I got invited to a magazine launch last night. It was Tuesday night, but my god the term ‘school night’ means nothing in this city. Especially in the music/pop culture magazine industry. The club was rammed. It took 45 minutes just to get our first drink, by which time it was obvious that doubling up was required to avoid going through the ordeal again. We managed to get hold of four glasses of sparkling wine, a schooner of sparkling wine and one vodka cocktail, for two of us.
The magazine is called Riot. The theme was ‘circus’. There were rock bands, and again it occurred to me that rock gigs are remarkably lacking in vibe compared to dance parties. Hardly anyone dances. They just stare at the band members – in dance clubs these people would be called ‘chin-strokers’. Oh – and they all dressed the same. It’s that electrotrash look all the models sport. Everyone looked like they fully expected to have their photos taken for the social pages.
We managed to get reasonably drunk in a short time, but not as drunk as the hired midget wearing coat tails. He was the drunkest midget I’ve ever seen. One of my co-workers got into a fight with her boyfriend (event organisor) over the drunk midget. Their fight escalated when the party photographer was caught taking happy snaps of the midget lying on the floor throwing up. The photographer justified his actions by declaring that “He’s just a normal person! I’m just treating him like a normal person!”
I forgot to pick up a copy of the magazine, and as I left I tried to charge a Russian tourist $20 for one of the souvenir sweatbands the party was giving out. My co-worker awoke this morning to find a hungover midget asleep on her couch.
Tonight I’m off to see some black comedy theatre at a place called The Crypt. I dunno, I guess I do like my job after all. At least parts of it. At least enough to not quit. Not yet.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Monday, September 26, 2005
Own Worst Enemy
One of the worst aspects of my job is that I have to go out a lot. I have to go to clubs. This should be a bonus, and indeed it is, but goddamnit it gets hard. I was aiming for a quiet weekend and some friends sent out an invite to a new night they are putting on with free booze and how can you say no to that? I mean, I can say no, and sometimes I do say no, but mostly I say yes to offers like that. Going out clubbing on a Friday night sets the tone for the rest of the weekend. I was in a good mood on Friday and I drank way too much and my mood got even better and I drank more and then it was the next day. I needed to do some work on a feature I am writing for a glossy, but I was too hungover. I also had to edit a short story for an ezine but refer to the previous line. Stayed in on Saturday night, worked on both stories for a couple of hours on Sunday, then went for a boozy lunch. I sometimes think that I was put on this planet for Sunday boozy lunches.
Looking around at all the other boozy diners, I was struck by how corpulent most of them were. My girlfriend and I somehow manage to stay in good shape in spite of our bad habits. I think it must be the amphetamines and dancing. Looking around at the corpulent diners with their bulbous noses, I thought to myself, I walk in your world, but I am not of you. I felt rather smug.
After lunch, my girlfriend and I carried our enviable thinness and stunning good looks up the road to a psytrance party. Dangerous stuff, bookending the weekend with clubs. It was early evening by the time we arrived, numbers were way down because there had already been two psytrance events that weekend and there is a three day festival next week. I was afflicted with more ridiculously good mood. I talked a lot. I flirted with the bar chick, who started that off by flirting with me. I gave a DJ and producer my card, because it is in my job description to do such things. (This is the self-perpetuating nature of the destructive side of my job - he will be in touch to put me on the guest list at his next party and I will feel obliged to go). I acted very silly and had a lot of fun and, as is alsways the case, I have this lingering feeling that I made a twat of myself, which I am reasonably sure I didn't do.
I spent the day in the shop with this lingering feeling of twattiness, thinking that I really should grow up and get my shit sorted. I re-wrote the short story and have sent that off when I should have done the feature because I am giving the short story away whereas the feature is a paid job.
And all of that is the reason I am my own worst enemy.
Looking around at all the other boozy diners, I was struck by how corpulent most of them were. My girlfriend and I somehow manage to stay in good shape in spite of our bad habits. I think it must be the amphetamines and dancing. Looking around at the corpulent diners with their bulbous noses, I thought to myself, I walk in your world, but I am not of you. I felt rather smug.
After lunch, my girlfriend and I carried our enviable thinness and stunning good looks up the road to a psytrance party. Dangerous stuff, bookending the weekend with clubs. It was early evening by the time we arrived, numbers were way down because there had already been two psytrance events that weekend and there is a three day festival next week. I was afflicted with more ridiculously good mood. I talked a lot. I flirted with the bar chick, who started that off by flirting with me. I gave a DJ and producer my card, because it is in my job description to do such things. (This is the self-perpetuating nature of the destructive side of my job - he will be in touch to put me on the guest list at his next party and I will feel obliged to go). I acted very silly and had a lot of fun and, as is alsways the case, I have this lingering feeling that I made a twat of myself, which I am reasonably sure I didn't do.
I spent the day in the shop with this lingering feeling of twattiness, thinking that I really should grow up and get my shit sorted. I re-wrote the short story and have sent that off when I should have done the feature because I am giving the short story away whereas the feature is a paid job.
And all of that is the reason I am my own worst enemy.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
In Front Of The Green Door
Sometimes I think I could sleep forever, just like in the Dandy Warhols' song. Well not sleep forever - plenty of time for that when I die. But I think I could stay in bed forever. I could stay in bed and have minions bring me everything I need. “Minions! Bring me the papers! Bring me food and drink! Bring me sunshine and happiness!”
Actually, I would be hopeless with my minions. “Ooh would you mind terribly much if it isn't too much trouble... in fact no let me go...”
I have to go to work. I am wondering what lies in front of my downstairs neighbours' green door. They are renovating inside, lots of drilling and jackhammering, lots of dirt and dust. They put a red towel on the carpet in front of their green door so that those leaving can wipe the dust on it rather than walking dirt into the hallway carpet. One night, coming home drunk, I took the red towel by the corners and dragged it across to the right side of the door. We giggled at that, stupid as it was. I'm not sure why I did it. The next morning the towel had been dragged patiently back to the centre of the door. No one was watching, so I moved the red towel across to the left hand side of the door. Coming home later that day, the towel had been moved back directly in front of the door. I looked around, then quickly pulled the towel away from the door so that it was across the hallway, and went back upstairs to my flat. The next morning, the towel had been put back in its rightful place. Having a few minutes to spare (I always have a few minutes to spare, being chronically late for work), I took the red towel, went up stairs and put it in my flat. I grabbed a red woolen sock that had been taunting me for the best part of a week (its cohort MIA) and took it downstairs and placed it in front of my neighbours' green door. Upon returning home that evening, I was intrigued to see that my neighbours had replaced the red sock with a red thread. A single thread of red wool. It was in the shape of a question mark. Not to be outdone, I quickly stole a ball of red wool from my girlfriend's bag of wool (she knits scarves) and put it in place of the red thread. I wonder what my neighbours think of all this.
I have to go to work now. I'm running late. I am curious to see what lies in front of my neighbours' green door.
Actually, I would be hopeless with my minions. “Ooh would you mind terribly much if it isn't too much trouble... in fact no let me go...”
I have to go to work. I am wondering what lies in front of my downstairs neighbours' green door. They are renovating inside, lots of drilling and jackhammering, lots of dirt and dust. They put a red towel on the carpet in front of their green door so that those leaving can wipe the dust on it rather than walking dirt into the hallway carpet. One night, coming home drunk, I took the red towel by the corners and dragged it across to the right side of the door. We giggled at that, stupid as it was. I'm not sure why I did it. The next morning the towel had been dragged patiently back to the centre of the door. No one was watching, so I moved the red towel across to the left hand side of the door. Coming home later that day, the towel had been moved back directly in front of the door. I looked around, then quickly pulled the towel away from the door so that it was across the hallway, and went back upstairs to my flat. The next morning, the towel had been put back in its rightful place. Having a few minutes to spare (I always have a few minutes to spare, being chronically late for work), I took the red towel, went up stairs and put it in my flat. I grabbed a red woolen sock that had been taunting me for the best part of a week (its cohort MIA) and took it downstairs and placed it in front of my neighbours' green door. Upon returning home that evening, I was intrigued to see that my neighbours had replaced the red sock with a red thread. A single thread of red wool. It was in the shape of a question mark. Not to be outdone, I quickly stole a ball of red wool from my girlfriend's bag of wool (she knits scarves) and put it in place of the red thread. I wonder what my neighbours think of all this.
I have to go to work now. I'm running late. I am curious to see what lies in front of my neighbours' green door.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
I woke up feeling like hell today. I wake up feeling like hell every Monday. In fact if I'm honest with myself, I wake up feeling like hell almost every day. I don't particularly want to wake up, and I definitely don't want to go to work. I hate my job. It's a good job - I know this because I have had some truly awful jobs. But I hate it anyway, and sometimes the only thing that makes me happy is the thought of calling up and saying "I'm not coming in. I'm not ever coming in ever again. Ever." But I know I won't do it. Not today anyway. Maybe not ever.
On Mondays, though, I come into the clothing shop that I run with my girlfriend and another friend. I get to sleep in because the shop doesn't open until midday, so I lay on the couch feeling like hell for a bit before getting my shit together and coming into the shop. Why did I sleep on the couch? Because we were out at Earthdance yesterday, kicked on to the afterparty, got home way late, wound down and I was too lazy to move from the couch to the bed. I like the couch anyway.
Mondays I sit and wait for customers who don't come. It's a clubbing clothing shop and Mondays are not when people are thinking about buying clubbing clothing. They wander through and look at stuff, try a couple of things on, sometimes they phone a friend to tell them about this crazy shop they've found. I like it when they do that. Some people even wander in just to say that they think the shop is cool. It is a very cool shop.
The hell feeling didn't last too long. Food and water and I was fine... although my headspace was a little... erm... scattered. I think I think too much. I go over what happened on the weekend and I over-analyze and I feel guilty and usually at some point I think holy fuck we're all going to die and my life has amounted to nothing.
I don't want to die. Not ever. I just think dying is going to be totally crap. Like, I like laughing too much, and you can't laugh when you're dead, can you. I don't actually laugh a lot now that I'm alive, but I won't have any choice when I'm dead, and that sucks.
The reason I don't laugh a lot is that not much is actually very funny. People are pretty stupid when it comes to funny stuff. They will laugh at almost anything. Somebody goes for the obvious 'joke' an oh ho ho. Not me. For me to invest the energy required for a real laugh, shit has to be fuck off funny. I'm not sure what that's about, but it's always been the case. Even as a little kid I was not much of a laugher. Strong silent type even when I was in nappies. That's probably not true at all, but it's how I like to think I was.
The funniest thing to happen at Earthdance and the afterparty - and admittedly there was quite a lot that was funny, everyone drunk and pinging or wacked on acid - the funniest thing was at the afterparty at Marrickville Bowling Club, this ponytailed nobster hippy guy introduced himself to my girlfriend thinking that she was someone from his lame-arsed forum. She told him she was not who he thought she was, and he actually said "Oh... because I'm Foreverafter. I'm one of the main guys." Can you believe that? People take this forum stuff waaaay too seriously. Tragically, I actually know who he is because I play their little forum from time to time, and it's true; he is one of the main guys. I'm thinking about starting a thread called 'You know you take forums too seriously when you introduce yourself as your avatar and say with pride that you are one of the main guys.' What a freak. That made me laugh a lot.
When we finally left, our main guy was dancing away in the middle of the dancefloor all by himself. I think maybe he needs to work on his opening lines.
So. A friend started a blog and that got me thinking. I'd never considered it before, but what the hell. I write. I like writing, so I'm gonna write me a blog. It feels a bit stupid at this stage, but it could be kinda fun. I'm probably going to over-analyze the bejesus out of everything and make a total twat of myself, but what the hell. May as well do that before I die. Won't have the option when I'm dead.
God. We really are all going to die, you know.
On Mondays, though, I come into the clothing shop that I run with my girlfriend and another friend. I get to sleep in because the shop doesn't open until midday, so I lay on the couch feeling like hell for a bit before getting my shit together and coming into the shop. Why did I sleep on the couch? Because we were out at Earthdance yesterday, kicked on to the afterparty, got home way late, wound down and I was too lazy to move from the couch to the bed. I like the couch anyway.
Mondays I sit and wait for customers who don't come. It's a clubbing clothing shop and Mondays are not when people are thinking about buying clubbing clothing. They wander through and look at stuff, try a couple of things on, sometimes they phone a friend to tell them about this crazy shop they've found. I like it when they do that. Some people even wander in just to say that they think the shop is cool. It is a very cool shop.
The hell feeling didn't last too long. Food and water and I was fine... although my headspace was a little... erm... scattered. I think I think too much. I go over what happened on the weekend and I over-analyze and I feel guilty and usually at some point I think holy fuck we're all going to die and my life has amounted to nothing.
I don't want to die. Not ever. I just think dying is going to be totally crap. Like, I like laughing too much, and you can't laugh when you're dead, can you. I don't actually laugh a lot now that I'm alive, but I won't have any choice when I'm dead, and that sucks.
The reason I don't laugh a lot is that not much is actually very funny. People are pretty stupid when it comes to funny stuff. They will laugh at almost anything. Somebody goes for the obvious 'joke' an oh ho ho. Not me. For me to invest the energy required for a real laugh, shit has to be fuck off funny. I'm not sure what that's about, but it's always been the case. Even as a little kid I was not much of a laugher. Strong silent type even when I was in nappies. That's probably not true at all, but it's how I like to think I was.
The funniest thing to happen at Earthdance and the afterparty - and admittedly there was quite a lot that was funny, everyone drunk and pinging or wacked on acid - the funniest thing was at the afterparty at Marrickville Bowling Club, this ponytailed nobster hippy guy introduced himself to my girlfriend thinking that she was someone from his lame-arsed forum. She told him she was not who he thought she was, and he actually said "Oh... because I'm Foreverafter. I'm one of the main guys." Can you believe that? People take this forum stuff waaaay too seriously. Tragically, I actually know who he is because I play their little forum from time to time, and it's true; he is one of the main guys. I'm thinking about starting a thread called 'You know you take forums too seriously when you introduce yourself as your avatar and say with pride that you are one of the main guys.' What a freak. That made me laugh a lot.
When we finally left, our main guy was dancing away in the middle of the dancefloor all by himself. I think maybe he needs to work on his opening lines.
So. A friend started a blog and that got me thinking. I'd never considered it before, but what the hell. I write. I like writing, so I'm gonna write me a blog. It feels a bit stupid at this stage, but it could be kinda fun. I'm probably going to over-analyze the bejesus out of everything and make a total twat of myself, but what the hell. May as well do that before I die. Won't have the option when I'm dead.
God. We really are all going to die, you know.
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