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?"
Friday, December 30, 2005
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...
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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.
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…”
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.
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."
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
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.
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.
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.
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
"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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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