About Last Night Post...

It isn't that I want to start this off with an apology, more of a confession. At the end of the last post I imagined Latham & Ioki sitting around, resigned, drinking beer...



And then I actually watched the end of that episode of 21 Jump St and realised, as the dad herded the teacher into a cage and the proceeded to beat the shit out of the cage in lieu of beating the shit out of the teacher, that ACTUALLY, at the end of that particular episode Mark Latham would've been running around with his t-shirt over his head like he'd just scored a goal in soccer screeching "that's how those goddamn pissant suckholes get LEARNT, do you hear me?!?!"

Mark Latham Loves 21 Jump St, 98%

On Monday I was charmed to read Mark Latham's little self-promoting piece in The Age about his conga line of suckholes (how great is "suckholes" by the way? I have already started to annexe it as a high rotation word in my vocabulary) and the demise of The Larrikin and blah blah blah. Mark and I were getting along ok until he threw in a sideways whinge about 1970's feminism and its emasculating effect on Australian culture, vernacular, and just generally men in general. To be fair he finished on a huge, bellowing complaint about the evil of mealy mouthed Liberals and stultifying PC language which.... let's just go with 'fine' for now.

Because last night, after fleeing the short weird, non-drinker who seemed to be tracking my every movement like a sober, short, slightly balding EVIL ROBOT OF HORROR AND DOOM while at my friend's very excellent and accomplished art opening at bus , I indulged in one of my current favourite guilty pleasures. Ladies and gentlemen I present:



Don't pretend you don't have the theme song in your head now...

While waiting for the episode with brad pitt in it, I found myself watching instead an episode that was about the horrors that occur when men are accused unjustly of fatherhood. That's right, back in the Right-On 80's when girls were wearing shoulderpadded jumpers to school and their mothers were wearing suits, they were also running around lying about who the father was. And the not-dad could do nothing. Nothing! He was impotent!

Ok, so this was an awesome episode for many reasons. One, it started with a blonde-cheerleader type standing in front of a class, learning public speaking (?) and stating how she started thinking about the party she would go to on Saturday night on Wednesday at school and would spend class time thinking about what to wear "her oversized pink tee with leggings or her short skirt?". Two, it contrasted blondie with slightly-less-blondie in the toilets who, using a test tube and a piece of paper (at this point I thought it would be another Very Special Episode about drugs at school) turned the water in the test tube blue. Blue! That's when I started to think maybe less-blonde was jesus or something (oh I so did not).

This episode really kicked it into high gear however when H. T. Ioki was called in to show his most awesome mullet integrity and fear in the face of baseless accusations. Observe:

Ioki in happier times

The thing that made me realise Ioki + Latham = True Lurve was the way Ioki and his splendiferous mullet were consistently and repeatedly rendered futile and redundant through the acts of women. It didn't matter that Ioki's hair required four cans of hairspray in order to exist. It didn't matter that he could out run and out stretch Johnny Depp. It didn't matter that totally hot, slightly wasted, babes wanted to pick him at bars - no, none of it mattered because he had No Control anymore and his voice had been... TAKEN FROM HIM. No one heard him anymore when he said "no" (well, except Tom Hanson. And maybe Ioki was just waiting for the day when Hanson would stop hearing "no" and start hearing.... "yes")

There's nothing like a serious mullet to ramp up the hysteria. Anyway. The episode just made me imagine Ioki and Latham, sitting on a couch in the dark together, sharing a bowl of popcorn and drinking some beer going "too fucken right mate, that shit is whack" "totally. these... what do you call them Mark, 'Sheilas'? Unbelievable!"

Got 2 Let U Know

So, like, I now totally exist on the internet. Not just in my mind anymore! Isn't that the greatest? It's like finally being passed a note in class or finally being included on that hilarious "photos of The Hoff" mailing list at work - finally, finally someone has meme'd me. Like, wow.

I'm Not Craig has not only called me a genius (which is quite enough to make me spazz out for the next little while) but has also tagged me. And now I get to write All About Myself because I do too little of that already.

1. Three Things That Scare Me
1. That scene at the start of Scream where Drew Barrymore's parent's come home and she's on the edge of the porch trying to scream but they can't hear her cos her throat's been cut.

2.Old age

3. The idea of being mowed down by a rogue 10 tonne truck whilst crossing the street

Three Things That Make Me Laugh
1. Schadenfreude

2. Mah Park and the girls

3. Hangovers

Three Things I Hate The Most
1. Ugly clothes

2. Tuna in a can

3. John Howard (I know, I know, it's been done...)

Three Things I'm Doing Right Now
1. Gazing off into the middle distance

2. Trying to think of ways to stop The Cat from yowling short of breaking its neck

3. Not answering the phone

Three Things I Want To Do Before I Die
1. Eat a steak in Argentina

2. Throw a punch

3. Learn a language well enough to tell a joke in it

Three Things I Can Do
1. Forget things

2. Some steps of the Argentine tango

3. Cook

Three Words to Describe Me
1. alive

2. homosapien

3. literate

Three Things I Can't Do
1. Cut in a straight line

2. Not fight with my sister

3. Hit a six in cricket

Three Things You Should Listen To
1. Me

2. My mother

3. Your stomach

Three Things You Should Never Listen To
1. The Talking Parrot

2. Wowsers

3. Paris Hilton

Three Things I'd Like To Learn
1. How to remeber people's names

2. Why people buy Hallmark cards

3. Who that guy in Ask A Ninja and why he has such a fucked up accent

Three favourite foods
1. Curry (any country as long as it's hot)

2. Tofu

3. steak tartare at MoVida

Three Beverages I Drink Regularly
1. Coffee

2. Soda water

3. Wine

holy crap, how much longer?

Three Shows I watched as a smaller(er) person
1. Count Duckula

2. Dr Who

3. Degrassi

Three People I am Tagging
Umm....

Audrey

That's Mister Nora To You, Sonny

mskp

Because they were foolish enough to leave comments two months ago and I'm still fooling myself that anyone is reading this...

whew.

Monday You Can Hold Your Head

So this evening, wearied by a long day of nothing at my latest station of employment, I stumbled in to the news that my Pez were home and Entertaining.



Sometimes I wonder, as I watch my parents play verbal cards with their latest group of friends, how I factor in to their scoring system. If success is still measured by how well ones offspring are partnering up, earning or breeding then how much prestige do I bring with my unattached status, newly minted home-staying and random job prospects?

Luckily honorary guests of the evening were a lung-coughing-up artist and (I swear this is true) a cynical ex-Dutchman whose mother was the basis for Anjelica Houston's character in The Grifters . By the end of the evening Artist and I were helpless with laughter at potenial diagnosis for Dutchie ("splinter + knee pain + eyebrow twitch = scurvy, tetnus or some kind of malignant knee tumour") a newly turned hypochondriac who is working on developing a case for Type 1 diabetes that apparently involves bloodshot eyes.

They left with a floating aroma of "let's set you up with our son" so I s'pose my parent's stock still has some legs?

Round Up Pt 3

Saturday

So Saturday started with such golden weather I decided to test out an old frock that some had suggested looked like two beach towels sewn together and others had suggested looked fine

All I know is that frock apparently had magical-hobo-zoning abilities because I have never been heckled by so many hobos as I was yesterday. From offers of kisses to impromptu football anthem singing to questions pertaining to the history of said frock ... Did it remind them of a time when they were yonger and girls wore frocks like that? Did it trigger some deep-seated love of towels and beaches? What was it?

Clearly I had to go home and change it as well as get ready for the Night of Parties ahead.

Party 1 - a classic 'sitting room' party, all the music you'd expect to hear to try to get people up and dancing, some scouts and a small sitting room (I think small sitting rooms are a good thing. They make people sit closer together and it is easier to start dancing in them).

Party 2 - much like Party 1 but with musos and rooms full of ... muso... thing. And a rather lovely young man who tried to convince me that living in the Dandenongs was great and apparently couldn't pick up my mind signals which were tryring to get him to ask for my phone number. Damn mind signals. This non-interventionist policy is for losers.

Party 3 - after the non-success of Party 2 I decided that staying home was also for losers and I would try my luck in the Big City. Having only the sketchiest notion of where I was heading and absolutely no good reason to go there (except that I wanted to) I headed off to the rooftop party that was being held somewhere near the stock exchange.
At Party 3 I discovered:

A spanish accent will make any request sound more fun/acceptable

La Perla have special change rooms where men and women can go to try on underwear (I also got to see the knickers purchased - very nice...)

If someone is standing right up against you and speaking directly into your ear, it apprently doesn't matter what they are saying - even if it's old gossip that you already know - the act of speaking into ears is, itself, enough to send shivers.

If nothing else Party 3 revealed the truth of Blue's search for someone to whisper all the decimal places of pi to her. Ears? Whispering? All Hot.

Round Up Pt 2

Friday

Friday bought with it the realisation that since I was no longer defined by my job, I no longer felt the need to escape any memory of it at every oppurtunity. Thus, rather than feeling an overwhelming sense of fear and/or dread as 5pm approached I was instead toying with a night of happy low-keyness, just excessive red wine and ditzy videos in a Friday night catch up with Hotness.

My mobile, however, seemed to have other plans for me and thus I found myself in a yelling, swirling scrum of free-wine necking artists and associated hangers-on (clearly me) at some new gallery above Flinders Lane. It was a good space and some of the art work was compelling but the net effect of the newly-painted walls, the bright light and the large number of people meant that by about 7 we were all prepared to cut the cord and depart to the darker surrounds of Misty for a celebatory drink in honour of C's birthday.

Hotness rocked up and we decided to leave C and JZ to their impending platter of empanadas and grilled things and head to the dingy dim darkness of the Napier.

There is something miraculous about finding a place on a Friday night that is not over-crowded, is not over-darkened and is full of people just slightly further along the glassy-eyed, stumble-weary spectrum than yourself. After gulping the better part of a bottle of wine and discussing such things as boring "phone it in" sex and why Hotness still appears to be sending out the Fruit Toast Vibe (conclusion - none) we decided that the time for people watching was upon us.

Kent St had nothing to offer us, only boring emo-esque kids and uncomfy sofas.

Panama Dining Room on the other hand... By this stage I was feeling a little cross-eyed and Hotness was fretting about the possibility of a tragic bike+handlebars+momentum = road-front teeth equation on her trip home but we overcame such petty concerns in order to sit back, sip vodka and observe:
Perma-tanned girls looking glum into tall glasses
Man shaped freakishly akin to a ten pin bowling pin striding around the pool table like he owned it and who gazed out as if the whole room was about to rush him demanding sexual favours, right now, immediately.
Slippy-slidey girl playing pool with 10pin who seemed happy to suck face with him between shots and then equally happy to turn around and pour herself into the waiting lap of her friend nearby. Why? How?
No one smoking, ahhh....

Round Up Pt 1

Well, it certainly has been a giddying whirl of social activity in the past few days now, hasn't it?

Thursday
Saw someone actually knock a piece of sculpture to the ground at the show at the VCA. This was interesting for a few reasons:

• It was a really shitty sculpture that had been glued together by the artist the day before
  
• She made it because it was going to be broken
  
• I was caught on camera reacting in an horrified manner to the act of M brushing against the sculpture and sending it, and it's plinth, shattering to the ground
  
• Watching M, who is apparently a cheap cheap cheap drunk anyway, brush drunkenly against it, made me suddenly think of all those times at Gertrudes' gallery and marvel that no one had ever broken an installation there before - although I was there that one time that girl knocked over the plywood boards and everyone stopped, turned and stared. That was classic.
  
• About two minutes after the sculpture had been knocked over, people were using the plinth as a drinks tray to place their empty glasses of wine on
  

Thursday also meant meeting M's cousin who was awesome, eating dinner for less than $8 and, best of all, arguing for a new and radically different interpretation of drama in movies.

That's right. Thursday was the night I gave birth to the movement that will sweep all before it - the Fridge Drama. Begone kitchen sink, you are passe and we want no more to do with you. No, The Hour Of The Fridge is at hand.

My outline was so moving and eloquent that my taxi companion was moved to clarify both my name and the status of copyright attached to the theory. Coming soon to a university near you....

Seven Days

For the past seven working days I have been marinating in a stew of fear, hatred, ennui, apathy and a sprinkling of derision - in all, not exactly a pleasant mix and definitely not good for one's complexion.


herbert is the one on the left

The downside of being a temp is working with Trogs. Previously I had harboured a sort of maternal contempt for some of my temporary co-workers, viewing them as warm but slightly misguided creatures that I could view from a safe distance, cocooned as I was with my transitory status and superior intellect - I could interact without getting too involved. Until last week and I entered The MAW.



Now just 'cause there are teddy bears doesn't mean there isn't a freaking huge alligator lurking in the background also.

So being a receptionist is not a terribly strenuous job, mentally. There is a trick to it but once you remember where you're working and what to ask, it usually become pretty straightforward. Unless you are working at MAW where no one speaks to you (because you are a) a girl and b) the temp) until something goes wrong, terribly, terribly wrong, and then they will speak to you at length, in a baffling and circular manner beginning with "it's not your fault - because nobody told you but - it is your fault and - no, don't worry, it isn't your fault - only, you made a mistake, HOW COULD YOU MAKE A MISTAKE LIKE THAT? No, don't say anything - it's not your fault...." ARGH. Yesterday was the sourest day in my weeklong slog through the bitter, rancid swampland that was MAW, the result of real estate agents + telemarketers, all of it equalling stupidity and desperation. But yesterday, oh yesterday. As if there wasn't enough going on, yesterday threw in the late inclusion of a taste of "bitchtrolls from Brighton" and god did they lay on the shit thick and fast with their condescending accents and "wells" and huffing noises of exasperation because were they to understand that there would be no office in Brighton anymore? Well!

I don't know, ladies, put down your pearls for a minute and deal with it. See also - in the entire seven day period I worked there I was provided with exactly no background information on what anyone did or how the five different fronts businesses that they ran out of the office interacted with each other.



All I can say is that it has taken pretty much the whole day, a delicious kibbeh wrap, a heap of sunshine and some serious cleavage-top-wearing and Inpress reading before I've been able to shake off the horror of that last place. Ugh!

How Early is Too Early For Barry White?

Answer: 8.03pm on a Wednesday night is too early to be playing Barry White.



Last night Lisel invited me along to the Fringe Festival opening. I was astounded that we knew (almost) no one in the audience, apparently actors aren't smart enough to hang out at art openings or something. It was also boggling to realise that anyone could wander off the street, past the bouncers and down the stairs of Billboards and help themselves to all the free grog. Anyone! Amazing. They even provided food. L and I found ourselves sharing a booth with two fellas from a community radio station. They had lined up a remarkable number of drinks in front of them in anticipation of the free bar ending. When asked what they were doing here they looked at their drinks and replied "getting pissed". How exciting to find kindred spirits...

Haiiiii!!!

Tonight I learnt that my parents have decided to pay for a few semesters worth of self-defence classes before I go and become a Columbian drug moll or whatever it is they think I'm going to do when I go overseas.



As a small slip of fabric, I appreciate their concerns. It's true that small finger puppets run a greater risk of being taken advantage of than other travellers, particularly in carnivale-prone places like Brazil or Venzeula. And I've always wanted to know the best way of poking some guy's eyes out before breaking the arch of his foot and then kneeing him in the nuts and then running home and toasting myself with a martini in the safety of my youth hostel/hotel/home. So everything was going swimmingly until metion of physical skill turned into feats of senior ability.

After blamelessly stretching my arms, I suddenly found my parents in different yoga attitudes around the kitchen, trying to impress each other with their skill/not skill at various yogic poses:




and then



What the hell is going to happen when I come home from my first self-defence class and they ask to see a demonstration?

I predict:



I am afraid...

Adventures in Temping Part II

Reasons I will Never Be A P.A.

Last week I was promoted to the dizzying hights of "personal assistant" for a woman that I slowly discovered was actually a snake:



It took me awhile to work out that she was the embodiment of evil because she had kickarse dress-sense and she seemed so nice most of the time and never yelled at me. She just accused me of opening up the company to the worst shitstorm of libel and recriminations that anyone had ever known and that was fine , I couldn't've possibly be expected to know that but it wasn't like she was going to make any time to talk to me... until after I'd practically doused the office in gasoline and walked back in with a box of matches, apparently. Actually, she wasn't going to talk to me even after all of that because obviously I'd gone too far and it was time to get in someone with just a bit more experience.

Other points that tipped me off to my not-p.a.-compatibility-ness:

• When you are a P.A. you are meant to drop everything to follow someone around whenever they sweep into the office. This means that even if you are in the middle of an awesomely bitchy email with your best friend, you are meant to stop writing and stand up. Fuck that.


• When you are a P.A. you have to make the most extreme and retarded excel spreadsheets I have ever seen (and I've seen a few) and you are meant to love them like a particularly difficult child that you, yourself, have produced. Again I say, fuck that


• When you are a P.A. you have to spend a lot of time photocopying, resizing and binding things for other people. Things that may be poorly written, strangely laid out and not - once you've finished photocopying and binding everything - exactly what the other person had in mind. So you better get back to the stationery room and try again. Fuck that.

There are more but I'm about to be late to being a receptionist again.

Where is my mind?

So Friday, after months of surreptious scanning of tram stops and certain trams, I finally bumped into The Egg.



I'd been wondering for ages what, exactly, it would be like to see him again. I wondered what I'd feel and whether I'd do anything interesting. In fact, what I felt was.... nothing. Nothing much at all. A vague stab of irritation but that was about it. Oh, and maybe a fleeting moment of satisfaction at the development of some ugly neckne on his neck.

We chatted politely for a bit and I realised that there had always been enormous swamps of silence in between any snatches of discussion we'd ever had, but previously my mind had helpfully wiped away these stinking pauses with confusion, lust, despair etc. Good one, mind. I should leave you at home more often. Or maybe I should just go out with myself.