I'm A Creep, I'm A Weirdo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Flatman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Drummer Joke

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

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

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

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

Good night.

Dirty Little Faggot

I am in the shop again. I appear to have stepped in dog pooh. It is very hard to act cool with the ravers and the Goths when you have dog pooh on your shoe. It’s not so bad with the psytrance guys because – dancing barefoot in the bush as they do – they are quite used to such pungent and earthy smells. Not so ravers and Goths. Not so with me either, even if I do dance barefoot in the bush. I think I will have to throw the shoes away.

Yesterday there was a little boy in the street who was bitching and whining and half sobbing because his sister had hit him in the stomach. He was being really annoying about it, and it reminded me of a time when I was little and was whining in much the same way. It’s quite possible that my distress was because I had stepped in dog pooh. Back then, as tears spilled from my clear blue eyes and I sobbed as though the star of a Greek tragedy, my mother aimed a finger at me, leaned close and snarled in that familiar tone of threat and loathing, “Do you want to be a homosexual?”

This stopped me mid choke. “Wha...?”

“You heard. I said... do you want to be a homosexual?” Each word was a sharp missile of enunciation.

“I... I... I don’t wanna be a homer...” Of course I didn’t have a clue what the woman was on about, but there was something about the way she said it that made me think that whatever a homosexual was, it wasn’t something I wanted to be.

“Because you’re acting like one right now. And little boys who act like homosexuals grow up to be homosexuals.”

“Oh,” I said quietly, my blubbing petering out as I regained my composure like the good little heterosexual that I was. “All right. Sorry mum.”

I think it was the confusion that silenced me. This homosexual business was as incomprehensible as my grandmother’s favourite insult for me and my cousins when we had done something wrong. We’d do something that kids do, like get cake on our clothing, and my grandmother would say, “Look at you, you dirty little faggot.”

I don’t know how it could be so, but maybe this is why people occasionally mistakenly think I am gay.

On Moping

I don’t know where the unhappiness comes from, but it’s a constant. Sometimes it gets nasty.

But then I have re-read parts of this blog and realised that I actually sound successful. Here I talk about working for a magazine, and how I write humour and reviews and have a column in another magazine... I’ve had my own pages of humour in other glossies and just the other day another mag emailed to confirm they have accepted my feature and to please invoice them for two grand. I talk constantly about invitations to opening nights and free tickets to the theatre and meeting publicists and how thrilled they are with my reviews. There is a band (Loonaloop) playing to big festivals in Europe at the moment who thanked me in their new album’s cover notes (something the teenage boy in me thinks is THE coolest thing), and if you look at the photos on their website you’ll see a fluffy cat tail that lead singer Shiney Le Fai wears which I gave to her (she didn’t thank me for the tail, but because I wrote good things about them). The tail comes from the very cool shop that I co-own and am very proud of. Right now if I look just to the right of my computer there is an award for 1st prize in a national short story competition, and I have had several stories published in magazines both highbrow and mainstream.

Okay, so the magazine I work four days a week for pays utterly crap money and I owe my credit card more than double the payment I’ll get for the feature. I loathe being in an office and financially I live from week to week and free tickets don’t pay the rent. I’m not at all confident that I can step up into a better paying writing job because I have no qualifications. The shop (the loan for which was gambling on a large scale) is a constant struggle and may never make a profit, and in reality it’s been about three years since my last fiction story was published (not including the three I gave to e-zines lately). So I’m not Successful, but in ways I guess yeah, successful. I have few but good friends who jump at the opportunity to come around for silly stories and good food and others I don’t see often enough but am happy that they are part of my life, and all the things mentioned above, all these are small, good things. I’m also in a relationship that only seems go pear shaped when I fuck things up, I don’t live in new Orleans or Pakistan or Afghanistan. I live in a pretty damn good part of the world where the sun is shining and the sky is blue. My sometimes morose personality frequently veers into the land of silly and I have the luxury of laughter, and I can now add to my life’s achievements car tyre-changing and mannequin-dressing... so what is my fucking problem?

Man, people like me really shit me.

Mannequin Man

Today is the first Saturday I have worked in our shop. Usually I only work in here on Mondays, one of our quietest days of the week. Traditionally Saturdays are our busiest days. Typical, then, that today should be one of our quietest Saturdays on record. How bad does that make me look? I've smiled and been friendly and chatty and doing that small talk thing, there are just few people around... It's just a shitty coincidence, I swear.

I have discovered that I have quite a flare for dressing the mannequins. I have coordinated them perfectly, and already people are stopping to look at the new outfits. I enjoyed dressing the mannequins quite a lot more than I thought I would... In fact out of changing the tyre last week and dressing the shop mannequins I think I enjoyed the latter more, as much fun as the tyre-changing was. Not something I should admit to, I guess. It's a bit like playing with dolls really.

Also, I think my talent for dressing the mannequins is ironic given how indecisive I am when it comes to deciding on my own outfit.

Sub-Ed and Eddie Perfect

Missed the Matt & Ben play the other night (Angelina was late from her new job) but did a last minute Q&A and the producer has put aside tickets for next Tuesday night. I now have a theatre partner (play-friend?) ready to fill in as back up in case Angelina is late again, which will happen given the nature of her new job. Had dinner with friends on Wednesday, which my play-friend described as perfect blend of silly stories and delicious food. It was fun.

Saw a bloody funny performance at the Opera House last night called Drink Eddie Bitch. Hilarious. I met the publicist who sends the invitations. Then this morning I did what I haven’t done before and sent her the review as soon as I had finished it, rather than letting her wait until Monday when the magazine comes out. My god she loved it. I kind of knew it was good. Made the tone similar to the tone of the show and had a lot of fun with it. Sometimes the words just fit together like stickle bricks.

Then I did something else I haven’t done and told her that I freelance and that if she ever needs someone for publicity or profiles or whatever, I can do straight as well as light. She wants all my details to add me to some list, so that is good. Worth mentioning here that she has been in the job a shorter time than I have been writing the arts page under my own name, which is about a couple of months. All this time I’ve been writing stuff as Grumpy, and in a short period of time writing as me and the invitations are flooding in. If I can get enough work as a freelance theatre critic I would be very happy. I'm just finding it as difficult to get into other magazines as freelancers find it to get paid work in ours.

Anyway, at Drink Eddie Bitch, Angelina had to leave at intermission, so I walked home after the show by myself. I wanted to get the star, Eddie Perfect, to write an Acid Tongue column for today’s deadline. It would have been a nifty bit of marketing. He can do acidic all right, it would have been a celebrity guest columnist for free and I could direct readers to the review further along in the magazine. He was hanging around for drinks, but the crowd was largely gushing fans so desperate to get his attention that they made lame attempts at heckling from time to time through the show, and the kind of person I’m guessing he is, he would have been... I just think he would have said “Oh yeah? Sub-editor and staff writer huh? Humorous column huh? In a dance music mag. You want me to write one for nothing? By tomorrow morning? Sure sure, no worries.” And dropped my card as soon as I’d walked away.

In a different mood I might have done it. But I was not in the mood for jostling for the attention of a performer like some gushing groupie. Fuck that - although Eddie’s a shrewd guy and he probably would have seen the opportunity for some extra publicity.

I hope the show sells out because it’s a good show. And I hope my review contributes in some small way.

I also kind of hope that the publicist uses the advance copy of my review for publicity, because more and more I am becoming a shrewd guy who sees the opportunity for a bit of extra publicity. Well not shrewd. I will never be shrewd. Just less aloof, maybe.

.

Waaaaaannndaaaaa!

Another lazy post because I am tired and grumpy and I have to work. It's another of my Acid Tongue columns. Or Grumpy columns which appear in Tsunami mag. Read. Enjoy. Or not. I really don't care. (That's not true at all, I care a lot).

Oh yeah - I write as Grumpy, but I am phasing Grumpy out, I think. It's not as cool as Quick.

Okay, here's this:


I don't know who I dislike more - muscle bound roid boys or tiny weeny little dogs. There was one such overdeveloped freak in the park recently screaming at someone, threatening to leave them there if they didn't come with him this instant. The emotion in his voice indicated that they were in the process of breaking up. He was doing a kind of Stanley Kowalski, only it was Wanda instead of Stella. "WANDAAA!" Turned out Wanda wasn't a person, but a little tiny rodent dog. Even more recently I sat in the park for a quick lunch and hit of sunshine. As I sat down this little dog came running up to check what I was eating and to see if I would give her any of it. Fucking Wanda. I knew it was Wanda because the muscle guy, who I hadn't really noticed, was sitting a few metres away, and he started calling to Wanda. Gently at first: "Wandy. Come on Wandy. Wanda. Come on." Wanda wasn't budging. Wanda was just standing there staring at me with her top lip slightly curled back in what I now assume was meant to be a an irresistible little smile. I started eating and trying to ignore Wanda, who appeared to be the World Federation Canine Staring Champion. Michelin Man started yelling a bit more. "Wanda! Wanda! Leave the man alone. That's people food. He's not going to give you any, why should he? Wandy? Wanda! Wwwwwwwwaaaaaaanda! Wanda! Wandaaaa." People were turning around to look at shouty bloke, and because he was doing that emotion thing with his voice I'm sure some of them thought that he and I were having a domestic, and that Wanda was his pet name for me. I couldn't figure out why he didn't just get up and pick that damn rat up. But it was some sort of test of wills or something. Then this other rat dog comes trotting along to check out what Wanda is checking out, so there's two freaky fucking dogs an arm's length away staring me out. Like, really creepy staring. They were so close I could have reached out and squished their puny little heads between my thumb and finger. Bugger me if this wasn't Wanda's sister... "WILMA!" Fucking sensational. Now he's on at the pair of them and I'm trying to figure out why I don't just get up and leave them to it, and Michelin Man is screaming "Wandawilmawandawilmawandawilma..."

Man, huge dudes and their tiny dogs, you can have 'em.

Grumpy

Hyperactive Laziness

I think I am losing my capacity for being lazy. In an ideal world I would come home from work, sit on the couch and stare at the television and pretty well shut down my brain for the night. However tonight I was supposed to be going to the final judging meeting of the creative writing section of Play Now Act Now, a youth alcohol awareness initiative (the irony of me being involved in this is just too much). Then the opportunity to review a play called Matt & Ben came up and I had wanted to see it, so the final judging has been bumped (not quite sure what was supposed to happen there anyway – I picked who I thought were the winners – were they going to try to make me change my mind? Because I wouldn’t have. I’m far too lazy for changing my mind... except when it comes to deciding what to wear out). So, comedy theatre at 9pm which means a moderately late night; friends over for dinner tomorrow night which probably means a pretty late night; another performance at The Opera House on Thursday called Drink Eddie Bitch, which is also meant to be very funny, so another late night. Then there is a psytrance night on Friday that I’ve already said yes to, I have to work in the shop on Saturday, then another psytrance thing on Sunday... then it all starts over again. Why am I doing so much when all I really want to do is nothing?

Good news is, I have an hour or so until The Other One gets home, so it’s me and my goose-down pillow on the couch for a nana nap. Although I probably should start the standing-indecisively-before-the wardrobe ritual. That’ll kill at least an hour.

Balls. Just fell sleep for 3⁄4 of an hour. Gotta go.

Too Much Wormwood

I just remembered part of the reason I feel hungover. After getting back home from the pub I drank vodka and also decided to see how the wormwood tequila was going. I put a lot of wormwood in some tequila about a year ago. I think it’s too much wormwood because it’s THE most bitter taste ever. Seriously. And it lingers in your mouth for ages. It’s obviously the kind of signal a normal person would interpret as “For the love of God don’t drink any more of this stuff.” I interpreted it as a challenge and drank more.

Thing is, I think even if I didn’t trash myself on the weekends, I’d still feel like crap on Monday. I think my mind and body are just conditioned to feel some form of hangover every Monday. And if I’m going to suffer, there may as well be a reason for my suffering. That can’t be a healthy way of thinking.

Before leaving to come into the shop, I found myself looking at my pillow through bloodshot eyes. It’s a really good pillow. I think it’s goose down. I was looking at my pillow and wondering if I should bring it with me. It wasn’t until I was trying to picture how I would use it in the chair that I realised what an utterly absurd idea it was to bring my pillow into the shop. At the moment, however, I am very much regretting not bringing my pillow with me. I think a snooze would do wonders.

But I have things to do. I have my life to sort out. One of the things I talked about with Tea Leonie yesterday was that at least now I have focus, of sorts, with regard to what I want to do work-wise. I really would like very much to be a freelance writer. I didn’t really know this a year ago. And there was no real chance of it being possible a year ago. If I sold one feature to a glossy for good money, there’s no reason why I can’t do it again. There’s no reason I can’t persuade a couple of mags and newspapers to accept my writing. If I worked from home, relative happiness would occur.

But for this to happen I have to make it happen. I have to stop drafting proposals to publishers and finding them months later sitting in my ‘save as drafts’ folder. I have to follow through when I research magazines and actually contact them. And I have to contact lots more newspapers and magazines with my latest proposal. And I have to start doing all that now.

One customer today was kooky and zany and had reached a level off happiness that is, in my current mood, impossible to imagine. How does one achieve such happiness? She bought a pair of kooky and zany shoes, and her purchase made her even happier. She briefly distracted me from my hangover and even cheered me up a little.

Right. One life to sort out.

Sir Squintalot

A little hungover. There is no humour, no matter how much I squint. And I am squinting. A lot.

Sir Lunchalot

No clubbing this weekend. Not even a little bit. One party was cancelled and the only other one that had any chance of enticing me was on a beach down the coast, and there was no chance at all of that enticing me. Bit over the midnight drives at the moment.

However, somethings will never change. 'Tis Sunday, and on Sundays I become Sir Lunchalot. It's grey and breezy outside, perfect weather for a hearty meal and a lazy bottle of red. Or two. Even though I should be doing something about my work situation... oh bugger off - I was up at 7.30 am and I've sent off a few feature proposals. Not bad for a Sunday.

Right. I'm off to lunch. A lot.

Mr Fix It

Had an online chat with a friend last night while she was sorting through files on her computer, giving it a bit of a tidy up. It went something like:

Me – “Tea accidentally bought a new computer today.”

R – “How do you accidentally buy a computer?”

“She put in a bid online and completely didn’t think she’d get it. Forgot about it, got it, owns it.”

“That’s funny. Is it a good one?”

“Sounds like it. Apparently it has lots of Rams and heaps of gigathings and a whole bunch of mega doodad wotsits.”

“Wow. That’s cool. Hey – what are DAT Files? They’re in Temp folders. They can’t be very important can they?”

“You’re asking someone who just said their computer has mega doodad wotsits?”

“It sounded like a fair enough description to me.”

“DAT files. Hmm. I dunno. Why don’t you nuke one and see what happens?”

“Can’t. Just tried that and the computer won’t let me. It says that I am using it.”


Not only am I clueless as to the workings of computers, but cars baffle me as well. Recently one of the tyres on the car got flat. I’ve never seen such a flat tyre before – last time we had a flat I just relied on one of those cans that pump the tyre up. They’re amazing. They patch up the hole and everything... like magic in a can. But that was a slow leak, this was a big one, so the tyre had to be changed, and I realised this was the first time in my life I had ever changed a tyre. It was great fun. I felt so mechanicky with dirt on my hands and making metal hit metal and perspiration forming on my grease-streaked brow, the smell of rubber filling my flared nostrils... I really wanted someone I knew to walk past and see me on my knees working on the car so they would think “Gee, look at Quick with his sleeves rolled up, hard at work on the car. He's a real Renaissance man.”

The bolts were fuckers to loosen, so Tea went upstairs for the hammer and came back with a shifter because the hammer wasn’t in the hammer place. The shifter was way too light (obviously) so I went upstairs to confirm that the hammer was not in the hammer place, and I went back downstairs armed with one of my arm-curl weights. Tea had three of the bolts loose by that time. She had jumped up and down on the lever, which I didn’t think was a very professional way of doing it. I made her stand back while I got stuck into the lever with the weight. I hit it repeatedly until my shoulder started to feel strange. No go. So Tea jumped up and down on the lever again and loosened the remaining bolts.

When we had finished and the new tyre was in place, I said to Tea in my best Barry The Mechanic voice, “Well that was bloody beaut. I was thinking about changing the oil tomorrow and maybe checking out the carbie.”

She laughed at this because we both know that I would not know what a carburetor was if I found one in my underpants and it had the word ‘carburetor’ written in glow in the dark letters on it.

Toilet Humour

This is a lazy post. That's okay, because by nature I am lazy.

Went to the opening night of a play last night and this happened. I more or less forgot about it until I needed to write my Acid Tongue column. Once again I left it until the last minute and had no idea what I was going to write about. This is what came out of my brain...

Some time ago I found myself standing at the trough taking a piss next to a famous guy. He wasn’t someone I particularly admired or respected, but he was famous in the old skool sense – ie: he did stuff of worth as opposed to merely being a reality television knob. Anyway, it was a pretty uncomfortable pee because I felt compelled to say something to him. Standing there shoulder to shoulder while our urine cascaded into the trough and not acknowledging who he was seemed like a kind of snub. But what was I going to say? “Gee this feels nice.” Or “Come here often?” Maybe, “Like your work,” in which case he might think I was talking about the way he wielded his willy. Clearly, it was better to say nothing and if I offended him, so be it. We pissed, we zipped, we went our separate ways. Then last night at the theatre I wandered into the toilet at intermission and was confronted with the same potential situation. The only other person at the trough was the famous playwright himself. It was one of those two-man troughs. Fuck. What to do? There was no way I could join him and not say something about the first act. It was a world premier after all and, you know, it was pretty damn good. What I probably should have done is stood beside him and said with a yawn, “Bloody hell the play’s dragging a bit isn’t it?” Instead I went into a cubicle. Good thing too because someone else came in then and stood beside the famous writer and tried to engage him in precisely the kind of conversation I dread ever instigating. He said the play was going well so far. “Yeah? Thanks.” He said he really liked the funny bits. “That a fact? Thanks mate.” He said that the sad bits were good too. “You think so? Thanks. The second act gets better.” He also thought the set design was pretty ace. “Yes. Isn’t it.” I swear I could hear the writer’s piss hitting the stainless steal with more pressure with each comment; poor bastard just wanted to piss in peace, and he has some fucking man-bimbo dribbling platitudes in his ear. What’s my point? Just that the writer has probably forgotten the incident, the other guy probably remembers at being the best pee of his life, and until 15 minutes ago I had no idea how I was going to fill this column space. Thank God for life’s strange little moments.

Furious Wanking

What a spectacular ass I am. A friend read Remebering Argos at litvision (www.litvision.org you will enjoy it, I promise. Tell me otherwise. I dare you) and said he liked it... as well as the blog. I hadn't told him about my blog. I puzzled over this for a bit before realising that I had included a link to here in my litvision bio. Ahahaha... really funny because I have told a few people from work about the short story even though I didn't want anyone from work to read anything I write here because I moan a lot about work-related stuff. A couple of them have mentioned the story but not this blog. Do you reckon they might be being polite?

Could be worse. I mean, who doesn't daydream about quitting their job? At least I haven't gone into detail about how much I enjoy sneaking off into the storeroom for the occasional furious wank whilst singing Ave Maria.... now that would be embarrassing.

Oh yeah, I love italics.

Pigeon Christ

Please go to www.litvision.org and read my story Remembering Argos in the fiction section. There is also a mugshot of me with Pigeon Christ. Pigeon Christ is a fluffy duck nailed and tied to wooden spoons using authentic bondage knots.

Rudeness Becomes Me

Weekend was spent not doing much. Watched a couple of movies - I actually really enjoyed Spanglish, almost against my will. I really don't like Adam Sandler, and romantic comedies are for chicks, but bugger me if I didn't like it a lot. I just let myself turn into a big girl and really enjoyed it. I especially liked the bit where the Spanish woman altered all the little girl's clothing so that she could fit into the size 8 which her mother had cruelly bought knowing they would be too small. It was really touching... How wet am I? I may as well have been wearing fluffy slippers and eating icecream at a sleepover with my gal pals.

As I write this I am listening to John 00 Fleming's White Label Republic. It is excellent. Progressive and psytrance. There are two tracks in the middle of the second disc which he really shouldn't have included. I know the promoters who brought him out here last time. If I get introduced to him, I will probably tell him, "John - it's a good album, but you blew it with tracks 4 and 5 on the second disc. Next time you make a compilation, I'd be happy to give it a listen so that you don't make the same mistake again. No really - be happy to."

Thing is, that is exactly the kind of thing I do. Yesterday Tia (new name for my girlfriend because Tia Leonie was crazy but sexy in Spanglish) and I went to the bi weekly psytrance thing in town. Spur of the moment, weren't sure it was on because the last one was soooo quiet. But it was on and all the gang were there, and the promoter was happy to see us. He gave me a hug and said, "I promise it won't be shit this time." He said this because when he was setting up one time recently, it was quiet and we were early and I said to him, deadpan, "This is shit. I want my money back." Telling him his events were shit briefly became a running joke.

I appear to have a knack of saying the most offensive things and getting away with it. But I always worry that people will take it the wrong way. This was the source of all my worries last week. I got obsessed with insulting people. I couldn't stop. They individually laughed and knew I was joking, but it got really tiring. I was annoying the hell out of me. And it actually annoys me when I'm known for doing it and I say something nice and they get this half smile on their face, shake their head a bit and say, "What do you mean? I don't get it."

Sometimes I make an effort not to insult anyone. It's done in jest and I get away with it, but I don't really want to be known as an insulting smart ass... Although that reputation is better than being known as a weepy chick who likes romantic comedies.

Oh yeah - I was in accent heaven at the party last night too. Swedish accents, German and this really cute Asian girl with a Manchester accent. Love a good accent.

Hmm. Tracks 4 and 5 may be growing on me... Actually I take that back. Track 5 is crap. What were you thinking John?

Quitting

All through my week off work I've had dreams about work. The kind of dreams where everything goes wrong and everything is a mess. One dream had co-worker S telling me that some very important documents I needed were buried in the sand. There were three places they could be, and she started to dig with her hands. She dug for a bit before starting on another hole. I was concerned because the person who buried the documents might have longer arms and the documents were in the first hole, just deeper than she could dig. I felt sure we were never going to find the documents, and deadline, as it always is, was approaching.

In another dream, I was jogging with a non-existent co-worker who said he as quitting. I asked when. He said the following week. I said okay, think I'm going to quit then too. I woke up feeling very much like I should quit. I told a friend this, and she asked what I was going to do. I said that at The Awakening bush party, I found myself helping the crew after the party, lifting heavy things into a truck. It was a bloody fun adventure, so perhaps I could lift things for a living. She felt lifting things would annoy me after a short time. She's right. So I suggested putting things, or maybe throwing things. We decided that throwing things has more creative freedom than putting things, and I am quite a creative person. So I am going to quit my job as a staff writer and editor to be a Thrower Of Things.

I am at a loss.

Oh yes - many of my co-workers are going to a gig tonight, and I asked for my name to be included. Yesterday S told me that she had forgotten to include my name on the guest list. She called and apologised and is trying to sort it out, so I don't doubt that it was an honest mistake. Still, I don't know whether I can be bothered reading anything into it or not.

I have cut my glossy feature down from 5000 words to 3000 and am going to cut away a further 500 words today. Then I am going to have a go at turning a recent short story into a short stage play.

Being Quiet

I seem to be stuck in a rut. It seems that every time I open my mouth to say something funny, it has a 50% chance of actually being funny. I keep coming out with crap and nonsense and idiotic observations, I say inappropriate things that offend people and give them the entirely wrong impression... really, it must be what it's like to be a normal person...

See? There I go again. To hell with it. I'm giving up. I'm taking a vow of silence.

Back To Reality

Just got back from The Awakening. Bloody hell, what fun. I was so dirty and hairy, like a caveman. I am not dirty anymore, but I am still quite hairy. I have the rest of the week off, so in celebration I am not shaving for the entire week. one of the few 'guy things' I indulge in. Although I have to say that my version of hairy is not really caveman hairy. I have pathetic facial hair. I probably would have been a pathetic caveman.

Too much to say here, and I have to finish the rest of the Byron thing before trying to recount the silliness that just took place.

HOWEVER - got back to an email from a Queensland magazine editor asking for my column. Really felt bad about forgetting it because it's the kind of thing that pisses me off in my contributors. Luckily I had something that gave him the laugh out louds.

AND - there was another email from the editor of an e-zine in the States telling me that they accepted my story Remembering Argos. This story won a national comp a couple of years ago but didn't get published. I am happy to give it away because I have already been paid for it and it's getting another viewing by a new audience. Nice. It can be read at www.litvision.org

I have to go look at the television now. It will be nice to not spend the night wondering if the cow-sized wombats snuffling about outside the tent are real or imagined.

Nice Guys Finish Fast

Been a hectic couple of days.

Wednesday night I left work to head straight to see a play called Nice Guys Finish Fast. I didn't think to get the address of The Cypt theatre because it's beneath The Cat & Fiddle hotel, which for some reason I assumed I had been to. Of course I have never been there. GF said, "At least check the street directory so we can at least get to the suburb." I said we don't need the street directory, and something about my awesome sense of direction, how it's almost supernatural and that I'm like a homing pigeon. Big mistake. I got us pretty lost. Turns out that when I said take a left here and she said are you sure because I thought it was straight ahead, we should have gone straight ahead. We started talking in that snippy tone you get when such things happen. We are both a little stressed at the moment. We eventually made it to the right suburb, found the Cat & Fiddle, found a parking spot and got out of the car... to find that the parking spot was in fact someone's driveway. When we tried to move the car was when the battery finally gave up. I had been saying for weeks that it really didn't sound well, but when the car had gone in for a service the guy said the battery was fine. He is a nob.

Anyway, we went to the pub. Had wine and talked because GF has been made redundant. Completely crap circumstances and totally unjustified, but hell, what do you do but take it on the chin and get on with shit?

The play was weird and the air in the tiny theatre smelled like feet. It was sketch comedy, some of it quite funny, just not as funny as some of the others thought. They said dick cheese a lot. I think one dick cheese joke in one night is more than enough.

Afterwards, it took ages for the NRMA to arrive, it rained, we had peanuts for dinner because it was too late when we made it home to bother with real food. It could have been a horrid night, but I wrote a letter to the editor (me) about it in another voice and exagerated, and it's a piss funny letter that a lot of people will laugh at.

Went to an opening night last night and it was a thoroughly average play that made me think; I'm sure I could do better. May give it a go sometime.

I am taking next week off work. Wonder if I can find another job in that time. Or write a play. Hmm.