrowed brow. “We’re talking,” I tell him with an explanatory arch of the left eyebrow, “...with our eyebrows. Cool huh?” Within no time at all, Joe Random settles right the fuck in and when our friends return to camp they assume he’s an odd little friend of ours we’ve never mentioned before, and they are polite and he settles in even more and a lot more eyebrow talking ensues.

My civility stretches to not intruding, picking up signals, not taking advantage of people and giving people their space. I’m going to explain all of this to that intrusive little fucker next time I see him... actually, I bet I don’t. I bet I smile politely, adjust the fit of my shackles and lower my eyebrows in perplexed frown.

Grumpy


Death Row

That previous post was such shit. I'm moaning about dark moods, and there is that guy in Singapore, Van Nguyen, a victim of stupidity and desperation, about to be hanged. A couple of days and his life is over.

Imagine that. Our death could be as close as his is, or far in the distance. We don't know. But he's a young guy who knows that he's going to be hanged before the weekend.

Wonder what he's thinking right now.

Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Where The Hell Did I Leave My Funny?

I have forgotten why I started this blog. I think I thought it was going to be fun. I think I have forgotten how to have fun. Certainly I appear to have forgotten how to write anything funny, which is a major bummer given that the latest plan to rescue my sanity was to somehow get lots of freelance work writing funny stuff. Well not just funny stuff, serious stuff as well. Just freelance writing from home and avoiding going into an office. Mainly funny stuff because writing funny stuff can pull me out of these moods.

Am talking to the arts mag now that they are over deadline. The editor is keen about a regular humorous column, but it's only a quarterly. It's good news and a small step in the right direction, but it's hardly going to solve anything.

I should write more, and I should write about the party on the weekend (I have to write an Acid Tongue column for the music mag about something that happened at the party), but I am going to go and cook a vegetable curry instead, and drink a kick ass vodka and orange.

Thursday, November 24, 2005

What Brings You Here?

It's funny looking through both the posts that people go to on this blog, and looking at search words that have brought people here. For a while there, I swear the list of search words went something like:

Wanking

Wanking

Clits

Wanking

Wanking

Wanking

How to fix a slow leaking tyre

Wanking

Tia Leonie

Wanking

Clits

Clits

Wanking

Tia Leonie Movies

Wanking

I particularly felt for the person who thought they were going to find the way to fix a slow leaking tyre because that post (think it was called Mr Fix It) was not going to contribute to leak-fixing at all... unless shaking your head at the actions of a mechanical idiot is somehow going to do the trick - and hey, this is me we're talking about so who knows? Head-shaking might be the way you fix a slow leaking tyre. I hope that person at least got a smile out of my ineptitude.

As for the rest of you... you dirty-minded little people ought to be ashamed of yourselves.

I'm off to the wasteland in a few hours. As I said, there is no internet connection at this three day music festival. I once told someone that if I ever stage a bush party, I'm going to make sure there's internet connection and an internet cafe and that's going to be the selling point above the DJ lineup. They looked at me like they thought I was completely missing the point of bush parties and maybe even life in general. I reassured them I was only joking.

I was only half joking.

Back in a few days. Leave comments saying you miss me. And for godsake stop thinking about clits, Tia Leonie and wanking. Sheesh.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Glow-Hop

Hahahahahahaha... I just accidentally got some CSI Investigation or whatever it's called in my eye, and there was a scene with the noddiest of nodding hip-hop going on in a warehouse party, and the booty shakin' women (ho's I guess) were waving GLOW STICKS around exclamation mark. What the hell is going on? Glow sticks. Hip-hop. Like I said... hahahahahahaha...

Or is America weirder than I realise?

Addendum: Okay, so it just goes to show how long it's been since I've been to a hip-hop night. It seems at the cheesier end of the spectrum, glowsticks are not us frowned upon as I had imagined. Sure, I could just delete this post, but I llllllllllllike the feeling of egg dribbling down my face.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

This Post Is Brought To You By The Letter Y

Thursday night sees me leaving for a dance festival in Victoria, about 10 hours' drive away. The Dreaded One and I are leaving at about 1am to get there middayish Friday. Couple of friends are coming in the car with us who have not been to this particular festival before, and holy crap they're excited. Me? I'm jaded because I am a seasoned veteran of one prior of this particular event... that was an awful sentence, but fuck it. Whatever.

Anyway, if it's the same as last year it's going to be hot and dusty and psytrancey and everythingelsey (music-wise) and rivery and meeting-strangersy and rivery again because it's so hot and dusty, and a bit nudie and a lot messy and really quite fun.

And hopefully (fucking hell - how many more words ending in y can I get in here?) it's going to whet my appetite for Turkey... bloody hell, more y words.

Yup. Going to Soulclipse in Turkey March next year - total solar eclipse psytrance music fest. It's going to be awesome. Also going to go to Spain, UK (don't really like UK but a really lovely person lives there who I would like to catch up with a lot is that OK with you Bird is that being nice enough hmm?) and Paris would be good too because I loved Paris last time. It's going to be the opposite end of the year to last time, so I guess the weather's going to be crap. But that's good. I want to experience crap Euroweather. So long as it's not too crap.

I have no idea how we are going to afford this. But it's got to be done.

Oh and for anyone who has been reading this blog for any length of the short time I've been writing it - the glossie paid me already. Story doesn't come out until January, but the money's in the bank. Crap, these guys are good. I thought the deal was payment on publication. Must get onto the next story.

Downside of the weekend festival is that there is no internet connection and no mobile access. Last year someone said there was a place just next to the ATM that you could stand on one leg holding a wooden spoon and get mobile phone access, and I actually got my phone out and started walking up there before deciding that that was being silly.

Still, I shall miss my phonebillicall connection to the cyberverse.

Sunday, November 20, 2005

Oral Sex Advice

Even though you feel you're not too bad at something, it's sometimes good to read up a bit or check how others do the same thing, just in case you've gotten lazy or there have been new developments in your particular field of interest.

I recently came across some advice on cunnilingus in The Vice Guide To Sex And Drugs And Rock And Roll written by the gifted Gavin McInnes, which I feel has enhanced my oral sex skills enormously. I hope these tips help you too.

Amongst other things, Gavin advises that, "Eating pussy is so gentle it can make you feel like a bit of a fag. If you're tired of being ballerina boy, take it out on the clit. Figure out how much abuse it can take without making her uncomfortable and show the little bastard who's boss.

"After all, Mr Elusive is precisely what makes muff diving so difficult. He's surrounded by labia and even after you find him, all the pressure can pop him over to the side. All of a sudden you're giving the pee hole the seeing-to of its life."

See? I feel better already; personifying the little guy has got to help. Gavin goes on to talk about two clit types, one being clits that need a serious going over. "These are the most fun because you can be creative. Pretend your tongue is the bad cop and the clit is the guy who killed your partner. Separate him from his buddies (the lips) and suck him right into your mouth.Now he's on your turf. Keep him erect by creating an airtight vacuum chamber in your mouth. Slap the little bugger upside the head with one big tongue bonk. He's not going to tell you anything because he's a clit and he has no idea what you're talking about, but kick his ass anyway. After a few teasers, rat-a-tat-tat him senseless like a boxer whacking a speed bag."

It can take a long time sometimes, and the you-killed-my-partner scenario is an excellent way to pass the time. Of course you can always throw in some cowboys and Indians too, with Gavin recommending, "To keep the rhythym going, try repeating a chant in your head that goes with the movement of your tongue like a Micmac Indian (hi-yi-yi-ya, hi-yi-yi-ya, hi-yi-yi-ya)."

When the fireworks are over, Gavin suggests that you come up for air and "wipe your face like a pirate."

I dunno - cops, baddies, Indians and pirates... I didn't reallise chewing snooch could be this much fun.

Thank you Gavin McInnes, you funny, funny bastard.

Saturday, November 19, 2005

Ping

So you decide you'll go out for a bit of a dance, and you drop a pinger and wait because you want the ride at home, with all the hot, sweaty, eye-quivering silliness and stupid banter that entails. You wait and you wait and after an hour and a half you realise that these are duds and nothing's going to happen. So you get ready and head out into the night, and as you walk up the road, that's when the little bastard starts to kick in. Great, going to be peaking in a damn cab. You call into the BP first to get some money out and brilliant - inside, the white light is blinding and there are a couple of the most terrifyingly enormous cops you've ever seen in your entire life hanging around waiting for coffee or food or something. They look at you as you enter. Just act natural, you think feverishly as you ramp up the naturalness. Also, you tell yourself, for god's sake don't look at them. But don't avoid eye contact either. And keep talking but make it normal talking, like you haven't even noticed that there are gigantic cops who could bend you in half just two feet away from you. And don't talk fast and don't laugh because you just thought of the donut obsessed cop from The Simpsons but don't act shifty either and don't bump into anything and don't draw attention to yourself and especially don't draw attention to yourself by trying not to draw attention to yourself because they are right onto that sort of thing it's like they've got a sixth sense in situations like this...

Apparently that sort of thing happens to some people.

Friday, November 18, 2005

Missed Moments

Went to a performance last night. It was good. Might post the review beneath this post.

On the way to the show, this old guy ran by and slammed into me and just kept running. I was walking and talking to The Dreaded One, trying to claw my way out of the deep ditch of sludge that appears to be my permanent state of mind at the moment, and the bastard jogged past in his old codger gait wearing his old codger clothes and slammed me. Fucker. I just felt my temper flare. I was outraged. He didn’t even glance over his shoulder to say sorry. I swore and took off after him. I had just had enough of people being rude, and clumsily slamming into someone in the street is the height of rudeness.

He wasn’t doing a bad pace for a rude old codger, but he was not going to get away with it. I put on a bit more speed, weaving through the crowd and bumping a couple of people... but I turned apologised, didn’t I. I got up behind him, then went in low, tackling the fucker around his old codger, arthritic knees and taking him down hard.

“What IS your fucking problem?” I shouted as I rolled his little old body over and beat the shit...

Okay, it’s an indication of how angry it made me that I imagined that at all. I did shout at him though as he hobbled off into the crowd. Must have looked pretty funny to anyone not realising he slammed into me. Just me, no reason at all, shouting, “What’s your fucking problem! Arsehole!” so loudly that I could feel my neck veins stand out.

I’m having problems with old people lately. Old guy came into the shop last week (I have a shop with a couple of partners that sells crazy clubbing gear) because he said he found the clothes in the window “Just fascinating.” I smiled at him and agreed that they are pretty out there.

He wandered around the shop, checking stuff out, wandered over to the desk and said, “I could never get away with wearing this kind of clothing.”

“No? Why not?”

“Well I’m old. I’m 78, you see.”

He was well spoken and had his head together. He was looking at me with clear blue eyes, his face old but with pink, healthy looking skin. “Oh I dunno,” I told him. “This is Newtown. You could probably get away with it.”

“Mmm,” he grunted back as I returned to the computer and he turned around. “Yes. Well. I did get away with it.”

He kept walking and I was already completely absorbed by whatever I was doing on the computer. He asked if I designed the clothes. I told him I didn’t, that we buy them from overseas and locally, but that we do encourage local designers. He nodded to this and left the store.

And I felt like a prick. Old guy probably wanted me to ask about him. What have you done? What do you do with yourself? What do you mean you did get away with it? Tell me your story.

But I didn’t because, more than likely I was adding to this blog, telling more of my story. Or making one up. I don’t know. When I realised that he probably wanted to share some of himself with someone and I had shown such an amazing lack of interest... well it was just not very cool. I know sometimes it’s a mistake to invite someone to tell you about them, but on this occasion it felt like a mistake not to have asked. He seemed like a really sweet old guy, sharp and intelligent and he could well have lived a far more interesting life than anyone I know. Hell, he could have been a designer of cutting edge clothes once upon a time. If I see him again, I’ll probably smile and say hello and ask him how he is in a way that lets him know that I want to know. But I’ll probably never see him again.

Missed moments... I’m good at those.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Moopert Murdoch

The man on the telly just said Moopert Murdoch instead of Rupert Murdoch. Newsreader guy. Just like that. "Blah blah blah Moopert Murdoch blah blah." Just carried on as though nothing untoward had just taken place. As though no one had heard. Well, I heard, and I think it was bloody funny. Moopert. "Moopert Murdoch makes moospapers." I think Moopert Murdoch is even funnier than if the newsreader guy had an authentic speech impediment and called him Woopert Murdoch... then again, Woopert's pretty damn funny too.

Of course, I could have imagined the whole thing. I was feeling a little woozy. The weather here has gone from gloriously clear and warm to middle-of-winter miserable in the space of a couple of days, all the rain and wind has stirred up spring time (could be summer - never was good with seasons) pollen and general sneezy stuff and I have had louzy hayfever all day. I took one 24 hour antihistamine and five "fast acting" 60mg psuedoephedrine pills. Maximum of four to be taken in 24hours, but I factored in the safety buffer that I'm sure must exist. I reckon they factor in a buffer of twice as many. But anyway, I was feeling very strange there for a while. Just after The Moopert Murdoch Incident I started drifting into a very strange head place, my heart pounding at my chest. Every now and then my existence would implode and I would wake up with a jump.

It was quite a pleasant state to be in, aside from the slight cramping in my stomach. And the fact that (and I realise this is risky because only a couple of posts ago I was using penis size as a source of humour, but the Dear God post was a lighthearted but heartfelt apology to a friend and quite obviously whimsical, whereas this is a genuine physical side effect) my penis has shrunk. This happens every time I dope myself up on anti-sneeze medication, so you would think it would stop coming as such a shock. But noooo. I wander into the bathroom, fish about for a bit before frowning in panic and thinking, "What the hell has happened to my dick?" Gets me every time.

I am supposed to be writing something for the magzine... a half page bit of nonsense and a CD review, but right now I seem incapable of anything more sophisticated than Moopert Murdoch and pseudoephedrine-induced penile shrinkage.

I'm sure he said Moopert Murdoch.

I hope it grows back.

Monday, November 14, 2005

Golly Goth

Yesterday there was a massive festival in Newtown called – appropriately enough – The Newtown Festival. Newtown is a reasonably arty suburb populated by interesting fringe dweller types. Loads of Goths. I quite like Goths. They can look a little silly sometimes, but they can also look pretty cool, and some of the girls can look dead sexy (pardon the pun).

Anyway, at the festival The Dreaded One and I took a wrong turn and wandered into an old cemetery next to the park where the festival was taking place, and my god, how funny... Goths everywhere, sitting on the sandstone graves or lying fully draped across them as though trying to absorb the death emanating from them. It was pretty quiet in spite of how many people were in there, with everyone just kind of murmuring amongst themselves, drinking and just being generally as Gothic as they could be. Very strange on a day that was clear and sunny enough to get pleasantly sunburned.

I’ve sometimes wondered if I should be a Goth. I don’t smile or laugh a lot naturally, and the way my features are arranged I do look very serious. In fact I have been asked by total strangers, “What’s wrong?” or “Cheer up – it can’t be that bad,” when I’ve been in a perfectly fine mood. At least if I were a Goth, people wouldn’t expect me to look cheerful.

I don’t know how they manage to avoid sweating and making their makeup run though.

Saturday, November 12, 2005

Deeply Disturbed

The Dreaded One... oh get this: she's got really short blond hair with trippy fluro dreadlocks, has had them for about a year now, and because they keep tying them back in when she gets the blond bit re-done, she's actually growing real dreads. Too cool.

Anyway, her new job is with a huge catering company that does all the Opera House catering (you know the big pointy buiding near the Harbour Bridge?), and she just texted to tell me there's some fuck off swanky wedding down there and they have a rose petal cannon... fuck off! Who has a fucking rose petal fucking cannon? What the hell is wrong with people? God - things like rose petal cannons make me so cranky it feels like my head's going to explode. It's a concept so bizarre and just generally horrible that I don't think I can cope.

But this is nice: The e-zine crybloxsome (link at the side if you're interested) accepted another story and now that they have a forum to discuss stories I was kind of nervous about it. I have a tendency to be a bit negative about my stuff and I had decided the story was no good. I didn't look all week, but just then I did, and it seems all of the readers think it's pretty good. One guy said that he voted as 'good' but should have voted 'murder' (murder in this case is the highest vote) because "this story is awesome."

That's two good things in one week. Makes me feel warm n goohey.

But rose petal cannons? Fuck the hell off you evil people!

Feelin' Groovy

“Hi Quick,

I'm definitely interested. I'm right on deadline at the moment, though. So let’s talk in a couple of weeks. Thanks for getting in touch. Love the idea of a new column, like your thinking....

Best wishes,

Caroline.”


Okay, so she used my real name and not Quick, but that was a reply from a magazine editor I approached about freelance art writing during the week. I also sent along one of the columns I write for the clubbing mag and offered to write one for each issue, a humorous column with an arts theme. They don’t have such a column but I said I think it could work, and she must have seen the potential in the sample I sent.

I don’t generally get stupidly happy, but that’s exactly how this reply made me feel. It’s a particular kind of happiness. It’s a bit like when you find out the person you like likes you back. It suddenly becomes the thing that makes everything else bearable. You can feel a bit down but you have this thing to come back to and you feel that buzz of happiness again.

I have no idea what this will lead to (if anything) but right now it just feels so good. There is a vibe. At the very least I feel I’ll be able to get a regular column and the occasional freelance feature, and that just feels good. Really good.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Don't You Forget About Me

Sitting at the edge of the harbour after a sensational seafood meal, sipping some more wine as we made sniggering comments about the passing parade of fashion victims, the conversation turned to funerals, and what kind we would like when we are gone.

"Who could possibly care what their funeral is going to be like?" I reasoned, not unreasonably. "I don't care what happens to me after I'm gone."

The Dreaded One was not happy about this. "What - so if I go first you're going to just put me in a box and just, like, dispose of me?"

"What difference will it make? I mean, I love you and everything, but you will have gone."

"I don't want to be put in a box and be disposed of."

"It won't matter. You won't know the difference."

"Fuck that. I'm going to find a boyfriend who is going to give me a nice funeral."

She appeared to be serious about this, and I don't know, I just think that there are better reasons for breaking up.

"Okay," I placated before it was too late. "Sorry. You're right. These things are very important. Look, we'll have the best party ever. Really big affair in the bush. Some pristine site where the wombats have never heard the twisted sounds of psytrance..."

The dreaded one was smiling now.

"... and Simon Posford will be playing, and so will I because by that time I will also be a globe trotting psytrance DJ and producer, and we'll rack up lines of your ashes and snort them and our euphoria at having bathed in the glory that is The Dreaded One will take us to new levels of such hitherto unknown levels of levelness..."

I could see that she was not happy about this. Clearly, we were having too much fun without her. She'd started off being happy, but I had to stop having quite so much fun.

"And what about mine," I said, craftily changing the course of the conversation. "What's my funeral going to be like?"

"What? You said you didn't want one. It's a cardboard box and insto-disposal for you."

"That's not fair. I'm giving you a wonderful send off, people dancing and rejoicing and no doubt there will be big blue mushrooms and fire twirlers and faeries atop giant mushrooms which have started glowing at some point in proceedings... and you're putting me in a box?"

"Well what do you want?"

"That's not fair. I did you, now you have to do me. What are you going to do for my funeral?"

"No. You design you own "funeral."" (The " done with fingers just behind the ears, though I don't really know why).

"Oh. Okay. I don't know. Um... I think I want nudity. Like, everyone has to be nude. I think that will be nice."

The Dreaded One considers this. "Okay," she says. "Everyone at your funeral will be nude."

"And on pogo sticks."

"What?"

"Nude and on pogo sticks. It's the least you could do."

So there you have it. We have planned our funerals. And here I was thinking I was disorganised.

Monday, November 07, 2005

Real Name Or Anonymous?

The editor of the glossy tells me my story will be coming out in the February issue which hits the newsstands in January. They start putting it together in December, which means I have to decide on the byline by then. This is not as easy as it sounds.

The story is strong and – at the risk of sounding conceited – well written. You know when you’ve done a good piece of writing, nothing wrong with admitting it. If it’s humour it will make you laugh each time. If it has emotional impact, it will still affect you each time you read it. It’s not actually conceited to admit that you like what you’ve written. I’m not saying it’s the best piece of writing you’ll ever read, but enough people have given honest feedback for me to acknowledge that it affects everyone in the same way. I think that’s what we aim for, isn’t it? A universality? Even when it’s deeply personal, you’re trying to connect with that thing we all have in common. I think I nailed with this story – even though I wasn’t really trying. I just wrote an account of something that happened, wrote it for me, and then I realised that there might be something there for other people.

So I’m obviously proud of the quality of the story; why the dilemma about the byline? It’s because it’s a deeply personal story. I’m a reasonably private person (ironic given the nature of this blog, and the fact that my fiction usually contains glimmers of the personal in it), and to put my name to it is to admit publicly that I fucked up. That’s not a very cool thing to have to admit to. I’m not a particularly stupid person, but I did a particularly stupid thing, something I’m not proud of. I didn’t save myself, others saved me. Others hauled my sorry arse back from the edge. Left to look after myself, I would have stumbled over the edge. No question.

The editor says he’s cool either way about the byline but that he thinks it will resonate more if I use my real name. I’m not sure about this. If I was famous, sure, I’d agree with him. But I’m just me, a bit published but basically just one of the millions of fellow humans you’ll never meet, so what difference is it going to make if it’s my real name or a false name that sounds real?

I have until December to decide. That’s a lot of changes of mind... although I think writing this post is taking a step in a certain direction.

(I realise I used expletives here after saying I was going to try not to, but I actually wrote this two days ago and put it aside, so it’s exempt from the Pottymouth Clause).

Pottymouth

Just glanced over a couple of my posts, and my God I swear a lot. I'm such a fucking pottymouth. I am going to swear less from now on.

A friend has been nominated for an award and would like it very much if you voted for her. Her website is caled Zender Bender. I'm not sure what popularity or voting contests achieve (like the DJ Mag Top 100... what does it really prove?) but if I didn't say something about it I would never hear the end of it. As it is I'm probably going to get into trouble for not being more enthusiastic. Anyway, if anyone is reading this silly blog, please go and vote for her. It would be nice if she won because she deserves nice things. It's here: http://www.p2b.net/webawards/

There is an eclipse party in Turkey at the end of March. There is a very real possibility that The Dreaded One (Cameron, Tea etc; she has white hair and fluro dreadlocks... I am going to call her The Dreaded One for a while and see how it feels) and I will be looking at going. Not sure how we're going to pull it off, but it would be a blast. Six day festival, killer lineup, gorgeous site... what an adventure. I think a few of our Australian doofers will be going, and I think that would be awesome, to dance with friends in another country. The Zender Bender might also meet us there. That, too, would be quite okay.

I guess that's two bitch slaps for lack of enthusiasm.

Saturday, November 05, 2005

Pogo Boy

Often when I get stoned, I talk a lot. After a big night out, a few wind down spliffs actually wind me up and my brain and mouth go into overdrive. This is pretty strange and usually confusing for me because on the whole, I don’t talk a hell of a lot. I once read that someone said of Australian film director Rolph De Heer, “Rolph doesn’t do small talk.” I thought that was dead cool, and I like to think people say the same of me. “Quick doesn’t do small talk.” That’d be cooler than penguin pooh.

Anyway, I get stoned and the torrent of idiotic small talk is staggering. I hear myself talking and talking and I’m thinking holy fuck where is this coming from? Make it stop. And Cameron usually looks at me with this kind of wide-eyed bemusement, her head shaking slightly, and I can tell she’s thinking holy fuck he’s doing it again – he’s doing a month’s worth of talking every passing minute. I’ve got, like, brain hands snatching at passing random thoughts and… well that was a freaky little metaphor that was clearly never going to go anywhere. Brain hands? Point is, I just go on and on and on at a dizzying pace pausing only to smoke some more and quickly start talking again because it’s very very important that I just keep telling Cameron everything I can possibly think of until I realise that I’m doing it again and I really must make an effort to stop and let her have a go at this talking thing which is the most fun you can have with your mouth and finally after many failed attempts I actually manage to shut it.

Silence.

Clenched jaw. Fists. Force mind to be blank. No thinking. Fingernails digging into palms. Make mind blank. Perspiration. Bite lips. Bite tongue.

And finally when I just can’t stay silent for another moment, and when it becomes obvious that Cameron is not going to help me by speaking, I tell her, “Well at least I’ve been upholding my end of the conversational pogo stick.”

I actually said that once. It was quite spectacular. I was so impressed that I texted it to a friend, and for a while was known as Pogo Boy.

Speaking of text messages, I was cooking dinner the other night while Cameron was indoor rock climbing. Tinkering with a creamy pasta sauce, my phone buzzed. The message said: Sorry. I have the salt grinder with me.

I pursed my lips and pulled a fish face for a few moments before writing: Okay, thanks for telling. I’ll have to use thigh sweat then.

I still haven’t found out why she took the salt grinder rock climbing.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

Dear God

Dear God,

I'd like it if you could make a few modifications to the current model me please.

1. Caring. I'd like to care a little less please. In theory, caring (about humans in particular) is a very nice concept, but when it's coupled with the level of fuckwittedness you have bestowed upon me it just becomes inconvenient. It would just make being me a lot easier if I didn’t care when I upset people and could just say fuck ‘em, they need to toughen up. I reckon Utter Bastards must also be the happiest bastards around because they just don’t let things like upsetting people ruin an otherwise perfectly fine day.

2. Fuckwittedness. If you absolutely refuse to tweak my facility for caring so much about the few people I do care about, could you maybe consider making me less of a fuckwit please? Or maybe a complete fuckwit? Complete Fuckwits, like Utter Bastards, must be pretty damn happy folk, but you’ve given me just enough fuckwittedness to make it really annoying. Like, 90% of the time I’m a reasonably nice person, and 10% of the time I am Superfuckwit. Fuckwiticisms fall from my mouth like lies from a politician’s. So if I’m going to be a fuckwit, can it be all the time please?

3. Penis Size. Okay, so here’s the deal, God. You fucked up in the above two areas, but for some reason built me with a penis that – let’s face it – is nothing short of colossal. It’s stunning. Breathtaking. She really is quite a beauty. I mean, thanks and everything – The Tripod was a very cool primary school nickname which made me feel like a Transformer or something – but I’ve just never really felt that I need quiiiite this much penis. So the thing is, you can take some of it back if you like, in return for fixing up the above. Maybe leave me with just enough to amuse myself, but give all the rest to someone who really needs a bit more penis to make them feel good about themself... like George Bush. And who knows - maybe then he’ll stop bombing the shit out of everything.


I hope you can help.

Yours in anticipation,

Quick.

PS, Thanks for penguins. Love your work.

Monday, October 31, 2005

I'm A Creep, I'm A Weirdo

Woo hoo. Happy dance. Punch the air. I rock. I totally rule. Fuck it - indulge in an exclamation mark! Have two!! I mean after all, it's Monday... And I'm not hungover!!

Hmm, that's a little sad really. Still, it's more or less how I usually feel when I feel clear headed and purged of toxins on a Monday. Not exactly like that; I'm not really the kind of person who does happy dances and punches the air - and exclamation marks? Don't get me started. Still, I was out all weekend, didn't sleep on Saturday night, spent the early morning hours of Sunday slobbing on the couch with The One Who Tolerates me, smoking, massaging feet and talking absolute nonsense, then spent the afternoon at the pub eating hearty food and drinking a sumptuous red (and talking absolute nonsense). Not a healthy way to spend one's time, but then there's not a lot to complain about in all that either. AND I feel splendid (re-read opening para).

John Digweeed at Home nighclub was a fun night. Funny how DJs like that bring all types out. He's largely known as a progressive house DJ, but we bumped into people from the psytrance scene and the regular trance scene as well as all the housey types. The dance floor was packed the entire night - right through until about 7am, which is a pretty impressive achievement.

One of the people I bumped into towards the end of the night was a completely random clubber who gave me a massage about... hell, it must be four or five years ago. She was giving a friend a massage and there were three other guys waiting in line for their turn. They were all obviously friends. I started acting like a goose and miming that I really really really needed a massage and that my neck was really really really sore and please please please do me next. She giggled a lot, and when she finished the guy she was doing she waved me over. One of the other guys actually left and the others looked at me like I was shit. I guess their necks were really really really sore too.

It was an excellent massage. Real goosebump stuff. We talked a bit and I told her I hadn't really expected her to massage me, and she said, "It's cool. You were making me laugh. I like that." We talked some more, told each other our names, then went our separate ways, absorbed by the anonymity of the night.

Around two years after that I was at a big party called Two Tribes. Dancing, laughing, carrying on, I glanced around just to check what was going on around me, and I saw the same girl in the crowd. She was dancing by herself and I thought what the hell, I'll go and say hello.

"Hello. It's Tanya, isn't it?" I said, smiling.

She stopped dancing. "Yes," she replied, not smiling.

"You probably don't remember - we were at Gas Nightclub a while ago now. You gave me a mass-"

"Yes," she said, looking slightly concerned. "I remember when we met. I'm just... I just can't believe that you remembered my name."

I suddenly felt like a stalker... no not a stalker; what self-respecting stalker waits two years before approaching his victim? But I felt odd. Like it was somehow perverted to have remembered her name. I wished I hadn't said hello to her - why is being friendly so complicated?

"It's all right," I said, preparing to back away. "I just try to remember people's names. I'm not actually very good at it, so I make an effort. Especially when it's people that I like... I'm here with my girlfriend and some friends. I have friends, just like a normal person. I'm going back over to my girlfriend and my friends now. I saw you and just thought I'd say hello. Erm, have a good night."

Twice later that night I saw her looking at me. I felt strange. I hoped we'd never bump into each other again because she was obviously always going to think of me as the weird guy who makes notes and creeps people out by remembering their names.

We bumped into each other a couple of times after that, and somewhere along the line she started being really happy to see me. Now we email from time to time but see each other only when we run into each other. Like Saturday night. It was just a quick chat, but there was a huge hug and smiles and she said my name and it was just very cool. Just a catching up, how have you been chat before another hug and being absorbed by the anonymity of the night. But it left me smiling and thinking about how we met.

The randomness of life, the sudden turns it can take can lead to unexpected tragedy. But it can also lead big friendships as well as small ones that just... sparkle.

Saturday, October 29, 2005

Flatman

I know now that I want to be an arts writer for a job, with fiction and humour being the fun part of living, but getting the gig is looking difficult. The Arts section of the mag is the only thing giving me any real satisfaction these days, and I would be more than happy to burry my head in arts all week long. Put my head up my arts? You bet.

I did a Q & A with a guy who runs a script assessment and reading business. He is affiliated with a theatre group and assesses scripts, then draws on a pool of professional actors to do readings. I needed about 400 – 500 words from him, and what I got (all very last minute because email went down and I am not good at being organised anyway) was 2600 well-written words. Holy fuck. I’ve started a column called Art Beat which covers the best of what’s on (according to me) and this was to take up some of the half page, but I bumped it until next week and went to work on editing the Q & A. He wanted to see the finished product before we went to print, but there was no way that was going to happen. Pain in the arse cutting it in a hurry and keeping the quality, but it came out all right. Very well, actually. I admire and respect people who have a passion for the arts. This guy is into literature and acting and theatre and story telling, and I just think it’s very cool that people are passionate about such things.

I went to the play that the guy produced as a result of one of his readings, and it was kind of old fashioned (well it was based on an old French novel) but I enjoyed it. It was about big business squeezing small businesses out of existence and how having a passion for something was not enough to survive in the real world of business and commerce. It was also a love story. Whilst I’m a sucker for a good love story, I was more into the comment it was making about survival and principles. I didn’t find the love bit of it convincing enough to get into it, just didn’t care whether or not the lovers got together. The sticking to your principles part and where in the world that gets you, now that had me. I’m big on doing the right thing and while not believing in karma or justice on a grand scale, I hope to always have my sense of integrity and doing what I consider the right thing even though I could see that the point the play was making was that these are silly ideals. You sometimes have to go against what you consider the ‘right’ thing. I admired the old tailor who was going under because his younger competitor was a money hungry dick, but at the same time I saw what an utter fool he was. I guess you’d call it a Quixotic story.

Hmm. I am liking the play more, now that I think about it. It was flawed, there was room for much more emotional impact, but I liked it regardless. The review will say pretty much that.

Had drinks afterwards with the opening night crowd – [holy mother of God... I was just playing some music in the shop and chatting to a customer and this freak in a full body latex suit came in. 100%, full face, no eyes or mouth holes, dick and balls bulging out... just wandered slowly around the shop staring at us (I guess he was staring)... I just smiled and said hello, other customer left the shop until he left. Fucking odd at 6pm on a Saturday].

Anyway. Some of the people were comically thespian, but fuck it, I don’t know. I like that kind of shit. Don’t want to be comically thespian myself, but I like that people are so into it.

After drinks we stopped off at a club night that some friends put on each Friday night. I don’t get it – they let us in free, in the time we chatted at the front door they let a stack more people in free, AND they gave us a drink voucher which I thought was for a complimentary glass of something but which was actually for a bottle of sparkling wine. How the hell do they make any money?

I felt like getting drunk, and that’s what I did. God, booze was doing the thing for me. Didn’t need anything else. It was fun, but I was curiously lacking in something. I just don’t have a vibe at the moment. I’m Flatman.

Although today I have felt a touch of vibe. I’ve really enjoyed chatting to the customers. I like that coming into the shop makes so many people happy. We have these crazy shoes in the front window and people stop and point and laugh, then they look at what else is in the shop, then you hear them saying the name of the shop, like they want to remember it to tell someone. It’s pretty cool. Everyone today has been super nice (except for freaky latex man, who was creepy). In moods like this, I could almost get to like humans.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

A Drummer Joke

Saw Matt & Ben tonight. Pretty funny stuff. It was nicer than I was expecting, but very silly in parts. I sniggered quite a lot. I will be speaking in a 'yo dude that like totally sucks, man' accent for days now. Female actors playing Ben Affleck and Matt Damon were very good. It wasn't as brilliant or as scathing as I was expecting, but it was satisfyingly silly.

I still get a buzz out of seeing my interviews or reviews pinned to theatre walls. Funny. I'm hoping it's a healthy thing to always get small thrills out of such small things.

Lots happened today, but I am tired and have to sleep. Managed to get through today even though I swear I was going to throw myself through the window if I had to read another DJ bio. Have theatre on Friday, Digweed at Home on Saturday, shitloads of other stuff between.

Oh and I had to interview a drummer, and I asked what his favourite drummer joke was. He trotted out the old "Who can't play any instruments but is always hanging out with bands? A drummer." I personally like, "What did the drummer get on his IQ test? Drool."

Good night.