The Adventures of Herbert

Riders (San Storms plus other cliches)

2008-01-23T03:38:00.000+11:00

Things I have learnt from Jilly Cooper

• If you lose weight, your husband will come back to you (suiciding helps also but only if the attempt is unsuccessful, obviously, and causes one to lose weight through the long road to recovery)

• You level of attractiveness is directly linked to your loss of weight where “you” is understood to mean “female” and “attractiveness” is understood to mean “to the male of the species”

• If you are a woman, you really shouldn’t sleep with men who aren’t your husband – that’s a man’s job, obvs.

• People who don’t like horses are neurotic home wreckers who have no sense of timing because they do not understand the magic bond between Englishman and beast

• A side point/open letter to Jilly C - wtf with Billy and Janey? Moral of that story – earn money, keep money and make sure one’s house is in order? Or, perhaps, an affair can really bring the problems of a couple into focus? Was that whole plot written whilst JC was drunk on gin or what?

• Whiskey or brandy should be drunk whenever one is feeling emotional as this will both keep emotions at bay and, if they do fall out, allow one to take recourse in the line “I was drunk”

• Jilly Cooper doesn’t really like other women writers, even fictional ones that she has actually created herself, in her own stories

• If you are a groom you must be pretty, sexually available and utterly unambitious because you will never be promoted, ever (promotions are only for family)

• Nepotism is not a dirty word (it’s the English way)

• Even though half of them have never even finished school and cannot do maths, all English riders know poetry (English poetry only, of course) and can quote, passionately, whenever a moment seems too significant or possibly emotional (at the start/end of races, after meeting prospective partners etc)

Adventures of Herbert

2007-03-14T04:19:00.000+11:00

Are continuing, transcontinental style. So why don´t you go here:

Sleeping In Public

and read all about it.

Just don't expect any photos.

You Remind Me of Someone

2007-02-24T16:26:00.000+11:00

If the previous post wasn't enough to give you the idea that my ranting-block is continuing, unabated, then how about we try this on for size? Yes, again, when the well is dry, Youtube comes to the rescue.

I had never heard of these guys before following the link on Ms Fits' lovely page. Then I found this skit which initially made me laugh for all the times I've forgotten someone's name and then, finally, for the ending. I, too, have admitted to having a generic face.

Endless Larb

2007-02-24T13:07:00.000+11:00

You Can't Hurry Larb
Whole Lotta Larb
Larb is All Around
Larb is All
Do You Believe in Larb?
I Believe (in a thing called Larb)
Funny Little Thing Called Larb
Larb Me Tender
Hello, I Larb You, Wont You Tell Me Your Name?
All We Need (is Larb)
I Will Always Larb You
Addicted To Larb
Helpless For Larb
Larb Fool
When A Man Larbs A Woman
In The Mood For Larb
The Look Of Larb
I Want To Know What Larb Is

U R Ghey

2007-02-18T21:18:00.000+11:00

Writing, recently, has been something of a struggle. I have found myself walking around struggling to remember the name of the first nascent 'hipster' film that A* and I saw, back in the day, that was filmed in edgy black and white at the UCLA (Berkley? Who?) campus in America and involved 20somethings dealing with their lack of direction, etc, zzzz. It also contained the excellent scene where the 'writer' man leaned back in his chair, over powered by ennui and writers block and catalogued the things around him. "Ceiling. Shelves. Chair. Wall. Roof. Fuck."

Yep, pretty much.

If I were him I would be writing "fucktard morning crowds at spencer street, ugly people, how hot is it, fuck"

So nothing exciting then, obvs. Or even remotely worth reading.

Thank god I've finally re-remembered things that I enjoy.

To whit:

Writing offensive emails to Tone Loc that are systematically rejected by his server. There's only so many shitty forwards a finger puppet can read before the need to inform someone that they suck dick comes into play
Lying, pointlessly, at parties. Yes, yes I am allergic to lavender. Violet! You're turning violet, violet! Was totes a catch-cry from my childhood whenever I was thoughtlessly forced to handle the near-fatal substance known as lavender.

Actually, now that I'm reminded of it, being told that I have 'Gene Wilder curls' which I gleefully translated as being told that I have curls which remind one of a (potential) kiddie fiddler
Instructing my mother in the art of saying "no". Saying "Nein" "Nee" "Nyet" and "Non" are all things I enjoy doing immensely and with aplomb
Having HumanRash (nee Spakattak) woefully confess that he is now a walking, itching, human rash at a party and then hearing JZ yell across said party a few hours later "hey! Rashman! Oy! Human Rash!" Ah. Good times.
Assuming the moral highground with two of the more ideologically aware people I know.
Herbert: No, of course coffees are out of the question!
Hotness + B: Oh.. but.. isn't that food?
Herbert: I can't believe you! I'm appalled! What is WRONG with you people? Don't you know that that's contrary to the whole spirit of the experiment???
Hottness + B: [silence]
Herbert: [self righteously shaking out the saturday paper whilst sitting in the wading pool, cleaned and filled with water during water restrictions] I just can't believe you people sometimes....

Bells Palsy

2007-02-11T23:46:00.000+11:00

So my weekend kicked off with two rather sad occurances.

I had to bid a final For Reals farewell to mah Park, which involved incredible amounts of denial on both our parts and a resolution to meet each other in argentina for some rose eating and spontaneous combustion, and also a trip to the dentist.

I found, as I tottered out of the dentist forty five minutes after arriving there, that there are few things more destabilising than hosting two strangers' hands in your mouth for almost an hour. Particularly when they are weilding small things with hooks and strange vacuuming things that suck on the inside of your cheek. Particularly when they leave you with the feeling that you have four new teeth in your mouth and none of them like you.

There is nothing about a trip to a dentist that has not been covered before by science fiction writers and directors but that doesn't make any of it less true. Going to the dentist is fucking wrongtown, people. Damn.

The rosy pink cheeks of sin

2007-02-04T14:32:00.000+11:00

Yesterday I 'helped' my dear friend Park pack up her flat and sell her belongings in preparation for her impending move to bro-town. I am terribly sad that she is leaving and that I will never be able to pick my way past such an incredible selection of pot plants on my way to her flat ever again.

Rather than dwell on all that is sad and final about her leaving, however, lets make lemonaids, shall we and be more upbeat and pollyanna-ish, as is our want. (All you haters sitting out there thinking "herbert = happy go lucky pollyanna?!" yo' don't know me! So there!)

Things that have been pretty awesome about 'helping':

riding shotgun in a fancy car (it is truly one of my favouritest things in the whole world to sit next to someone dear to me as they drive around. If there is a radio playing so-bad-its-good music for me to sing along to, so much the better)
Wearing enormous, diamante-speckled "wedding" sunglasses inside
Taking time out from packing to sit in cafes (various) to eat cake while each of us read separate, awful, trashy magazines (and exclaim loudly over the contents)
Wearing diamante encrusted sunglasses, inside, while moving things in... not just mono, not just stereo but trio-a-phone. And then making up a speaker system that means three times the fury just for the hell of it
Perfecting the art of 'helping' with Hottness. We realised, as each of us found our perfect slump on the futon couch from which to watch three other people struggle with moving a queen size bed out of the way and down four flights of stairs, that together we had combined our powers of helping to new heights.
Finally hearing the real version of "the first cut is the deepest"
Gin and tonics and 'Dude, where's my car?'
Running shrieking into the sea
Finally finding some joy in knowing all the words to Rick Astley's song in a fish and chip shop somewhere in Brighton

Time Starts...

2007-01-27T20:07:00.000+11:00

I have had a few crisis of wardrobe recently. I am usually not the dithering type when it comes to clothes. Sure I enjoy checking which of two tops I really want to wear before leaving the house and that sort of thing but usually the general theme of my attire is pretty clear to me.

Recently, however, I found myself having this conversation with Hottness:

Hottness: Hi! I'm here, nearly at the bar, where are you?

Herbert: Ah.. er... I'm at home!

Hottness: ... ok... well...

Herbert: I'm in my undies! I don't know what to wear! What do I do, Hottness??

Hottness: [hysterical laughter] um, I don't know! but I'll have a gin and tonic waiting for you when you decide

Herbert: and hot chips too?

Hottness: yes, hot chips too.

People, this has never happened to me before. Normally I am the one rolling my eyes on the other end of the phone at the muntedness of my friends.

The very next day, JZ dropped past to find me lolling around, watching Entourage and, although fully clothed, still unable to leave the house with him because the night ahead held varied amusments as well as decreasing temperatures so I needed to plan my satorial ensemble accordingly. I was unable to do this in the amount of time it was going to take Spakattak to drive from x to y, stopping at my place on the way. This is getting ridiculous.

Possibly a group that should've gotten the "end of naked time" memo earlier

On a slightly tangential note, I was interested to note the finite nature of Naked Time the other day. We've all been there. One minute you're all chill with hanging out, naked, with someone. You've done the sprint to the loo a few times, the sun has probably started setting up shop for the lunch-rush crowd and everything is fine.

Then, suddenly, it isn't fine anymore. I don't know what flicks the switch for the end of naked time. But there's always that moment where you suddenly, desperately, without question, need to be wearing clothes again. Sometimes both people receive this "end of naked time" memo simultaneously, sometimes not. And then, for the abruptly naked-alone person there's that uneasy moment where you start wondering where exactly you threw your knickers last night. And whether the person with clothes on is going to have their back turned long enough for you to make the dash to the corner you think they might be in. Strange.

The Cheezels, WHERE ARE THE CHEEZELS?

2007-01-24T23:07:00.000+11:00

Today I polished another glass, stared out towards the MCG and tried to convince myself that the deep sense of boredom I was feeling really could be parlayed off into a state of zen like stillness and inner tranquility.

I would probably be the smaller, more clearly gendered one on the right

No, I thought, as I reached down for another teacup to wipe dry, this isn't tedious. This is truth in its purest form.

Damn I hate temping sometimes.

I had another stab at liking it in the afternoon as I tried to think of another verb for what my feet were doing in the sunshine up Collins St and past Miss Louise (it tickled me to notice that every type of rich woman is catered for in their window display. From aspirational super vamp to sensible stockbroker to trophy wife cliche, each woman will find her shoe in that store. Its like a modern day Cinderella. For rich women) while listening to M. Ward.

I tried again, on the way back, after watching the trapeez set up on Swanston St.

I did enjoy hearing the food and services co-ordinator try to sell a Miss Universe-inspired brand of socialism to the receptionist though. That was definately a highlight.

Speakeasy

2007-01-22T00:43:00.000+11:00

On the way home tonight I found myself riding over the Westgarth bridge. Nothing all that exciting about that, you would think... except it was (please imagine a voiceover now, of a certain 1960s "duck! and take cover!" era vintage, entoning the next part) clearly an hotspot of some type of gathering.

Well that's totally not interesting, I thought. Hey, heaps of people are walking under the bridge. Sort of like an en masse Sunday night in Melboure re-enactment of that song by the Red Hot Chilli Peppers. Whatever.

Only despite that I somehow found myself locking my bike up on the other side of the bridge and turning around. What if its the speakeasy, I asked myself, the one you were always too lazy to check out? It clearly isn't another squat party like what you feared it was. It could be... interesting (unlike my internal monologues).

So although the beer was nowhere near as cheap as I assumed it would be, it was, in fact, that speakeasy, complete with some band that looked like it could possibly be fronted by martin martini. (Unfortunately possible M.M. was summarily kicked off around the midnight mark by a pill chewing group called... oh I don't care what they were called. The tuba was good. The guitarist sat there and looked bored.) As I stood around, enjoying listening to people effusively greet people that they subsequently realised they didn't know at all (it was dark), I found myself chatting to some guy who was persistently interested in how i'd come to be there.

"By bike", didn't seem to cut it. Neither did admitting that I was just riding past and was bored enough to see what everyone else was doing. Eventually the horrible truth came out.

That's right: even in the bohemian environs of a speakeasy, marketing researchers walk amongst us.

Goddamn.

Still, it was good to be able to confirm that the whole reason for the set up appeared to be amply summed up in the statement "just because". And he was concerened with lighting. How nice.

Hommage de Bernaise

2007-01-22T00:36:00.000+11:00

People, did you know that they now make bearnaise sauce... in a jar? A jar!

So tonight, with pretty much total success, I recreated the Napier's infamous roo + bearnaise sauce = heaven on a plate at Park's house. Although it was a little tepid it still maintained its inherent core of utter awesomeness (thanks, entirely, obviously, to my mad chef skillz. Not even gluten free flour could overcome me).

The only low point was realising that a kitchen I took such enormous pleasure of being the master of was shortly to disappear. Aw, who will have the fairy lights now?

What Are You Doing Today, Dear?

2007-01-20T13:57:00.000+11:00

Oh, I'm gonna be checking out a room full of photos of manginas.

Surprisingly, when I Google image searched that word I was not overwhelemed with the response. Men of the world, why are you not prouder of your manginas?

Lucky charms

2007-01-20T13:11:00.000+11:00

As I trudged away from the taxi-man who seemed to’ve offered me a lift for free as a sort of karmic sacrifice to the Friday Night Fates in a hope of securing an actual paying customer in future, I had time to think about a recent conversation.

Now, I can’t quite remember who it was but one of my friends accused me of being the type of lady who would only sleep with boys based on their method of cooling. That is to say, I was liable to haul out a questionnaire at any moment from somewhere deep inside my purse and ask them to tick a, b, or c where a = none, b = fan and c = air conditioning. At the time I was shocked and offended that anyone would think my time could be purchased so cheaply (or so, well, practically. I am nothing if not nonsensical) but tonight I found myself wondering “why don’t I know anyone with aircon?

I also found myself discussing earlier how it was that comedy is only funny if you don’t mean it. So although I enjoyed dancing with the laydeez on Thursday night and seeing that young man do that thing where you lean back and touch the ground with one hand and then spring right back up as if you haven’t just used every single muscle in your abdomen and it was nothing, well. I mean, that was pretty awesome but I’m not sure it was funny.

Then again, I’m not sure that this is a spot of unbridled comedy so maybe I shouldn’t over think it too much.

Still wish I knew someone with more than one fan in their whole fucking house though.

Ugh

2007-01-17T10:50:00.000+11:00

You know what I hate?

Being proven right when I predict that I will be woken at an uncomfortably early hour for money-earning purposes.

Longest day.

Ever.

And its only two hours in.

Take the Long Walk Home

2007-01-17T02:49:00.000+11:00

Honestly, if I had accepted a lift from Budgie the freaking Helicopter via way of the South/North pole and back again I think I might've reached home sooner

But that was hardly the point now, was it?

So I had a not unsatisfactory perambulation. I learnt that:

My phone has no flash

Cider makes me bloat like a beached whale

It takes more than one to get home..... but one will do if you weild it like a weapon

There is no breeze

I think there might be something going on between one late night RACV driver and an establishment near my house.... Ooooh...

So I guess tomorrow I can venture out and buy as much feta as I want. Whew.

Street

2007-01-17T01:14:00.000+11:00

So occasionally I find myself wondering if I am the only one who wanders the streets of her own neighbourhood slightly fearing the accidental encounter with The Other who is (un?)fortunate enough to work in the streets by my "town".

I'll find myself at five in the afternoon wondering "is it safe to buy feta now? should I wait til after six? what if I bump into him on the way out of the deli? what then? do I act natural? fuck!" And then I feel resentful that I can't even buy cheese in my own neighbourhood without overthinking it.

Anyway, the whole point of this is, I'm sitting in east brunswick wondering if I can make it home to the 'hood without doing anything to embarassss/illegalise myself. I'm sure I can do it. Totally.

Fuck it is hot

Contrasts

2007-01-15T16:13:00.000+11:00

One of these things is not like the other (or rather, two of these things are the same);

"There is violence but also deep caring; fear but also courage; want but also generosity; despair but also hopelessness"

From The Age A2 section, 13/01, in the review of Shaughnessy Bishop-Stall who apparently slummed it hardcore for 6 months and signed a publishing deal halfway through his time in a shantytown on the edges of Toronto.

What I'm left wondering is if the broken couplet at the end is actually the reviewer's personal cry for help. Or whether they have come to terms with the idea that it is now hopeless to expect anyone to be denied a publishing deal for writing anything, ever. Even if that deal is just with blogger.

It's bothered me all day.

Look It's A Yak

2007-01-15T11:07:00.000+11:00

Inside A Sak.

Sunday morning started with Gynger doing his patented "there's cleaning up going on, why - I must be leaving!" routine and a strong pot of coffee being made after the debris from Margarita (and daiquiri) night was cleaned away.

And since I am no fan of the cricket it was time to revisit a cartoon that JZ and I first discovered back in the green-haze days of North Melbourne and which, thanks to the power of the interweb and various...things... within it... we are able to watch all over again.

Angry Beavers!

I'd never seen this episode before Sunday but I think it might be my favourite. Wait for the 9.55 minute mark. Although upon repeat viewing I think Norb should've been wearing a shirt or big glasses or something. Then again, if Public Enemy and the Beastie Boys morphed into each other then maybe they would look like beavers?

I wrote an essay about the Angry Beavers at uni once. It was a hard concept to sell to my drag-dressing lesbian lecturer. I still think it was worth it.

Gender Politics

2007-01-13T17:45:00.000+11:00

Last night I did a number of stupid things.

I really didn't eat anything during the day

I forgot to have dinner

I drank two bottles of white wine

I was out in public

I disclosed something that I hadn't entirely made up my mind about to two of the biggest gossips I know

I invited myself over to The Egg's house and made myself entirely at home.

So it was the last one that I've been pondering all day. It seems largely acceptable (where "acceptable" is understood to be "within the city limits of Crazytown, population: various") for a girl to do this. Men of my acquaintance have spoken wistfully of girlfriends past who would climb through windows, late at night. Nostalgic sighs have been heaved over the idea that some girl from their past would've only tried to do such a thing for them back in the day. So while I was... aware of a certain moral ambiguity over the issue I couldn't help but wonder "what would I do if I came home to someone I hadn't invited "chillin'" in my bed?"

And I'm not sure that saying "oh" and having a brief discussion about each others day would've been the answer.

I guess it really is different, being a girl.

Censorship

2007-01-12T15:54:00.000+11:00

Today I am working at the place that has government-protected tea and afternoon breaks, biscuits both sweet and savoury and a large, well designed kitchen area for all and saundry. It also has three types of newspapers and little competition for the e.g. section of the age.

Your search - "adventures of naked man" - did not match any documents

So everything was going pretty well until I noticed. The horror. The creeping kudzu vine that is: Jim Schembri.

God I hate that fucker. I can't quite decide why. I gave it some thought as I flipped through page after page bearing his unctuous, greasy prose. I know, buried in my memory, is some particular column that I must've actually read all the way through at some point and at the end exclaimed "I just lost five minutes of my life! FOR THIS?!" but I can no longer locate what was contained within. All I know is that he is everywhere with an opinion on everything. And that he gave Apocalypto five stars. Five.

He tainted the Green Guide for me yesterday and now he's moved on to my Friday lift out. If he's in Saturday I'm officially Cracking It.

I am already, I should confess, a fastidious newspaper reader. I have found I have a lot of fellow feeling for... that famous guy... who famously made his family iron his newspaper every morning if they dared to read it before him so that he could pretend he had a fresh, new, crisp newspaper every day. I used to be proud that I would read certain sections cover to cover until The Age saw fit to taint those sections with such writers as Stephanie Dowrick or that annoying young lass who used to write the intro for the Good Weekend (damn, I just outed which section I used to read all the way through). Why I am now being hounded not just in the weekend but throughout the week days too?

Go away, Jim Schembri, go away

Lunch Break

2007-01-12T15:44:00.000+11:00

As I ambled back to The Office from my not-unpleasant but lamentably brief bask in the sun I realised that I had two things to thank for my, upon analysis, slightly generic and in no way un-thought-before thoughts on matters various:

and:

So thank you, my dad's plaid shirt from the mid-90's and Elizabeth Arden et al for all those last-minute Christmas presents for my mother. Together we came up with 1993. So retro! So now!

Williamstown Doesn't Want You

2007-01-11T09:25:00.000+11:00

Yesterday Nologic and I pooled our collective genius (geniii?) and decided that it was the day for the beach. We wanted to go somewhere we'd never been before so we decided to chance the western suburbs and see what Williamstown had to offer. Apart from a potential sighting of Bracksie in a wetsuit, obvs.

Little did we realise, as we set out, how hostile Williamstown would be to our advances.

There are no direct trains to williamstown, for example. There are no platforms for the halfway trains either. They are everywhere and nowhere. They are at platform 9 1/2. They are in your collective unconcious. They are right behind you.

After stabbing a few dragons to prove our seriousness, we somehow found ourself at the back of a children's crusade, all scantily dressed teenagers and "ohmygaaawwd!!", heading left towards the sea. We decided to take a right and find some beer.

Why do all seaside towns seem the same? Too many roundabouts, no footpaths in the side streets and enormous roads.

Not realising that Williamstown provides exactly one window of availability per day to outsiders we attempted to lure others down to the waves and rocks. One spent an hour waiting for a train that wouldn't let him on. One couldn't find the yellow umbrella (to be fair she was about half a km away) and one simply refused because I think he actually knew it was a stupid idea.

At least we got to sit in the sea and drink a beer. And I got to yell at small children for throwing rocks near me. Who needs a senior citizen's card to be cantankerous?

Embedded

2007-01-08T16:48:00.000+11:00

Just because I can and just because it is one of my favourite, favourite songs at the moment:

Even though, damn, as much of a fan of beards as I am this band has actually made me think "Sometimes a beard... should not be a beard". If you see what I mean.

1 New Message

2007-01-08T15:39:00.000+11:00

I kicked off today by lounging in my dressing gown for three hours, thinking seriously about never having a shower at all and then listening to M.I.A. in lieu of actually doing anything, y'know, meaningful.

Since I've done little today except, well, dress myself, I offer you a recent text exchange that made me laugh (and then cry over the emptiness of my own existence. Oh you know it didn't):

NoLogic:
Thanks for the hospitality on Friday, it stopped me dying like an old person in the heat. You still out there or at work?

Herbert
Dying of boredom back home in herbertland. Judge Judy for once has 2 middleclass claiments. How can she rule based on class now?

NoLogic:
Maybe like the north koreans? Your grandfather was a criminal, you get life sentence too? I'm bleeding and can't get a house, even tried bribing real estate

Damnit, when a bleeding girl can't even bribe "real estate" (which makes me think of a Monopoly board for some reason) what the dickens has gone wrong with our society? Must one use ones' blood for evil rather than good? A few Carrie style moves in order to gain the perfect two bedroom house in Northcote, for example?

Blue Water High

2007-01-08T15:25:00.000+11:00

The Sunday Social Club Go Swimming

So over the weekend I had the pleasure of house sitting a house with an awesome pool and a fantastic deck. Between running to the toilet to wee out all the beer and cocktails we'd been drinking, the social club found itself most of the time immersed in water or lounging meters from water thinking very seriously about getting back into it.

The few hours of each day that I myself was not doing any of the above mentioned things I still felt as though I should be dressed, superhero style, ready for any moment when I would be forced to plunge back into the pool again. Which meant I spent most of the weekend in my bikini with a t-shirt over it.

So what I'm saying is, "Blue Water High" is a piece of stunning cinema verite and I am totally down with that.

Furious Annoyance

2007-01-07T22:14:00.000+11:00

There are other things I need to discuss but right now, burningly, I am overwhelmed with righteous indignation at my position on Google.

Don't pretend that you've never googled yourself/others before. I'd call you a liar if you tried to tell me that. And then I'd stab you in the kidney. And you would have no way of protecting yourself because you would be an illiterate, thalidomide luddite and then, only after stabbing you in the kidney would I realise what I'd done and that you had told the truth and then I would ~~cry "why god, oh god, why??~~ shrug and somehow make it all your fault for being so lame in the first place.

So last night, while enjoying the extended pool party with the social club and somewhere between my fifth or sixteenth rum cocktail I found myself within lurching distance of a shiny computer object with a keyboard. Having the co-ordination and logical facilities of a monkey on rum I found myself punching in the [I need to pause here and reveal that I just typed in someone else's name in an attempt to soothe my rage all, "why no, nothing will come up for this one - I would've sworn they were 'off the grid'" yet - there it is, that name too, in all its first ranked google glory...] least demanding (in spelling sense at least) of names and google came up instantly with... his picture and link.

WTF?! I thundered at the indifferent screen. How could you betray me like this, google?!? If I could find a way of pouring rum down your clearly bad-hair-loving engine I would do it.

The more names I type, the angrier I become. I admit it. As my friends know - I am shallow. I like shiny things and pretty surfaces. I like things that sometimes wander into the dangerous world of Blue States Lose . I like to reduce everything down to filmic analogies so that I don't have to be forced to face anything new or original. And most of all, I like to pretend that I am, somehow, important. Or at the very least, more google-ific than some of the people I know. To be faced with ones own, internet mandated superfluosity - nay, unexistance..... Why, it’s enough to make a finger puppet start making up new words.

**********************************

And a snapshot of some of the results are, for anyone who is interested:

(maybe I should cease watching remakes of Shakespeare which seem to encourage murder in any efforts to become number one before bedtime):

JZ - not only number one but also pictured avec beanie
Spakattak - also, annoyingly, head of the class
BFG - You lose out to a plea for justice and some type of life insurance
Park - number one
A* - your name is linked with a flower. And that state known for its inbreeding. Not sure how you feel about that but still - is being number one such a bad thing? (I wouldn't know)
B - You have the honour of not turning up at all. Either that or I've misspelt your name.
"Ferris Bueller" - you'll be happy to know that either Reds and international spies are paying off google or our old uni has some sort of dark deal with a search engine
Mereki's darkplace - goddamnit you were meant to be off the grid
Napoleon dynamite - I can even get your phone number again, first time round
Heardatron - they (I) aren't sure what you're doing but you're still at the front of the class with... whichever university that was
BoyY - AGDA approves
Simone - well, that one wasn't all that surprising
...

I just can't go on. I'm too annoyed.

Pickin' Tan Bark Out of My Cardi

2007-01-02T09:16:00.000+11:00

Before signing in here I noticed a headline on another page that said "new year, new start" to which I can only say "pft". Why start afresh when one can revisit the past?

After a deeply inauspicious start (recruitment drives for artistic Catholicism on NYE anyone? Anyone? Oh, no, didn't think so) and a long and grumpy march from North Fitzroy to Sydney Rd I was resigning myself to a new years spent bitching with Nologic and fighting off well intentioned bogans in stripy shirts.

Instead I found myself in a car with five people I didn't know being whisked off to the crazed night of fuckedness that is That Party By The Fitzroy Pools. Ah. That party. Last new years eve I remember walking into a sea of people with eskies and picnic rugs making me think of a hardcore, twentysomethings only version of carols by candlelight except instead of champagne and pate and small children it was liquor and drugs and groping on the grass. So you can see why I thought it was just like carols by candlelight.

Now I'm not proud of this but it's a fact. As TheWedge once pointed out to me, when it comes to Spewtown I'm the Mayor. I'm the Governor General, the Queen, the figurehead of Spewtown. Summer especially seems to bring out the spew within me - something about not eating very much but drinking a lot makes my stomach a tad delicate. There is also one person I know who can, almost invariably, make me vomit. Romantic no? I see him and then I have to run to the toilet. Except new years eve this year I didn't make it. I wonder about the state of the world and the absence of moral centres etc when a girl can chuck up twice in front of a multitude of people (including the boy's best friend), run off to wipe it off and come back and... well lets just say for any of my friends who remember last new years it was like that but on tan bark so not as roll-y.

On the way home there was attempts at tango in my favourite park which, earlier on this year I had bid a mournful goodbye to all "oh park, you sooth my troubled mind and I will walk through you no more, adieu adieu" (obviously I am an idiot) and then I got to wear a hoodie and redecorate certain objects. And sleep badly.

And then I watched an incredibly shit episode of degrassi. And then an even worse 'Pirates of the Caribbean 2: Keira Knightly wears a hell-bad wig' and then I went back to bed. I love a slumberous household and I love a slow, slurred, couch-full new year’s day.

So last year I stumbled home at 11am to sit on my own couch and watch The West Wing and this year I didn't stumble out of that house until 11pm. Why not get the New Year off to a gentle start by pretending the last twelve months didn't really happen? And what did you do for new years?

I Don't Like Lists

2006-12-31T13:45:00.000+11:00

Actually, that's something of a lie. I like writing grocery lists, for example. Some of my clearest memories of uni are of pondering what I would be cooking for dinner that night and then writing down the relevant ingredients in my notes. My notes for "The Golden Age of Hollywood" for example read "Galangal, limes, chillies ... roti?" or "basil, rice, stock, chicken mince". Very rarely do I find pages actually dedicated to the framing or constraining narratives of female autonomy or femininity as raised by classic weepies such as Stella Dallas.

Anyway, so, the last thing I wrote was so shonky it's taken me awhile to figure out a way to get past it, added to which there was the whole "Christmas" thing (next year I dream of either being drunk while purchasing Christmas presents or, preferably, drunk and in Spain and purchasing nothing, nothing for Christmas, mwa hahahaha) and now here we are at New Years Eve and how did that happen? In answer to that question I believe I will leave us all with some highlights of... the past seven days. Bugger highlights from this year, I prefer not to ever think back too far.

On the Saturday before Christmas I was tickled to attend a friend's dinner party. Her boyfriend entertained us all with his Borat-style swimwear which he had ordered from the internet to wear for his parent's Bad Taste Party the previous weekend but which had no arrived in time.

I also particularly enjoyed watching two people who were studiously Not Together getting drunk to the point at which the girl turned on the boy and exclaimed "you know what my brother said about you at the races? He said you were Not To Be Trusted". God I love watching other people sniping. I know it is wrong but I do heart it so. Plus I thought her brother was toootally right.

On Sunday my sister picked me up in her family's tiny toy of a car with the top down so we got to zip along the coast with the wind in our hair.

On Monday my cousin showed her skills with a cocktail maker, filling up almost every lull in conversation with offers of more margaritas. This, coupled with me finally having a reason to hide out in the kitchen (and thus away from boring conversations) and the similarly alcohol-focused presence of JZ led to one of the more enjoyable Christmases of late.

On Wednesday I read an excellent defence of intellectuals and intellectualism in a very charming and very French book.

Thursday I went on the run from my family and propped up the bar with NoLogic, pondered the nature of singletonness and then ate lamb shanks and mashed potatoes with Roo and BFG. Somehow I ended up the only talentless guest in an impromptu guitar singalong which led me to reflect that I really should've paid more attention that one time I tried to learn how to play guitar. Sadly at the time I was less interested in the guitar and more interested in the boy holding it. Ah well.

Friday I ate genuine, melt in your mouth, yellow-from-eggs country sponge cake and won the game of Songs of The 80s against the fierce competition of B and the less fierce (in fact... not fierce at all) attempts of M. And then I got to eat pizza and watch Top Gun which, god, is one part homage to dentistry and two parts love letter to Man Love.

Saturday I revelled in Robot Chicken, revisited Garth Marenghi's Dark Place and then... won my first game of Scrabble. Yesss!

I also got to stuff the kitchen cloth down my brother's undies as a reminder that, although we see each other rarely and there is something of an age gap between us, I will always be his little sister and he will always be my bro.

Who the hell knows what the next week holds or the week after that but for anyone reading this I hope it brings good things and manageable hangovers.

Best [insert noun here] Ever

2006-12-23T16:51:00.000+11:00

So as my comrades were lounging in the dirt a few weekends ago at Meredith, one of us was moved to proclaim that it was "the best Meredith everrrrrr". This is a statement that needs to be made every year so I didn't pay too much attention to it at the time - until I found myself branding many things around me as "the best thing everrrr".

Last weekend I had The Best Summer Sunday Everrr, complete with hungover drinking, sunshine, lounging, parks and mum jokes.

Thursday I had the Best First Plunge Into The Pool For Summer Everrr as I lept into the deep end of the Fitzroy pool, out of the intense 40 degree heat.

I recently had The Best Cherries Everrr (ever, really - ever).

At least once a week I find myself thinking I have Best Shuffle Mix Everrr on my ipod.

I do not think this is the Best Post I've ever written though. Hm.

High 5!

2006-12-23T16:47:00.000+11:00

Actual dialogue as I was leaving this morning:

Him: So... well done!

Me: Ah...yeah. Um, high fives!

Him: High fives!

Me: Oh, you've got a handle back on your door, good.

finis

Little Black Dress

2006-12-20T16:13:00.000+11:00

I have a weakness for black dresses. As with black tops I seem to always find myself fondling the only black dress in a store filled with brightly coloured other things and crooning to it "you look just like all my other black dresses, I must have you!"

Last night, through the magic of Spakattak, I got to view an even more awesome black dress than any I currently have in my wardrobe. It belonged to Julia Zemiro and I was so enamoured of it that I availed myself of dutch courage and found myself ~~slurring~~asking her very polietly where she got it from. Then I got to undo her zipper and read the label. Best night ever.

The morning after hurt though. Not just because I had convinced myself that I didn't have to work when I really really did but also because the name on the label didn't come up in google. How is that possible? I thought everything was on "the grid" these days. We are all trapped in that hideous song. Forever and ever.

Blind

2006-12-15T15:02:00.000+11:00

Some of my friends from time to time will ask me "Why do you never wear your glasses, herbert?" They follow that up with suggestions that maybe I wouldn't look so cross all the time if I could actually see better and perhaps I would be a happier and perkier memeber of society if only I would just put on the specs every now and then.

To which I would often reply something along the lines of "rack off, bitches, but please come closer because I cannot see you to death glare at you adequately, pleasethankyougoodbye"

For further support for my No Glasses policy I offer them the title of John Grisham's latest thriller which I spied on the side of a tram this afternoon:

An Innocent Ham

The electrifying new page turned from America's number one author. Follow the plight of Pernice, grossly glazed against her will. Will she succumb to the insidious cheap marmalade? Will she uncover the truth behind the cloves? A perfect stocking filler fo your loved one this Christmas.

I also got to walk past "orgasmworld" on my way back to work. A more intriguing place than "organiserWorld", surely.

Cherries

2006-12-14T16:45:00.000+11:00

This morning as I stumbled through the house I found myself thinking how much more awesome cherries are than cherry blossoms.

Sure cherry blossoms are very pretty and there's that lame Air song about "sherry blossom giiirrlllll" but really. Blossom was also a really crap daytime t.v. show.

Back in the day, A* and I used to see who could stuff the greatest number of cherries in her mouth before chewing. I was often the winner but I would like to confess now that.... I may've cheated a few times. Sorry A*

Supernatural Meredith Part II

2006-12-12T11:25:00.000+11:00

Standing in line can be very soothing when you have no idea what else to do with yourself being as it is about a)five hours earlier than you are used to ever being awake of a weekend morning and b)your eyesight is so bad that you are not sure if you know any of the people hanging out in the shade tent in the centre of the camp and don't quite have enough courage sans caffiene to find out just yet. So I hung out in line for coffee and then bumped into my friend Spakattak who was in an unusually generous and happy mood.

This turned out to be because he'd had so much sleep. 14 hours of sleep in fact. Slept through Rose Tattoo even. I was impressed/appalled but thankful for the stubbie holder he gave me to put around the first beer of the day (9.30, ahhh yeah).

And so the day unfolded, mostly in the shade because it was too hot to be anywhere else. I felt smug walking past the peaked-too-early who were sweating it off in the sheds up the back of the ampitheatre. I did feel sorry for the girl puking her guts up in front of everyone into the bin at the edge of the Heaven Eleven. Mostly I was just happy that there was beer.

I shared my rose tattoo faux-pas with the relocated sunday-social-club and was informed that Rose Tattoo would not play "back in black" , "working class man", "jail break", "eagle rock", "Khe San" or "when something is wrong with my baby". Thanks for clearing up any confusion I might've had.

Macromantics has the longest arms of any performer I have ever seen. Everytime I see her I am freaked out by the length of those arms. And why is it that every boy who's seen her just goes "man her dj is hot. A bit single white female vibeish but pretty hot. Oh... yeah, I guess macromantics music is pretty cool too. Do you think her dj is a lesbian?"

Tapes n Tapes, which I had been hanging out to listen to in their perfect time slot of 1pm were everything I could've hoped for.

The team were on high alert for Midlake. For some reason this totally inoffensive group of men from Denton, Texas, has captured the hearts and minds of the social club. And so we all made sure our minds were just a little bit more expanded for them - leaving me wondering if my legs would actually hold me up all the way down to the stage. Ahhh, bearded fleetwood mac men. So many keyboards. Such pretty tunes.

Despite Spakattak garaunteeing me that if I went up for Kid Koala all I would see would be a DJ I was damn glad I went there. Three turn tables, a whole lot of jumping and the moment when hundreds of people started jumping up and down to "fuck you I wont do what you tell me!" but doing it ... with love. Not with rage! Ok, fine, my mind might've still been a little over expanded.

Deciding that the Drones were not for us, Awesome and I ventured into a part of Meredith neither of us had ever been before - the weird, make out/look out point past the wood fire pizza stalls. In the afternoon it was still scattered with couples but also with The Egg and his snoozing friends and, miraculously, half a watermelon. Mmmm, watermelon.

By the time Sound Track of Our Lives took the stage I was in danger of becoming a dust person. The Superman throne I'd stolen off Spakattak was just not quite comfy enough to let me rest so I decided to sacrifice Augie March to the more urgent call of my blowup mattress.

Awesome and I reconnoitred for Cornelius and ooohed and aaaahed over the visuals.

Despite telling me that she used to think of me as merely "one of three" with interchangable names, Roo won me back with compliments about fashion and so we went to check out the cinema. Faster Pussy Cat, Kill Kill, makes no sense. It doesn't really make any difference but still. No sense.

Then it was time for the betracksuited weirdness of Datarock. Night Flight to Uranus was a highlight for me although JZ was hanging out for "the Fa-Fa-Fa one". Stumbling back up the hill with Awesome, we suddenly found ourself in an out-take from "Fame" as "I had the time of my life" came on and my friends and I used all our old theatre skills to form a chorus line of six thanking meredith, the stage, each other for... the time of our life. Shut up, I don't care which movie it was originally in.

Finally, finally it was time for the double agent known as Girl Talk. The Egg had seen him the night before and said he was the most fucked dude in the room (and to be the most fuckedup person at Revolver is, indeed, to be well fucked up) and he didn't disappoint on the night. Well, actually, he did because he didn't take his boxers off. So close! So close and yet so far. Keep on practising your highkicks in the mirror of your bedroom, Girl Talk. But start practising taking it alll off next time.

Kure Kure Takora!

Back to the late night cinema with Awesome and Random and it was time for the craziness of Gimme Gimme Octopus. After about three episodes I was reading a latent homosexual subplot between Octopus and Peanut and Random was reading a highschool script called "pashing that one that is sitting next to you". Awesome, the next day, gave us high marks for awkwardness and lameness and low marks for skill. I made excuses and eventually ran away.

The next morning there was nothing for it but to hide in the shade again, drink as many raspberry crush things as possible and then turn to beer again. I wanted to stay for the tossled headed hotness that would've been Edan but the hotness of the sun got the better of me. Oh Meredith, I miss you already.

Bogans Know How To Camp

2006-12-11T18:00:00.000+11:00

I doubt this will be one of my most coherent posts since I am still recovering from the fabulousness that was the Meredith Music Festival but I s'pose I should spew forth my recollections before they get washed away like the dirt in my toenails.

Friday started well with me confidentally buying supplies, confidentally organising (by proxy) chairs for lounging in, confidentally packing for cold nights and confidentally waiting for my friends. I was a monument of confidence until I was questioned as to the whereabouts of my tickets. After confidentally saying "with you" I was shaken to discover, no, the tickets had been handed to me on wednesday night.

Oh Fuck.

An hour later the tickets had been located at my friend's house and we were on our way to the dusty, dirty, drunken, other, one-pair-of-underwear-for-three-days festival that I look forward to every year.

The drive down was a bit subdued compared with last year's Space-Van which was hired especially for the weekend and contained seven people and two cds made especially for the event (Wolfmother's Women and Dimension may've got special treatment that year. By the end of that weekend, Dimension was being used as the song of choice to describe anything - including what happened before getting there "I fell down in the field, yeah, wrote 'herbert lost her tickets' on a piece of PAYPAAAAH' [yes, apparently losing my tickets the day of the festival is almost a habit] and whenever everyone was too munted to think of anything to say someone would just wail "WOMAAAAN" to fill in the gaps) but even without the aid of special soundtracks we managed to get there before the sun went down.

Exchanging my button pressing abilities (button of a camera people, button of a camera) for my new neighbour's tent-putting-up-skills (which were actually just as bad as mine but ineptitude spread amongst four people is somehow funner. Particularly when they are not unattractive young gentlemen) I was down in the supernatural ampetheatre in time to witness the falsetto of My Disco. What's with these bands that all sound sameish? It's not like My Disco were bad, in fact they were pretty ok but I found myself standing there thinking of five other songs by other bands that I kept on expecting them to break into. The visuals though! Ooh-er. Aunty Meredith had really kicked the light show into the future this year. Impressive. As was the hot, crunchy bass-line that was turned up to 11 for most of the set. Sure it ended up sounding the same from song to song but it was a line of hotness that made the night seem set for good times.

I saw so little of Band of Horses and was so bored by the bit that I did see that I don't have much to say about them. Yay me for bringing jeans? Although it wasn't as cold as last year I still felt smugly satisfied that I had the layers to meet any challenge.

The New Pornographers, when contrasted with the bass-heavy Disco, seemed somehow tinny and flat in comparison. Votes are still open for the identity of their streaker. Good money is on a roadie that lost a coin toss/bet but I'd like to believe that it was someone from one of the overseas, indie, Saturday bands who had been persuaded that streaking was an Australian institution and mandatory for all bands who participated at Meredith. If only more had fallen for that... New Pornographers had apparently been worded up on Meredith's penchant for covers. Becoming bored with the (lame) banter of the vocalists, the NP drummer broke into The Doors part way through the set. He looked like a muppet and sounded a little like one too but was impressive nontheless.

My friend, Awesome, that I see about twice a year and always at Meredith, and I decided to get amongst it for the midget-led Rose Tattoo. The lady who looked kind of like an early 90's refugee from Neighbours and who rocked out, perm and all, to the entire set and who had the skills to gracefully field such "compliments" as "Aw, it's rool great that you're not too old to, like, rock out and that" or "good on you, even though you're like, old" was a total highlight. As was Anderson's proselytising "brothers and sisters!" To my friend's delight I enquired when they were going to be playing "last train out of Sydney". I am totally not rock and roll.

We stuck around for the Presets cos both of us had seen them play before and thought they'd be a fun way to end the evening. For some reason they chose to open with the most lightweight, boarderline annoying track of theirs I'd heard. Plus they didn't have the drummer from last time who wore the old fashioned deep-sea helmet the entire set that I'd seen. Coupled with the extreme light show there seemed to be something distinctly... Sydney about the Presets. Something... slightly Gods Kitchen/Belfast 4/glow sticks about them. Something...slightly disappointing. Hmm.

Heading back to the camp I discovered that our nearest neighbours who had brought in this weird, windowless cabin which looked exactly like Harry Potter's bedroom under the stairs but towed into a paddock as well as a bunch of other trailers were fond of their sound system. Very fond. 24 hours a day, especially starting at 1.30am fond. Thank god for ear plugs.

I woke up at stupid o'clock in the morning with my tent like a sauna and the comment that "bogan's sure know how to camp". Turns out our neighbours hadn't just brung the noise, they'd also brought in... a portable spa and two tanks of water. Only two rules ladies - no pissin' in the pool and no fat people.

Saturday was going to be a long day.

Datamonkey

2006-12-07T22:38:00.000+11:00

Today I went back to an office I'd worked at before. This was the office that had introduced me to Insanely Irritating Office Lady, Secret Bitchface and Campest Man in the World. They welcomed me back like I was Cher. It was rather awesome.

As I sat at my temporary desk, struggling with the wave of nausea washing over me, I wondered if my feelings were a result of the night before or a learned response to my environment? Although I was doing a different job and sitting somewhere novel and different the very air seemed tainted with every other time I'd turned up to work there over-tired and a little hungover. I feel as if I know of no other way to relate to that office. Except through a haze of old wine fumes. Excellent.

My job there was to put the results of a survey onto an excel spreadsheet. Or, as I'd been told earlier in the week "to collate data from a hard copy onto a soft copy - you know, excel darling? Do you know excel? Terribly eligable, thundering bore though, such a pity". Bizarrely (or not, if my previous love affair with weather graphs are anything to go by) I was totally fascinated by this. The people who filled in the survey and sent it back were mentalists, mostly. They lived in fear of internet cafes, vandals, newsagents, butchers and bookstores. They strongly opposed children's play centres. They were suspicious of hairdressers. The only thing that united these people was their collective desire for a cafe. A CAFE. They wanted no post office, no medical centre nor pharmacy. Get away with such things! The only thing they wanted in their new township was.... a cafe. A high end one, mind you. Whatever that might be. Fascinating.

Burnt Cheese

2006-12-07T22:29:00.000+11:00

Last night was my 'surprise' party. It wasn't a surprise for me so much as it might've been, in retrospect, a surprise to JZ who, when programming "something for herbert" into his phone ages ago and offering his casa as a backdrop, was probably thinking more along the lines of a quiet evening with La Benninng and maybe one or two civilised others.

The evening was, I think, a success. I managed to make one of the worst meals of my life for the hoards but I'm hoping they were too drunk to notice. I got to find out a friend's Magic Number (always intriguing), I lied badly, I swam through olympic pools worth of wine (it felt like, the next day), I played some of the most retarded table tennis of my life. I got lovely presents and hugged my friends wildly. So itunes got it wrong after all. Suck on that!

Forms of Punishment

2006-12-05T15:48:00.000+11:00

This morning I was woken with the news that I was needed (like a superhero was needed) out in Prahran at some Media/Design place mere meters away from my old publishing drone home. Sweet, I thought, no humourless accountants, no uptight receptionists. Plus, I actually knew people who had freelanced at this company back in the day and if they were considered employable there then I would seem like an awesome thing of awesomeness. Or something. Oh, did I mention that I'd had about four hours sleep?

So initially everything was fine - with the youngfellermelad with the obligatory mo and tattoo on reception and with the i.t. dude calling sydney cracking jokes about gay porn infestations and dildos needed down in melbourne urgently. All good. Until Fellermelad goes casually, oh, I'll just put that on for you (no, NOT LIKE THAT you sickos) and suddenly I am sitting next to a flatscreen screening Channel V.

Non Stop.

It just doesn't stop. Ever. Even when I go to the kitchen to ~~hide~~ get a glass of water. Rogue Traders, some dude being a factory frotting clone from Detroit (twice), the Prodigy looking old and sad and releasing a remix of Voodoo People, Justin Timberlake valsettoing like he'd sent his balls to michael jackson in the post. Fucken hell. Now I am facing down Dave "Looks like Gilette Razor" vs The Egg. If this is the price of being cool the price is Too High. Ow.

Hip Hip Hooray

2006-12-04T10:52:00.000+11:00

This morning, being as it is the first day of my 26th year, I decided to let itunes tell me what it thought my future might be like.

First song was ....... "Cry Baby Cry" remixed by Catalyst from his Dusted album. Hmmm. Sounds great but the title didn't seem to point towards fun times.

Then I got Modest Mouse and "Dance Hall". At least I can agree with the chorus if I leave out the (h); dance all dance all every day.

Now I have The Kills telling me that it aint such a thrill...

Sunday Shining

2006-12-03T21:20:00.000+11:00

Today, after retriving my handbag from down the side of the fridge, I was delighted to notice an invitation to Sunday soccer. Although I am far and away the worst soccer player as well as often being the laziest and most hungover I always like the chance to show just how crap I am on the field of a weekend. Also, I find the way my friends treat me like a slightly retarded younger sibling while in the game somehow soothing in the grand scheme of things.

Riding my creaking bicycle home I found myself reflecting on the night before and how it was that even after you call someone a man-whore they'll still put out for you. Strange times.

Thin Red Line

2006-12-01T00:00:00.000+11:00

Today, as with many other days recently, I found myself with a lot of time on my hands.

Thus I found it behoved me to share with my oldest friend, A*, my newest obsession. Details are as follows:

Herbert
to A*
2:18 pm (9 hours ago)

I just want to let you know that, although it is incredibly nerdy, I
am utterly obsessed with this site:

http://www.earthsci.unimelb.edu.au/~awatkins/melbtemp.htm

The red line, A*, the red line! What will it do next? Where will it
go?? Will it make it to the blue bar in time? Is it warm enough yet
for me to step out in my shorts? What about now?!

---------------------------------------

A*
to Herbert
More options 2:22 pm

DUUUUUUUUUUUUDE.......

That is even nerdier than I could possibly have imagined....

--------------------

Herbert
to A*
More options 2:32 pm

hey, I try to bring the entertainment to you, why you gotta be hating
on me like that? wait, I haven't checked on it for fifteen whole
minutes! It might've gone crazy without me !

whew. still 28.6 degrees.

----------------------

A*
to Herbert
More options 2:36 pm

I cannot convey to you how hard I am laughing right now ...

----------------------

Herbert
to A*
More options 2:38 pm

it just went up point two of a degree!! I really feel that, after I go
and eat lunch, it will be hot enough to show the world my shorts!
woohoo! I know you are laughing at me but honestly, that line is
MIRACULOUS.

-------------------------

A*
to Herbert
More options 2:42 pm

I'm glad that you've found something that makes you so happy. Truly.

----------------------------

Herbert
to A*
More options 3:09 pm

So you've moved on from discussions of individual fish to actual whole
fisheries? Now that's what I call a promotion!

(don't think I didn't notice your condescending tone. I am merely
choosing to Rise Above It. Rather like the red line above the
predicted maximum. Although I don't think it will do that today.)

---------------------------

A*
to Herbert
More options 3:16 pm

Who ISN'T entertained by fisheries, really? Why Garfish - A Chronology
is not a published work remains beyond me.

I laughed so hard then I snorted.

-----------------------------

Herbert
to A*
More options 3:57 pm

in other, equally exciting news, it is now 29.7degrees!! omf'ingG

------------------------------
{Note, this is where despite early protests, A* hops on board the weather wagon}
A*
to Herbert
More options 3:59 pm

There is always a place for Michi. Always.

In our exciting weather news, the cool change has blown in! Yay!! It was
38 yesterday with an overnight min of 25. That is not a minimum, people.
And then got up to about 35 this morning. Icky hot.

------------------------------

Herbert
to A*
More options 4:29 pm
its all over, it's dropped down to 28.8! I'm so going to have to change. Sigh.

---------------------------------

Herbert
to A*
More options 4:29 pm
ooh, wait, it's jumped back to 29.5!!!

---------------------------------

A*
to Herbert
More options 4:30 pm (8 hours ago)

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

I think anything above 25 is still good for shorts ...

---------------------------------

Herbert
to A*
More options 4:52 pm

yesssss!! 30.1 degrees!!

--------------------------------

A*
to Herbert
More options 4:54 pm

now 30.8! when will the excitement end, Herbert?

------------------------------------

Herbert
to A*
More options 4:56 pm
maybe it will reach the dizzying heights of projected maximum after
all!! Go little red line, go! Live the dream you good thing!!!

--------------------------------------

A*
to Herbert
More options 5:04 pm

The other point in favour of your shorts is it's still climbing this
late into the afternoon! that means I think that it won't drop till much
much later...

DISCLAIMER:

I cannot believe you have me interested in/following this, but:

Oh! It appears to be levelling out!

---------------------------------------

Herbert
to A*
More options 5:10 pm
true. Plus I checked the expected minimum for tomorrow and it is
only 19 so, as you say, I think I have a hot night to look forward to.

I should confess to you that I have spent the greater part of this day
pairing my shorts with.... hot pink leg warmers. This may come as
something of a shock to you and I know that my mother, on more than
one occasion today, has blinked rapidly at the sight of me. In my defence -
I am absolutely not wearing a headband.

-------------------------------------

A*
to Herbert
More options 5:10 pm

Herbert

Do not force me to undertake legal proceedings to disown you ...

--------------------------------------

And that's a wrap people! Possibly the most boring post you've ever had to scroll through but for me it was the highlight of my day. Now I've found something better than two up:

Infernal Affairs

2006-11-27T23:46:00.000+11:00

So today, after being stood up for times for this fucking movie for about three weeks running, I finally got myself to the Nova to see The Departed.

Given the amount of rage experienced previously in regards to seeing/not seeing the movie, it's easy to understand how it would be nearly impossible for the film to be worth the wait once I actually got there. To be honest, although I felt I should see the film, for awhile every time I saw a billboard for it I would turn to my friend and say "Hey, want to go see Children of Men? Cos I hear that's a great film".

Having finally settled on a time with the reliable Spakattack & his gorgeous fairy for a viewing, I found myself walking out two and half hours later thinking "am I really going to be the wanker who is about to reference the original Hong Kong version of the film and imply that they did it better?" Luckily, just in time it dawned on me that, "oh no, wait, I'm not going to be that wanker - cos I was hell bored by the original version too! Whew. No black turtlenecks for me this summer!"

Points for The Departed:

The gun spray when they shot people in the head was seriously awesome

I got to spend a lot of time thinking "hey, they found a new Claire Forlani. And this version can actually act! Way to go!"

It had Jed from The West Wing. Aw. The President packs a gun. Awesome.

There were running jokes implying that Matt Damon's character had a lot in common with Pele

The one sex scene was neither awkward nor as annoyingly chaste as the sex scene I had seen earlier that day involving (or rather, not) Jessica Biele and Edward Norton

Marky Mark and his crazy hair got to crack the best "your mum" jokes this side of the Sunday Social Club. Plus, at the end, he wore a hair net and slipper booty things.

Points against The Departed

The final shot was almost as intensely irritating and as utterly, underlying-a-point-and-then-taking-a-crap-on-it-just-to-emphasise-it-further, annoying as the ending of Hard Candy

Leo DiCapro spent a lot of screen time making a sort of cats-arse face which was both distracting and annoying

For every expletive spewing Marky Mark moment we had to endure entire uncomfortable scenes with The Joker Septagenarian Style exchanging Zing!-free "Zing!" moments with some red head chippy. Those two had about as much chemistry as a bowl of soggy Weet-bix.

In the one sex scene of the film the underwear did not match. Why?? WHY? Not only that but the underwear seemed to have serious personality issues. The bottom half was all smoking Gualoise cigarettes and hanging on the Left Bank of the Sienne while the top half was jauntily asking if anyone fancied a game of tennis? Perhaps lacrosse? Anyone for a cup of tea?

So many men in baseball caps. I can't deal with the aesthetic horror. At least when The Public imitated Sorcese's hoodlums of old they got to dress sharp. Now todays wannabes just have to don huge ugly rainjackets and caps, apparently. Perhaps socks and sandals will be on the rise soon also? "Fannypacks" anyone? (Not the band. I quite like the band.)

Where are our baseball caps? WTF is my/our motivation here?? Sure we've got the ugly jackets but how are we meant to nail this scene without the baseball caps?? Hello??

Oooh, no, you can't hit me! My foundation line is showing!

Just quietly

2006-11-27T23:35:00.000+11:00

So.... as some of my friends would know, for awhile there I was all "merrmeow, no one ever comments, everyone hates me, meh meh meh" etc ad neuseum.

Having just listened to my parents take TWO HOURS to try to book a ticket to the Marriage of Figaro using the Power Of The Internet (note - my parents failed miserably in their attempt) I am beginning to suspect that a) this house = not so techonologically adept and also b) I am ungood with details.

Then there were some errors with the republishing of this blog and, frankly, it all became a little bit too hard. At the risk of sounding all Malibu "let's bake cookies so the boys will like us" Stacey, I ... am just not that interested in the "why" or "how" of Blogger. I just hope that now it works good and that. And that I can look forward to a glorious comment-free future where it will be so because I CHOSE it to be like that/I have not friends. Not because I am too retarded to work out the moderating status of this blog.

as an end note - I have no idea where those comments went. I saw them, I clicked republish and now... ? Damnit. Where are those cookies?

Here Comes The Mayo

2006-11-25T15:39:00.001+11:00

Today, as we all know, was "cast a stone" day for Victorians. Waking up this morning to the smell of virgin sacrifices wafting over the city I knew that in a few hours I would be ~~playing quoits~~ chucking a stone into a poorly defined circle, yelling "howzat!?!" and walking away, proud to've done my part for democracy.

Standing in line hours later, fretting that my aversion to registering as living anywhere might've finally caught up with me, I looked around and realised I was missing out on The Most Awesome Date Ever. It was the couple of Revival Punksters in front of me that tipped me off. Clearly they did not know each other well. Clearly he wanted to ruffle up her undercut, slightly wilting mohawk. Clearly she wasn't sure if she wanted to 'hold hands' with him or just exploit his dvd collection. It was all so ... moving. So magnificent. The ugly, utilitarian lines of the school foyer. The $2 sausage sizzle outside where you could regroup later and talk about the moving experience of casting stones/filling in bits of paper. The awkward amount of time the two of you would have to stand in line together, making small talk. It was pretty much like going to the movies but instead of forking out for some shitty film that didn't have enough explosions you got to determine the political landscape for the next three years. What could possibly be hotter than that?

Just Beautiful

As an end note, the song with which I have titled this post came on my ipod as I walked home, basking in the odour of punk love/democracy. I was moved to reference it since it is the dirtiest thing I've listened to since... [insert time/thing here]. Fabulous!

Eurgh

2006-11-20T01:18:00.000+11:00

I saluted the new day and the endless possibilities held within by sending a text to JZ that read "number of times fell down:3. Number of phone calls:0. Number of bacon and egg mcmuffins consumed at stupid o'clock in the morning:1". Saturday nights are hard sometimes.

I did get to experience the glory of being the dealer for a group of randoms who had to constantly remind me of the rules of blackjack. Amazingly the dealer (that is to say, me) won almost every time. Even when I had 23. Well that's higher than anyone else on the table now, isn't it?

Despite that flush of glory, it is still hard to walk out into the dawn with a not-empty bottle of johnny walker in one hand and Nologic in the other and know that the pain is, as with the wide open road, streatching ahead of you. And what the hell is it with dawn anyway? I feel persecuted by it. I find myself longing for the end of evenings past, where dawn was a distant and theoretical construct instead of the encroaching reality that it has become. Shoo, dawn, shoo...

Thank god, then, for the Sunday Afternoon Social Club

There is something beautiful about Sunday afternoons with friends who feel as second-hand as yourself and who are ready to celebrate the small things. Like table tennis, white wine and that show about dancing.

Normalcy

2006-11-17T01:15:00.000+11:00

Recently The Cat and I have been experiencing a bit of our own Neighbour(s)hood Gothic.

That's right, I had no reason to leave the castle during daylight hours and The Cat is fully equipped for Horror Show Freak Out 24/7 (she doesn't like abbreviations, that's why I use them). Given three days of Gothic it was something of a relief to shed the skin of the last person I'd lured back here and convinced to rub lotion on themselves and instead don normal attire and step into the light. I even returned my videos on time, yay me.

So I went and saw Al Gore preach to the converted.

The man is no stand up comedian but he knows his way around the ol' power point. What can I say that any small "l" liberal, Labor/Greens voting person has not said before? I knew what he was saying before he said it but for the most part he said it well and said it convincingly. I did find myself wondering as he mentioned yet one more flight he'd taken why my friend was so ready to lick Al Gore but so suddenly bolshie when it came to flights herself?

The night took a turn from the confrontingly real and doom-ness "we are all about to die and boil alive like a frog in a boiling pot of boiling water"ness into the dreadful when I bumped into my distant-but-dear friend at the exit. In the space of a minute I managed to inadvertently accuse of her of being fat (I didn't say she was pregnant, I didn't! I just asked her about the hypothetical children. I understand now that that was wrong) and asked about her partner. The same partner with whom she had separated with on the weekend. What am I, Hugh Grant now?

Traumatised from these events, I eventually stumbled into PB's celebrations and all was well. Years ago, PB and I celebrated the fact that we were shallow aesthetes - and how lucky were we that all our friends were really totally hot? Luckily for us all, PB held firm to our original mandate so his birthday was well attended by all those who were purdy. Also well travelled. There is something fantastic about drifting between groups of people and realising that the thing that we all have in common is that we can't stay still. Not just in a "rool need to go to the toilet" way but in a whole "is that all there is?" nomad way. Aw. To travelling...

Sprung, Riz, Etc.

2006-11-13T16:56:00.000+11:00

I was shocked, shocked, to discover the other day that my good name is being used as a synonym for behaving like a car-trashing, early 90's Shannen Doherty. For shame people, when did it become bitchy to merely say the truth? To tell it As It Is? Is anyone telling Fox News that they are bitches? No indeed.

However since people have seen fit to label me, so I see fit to say:

If this spring, sap*- rising rootathon that is happening around me does not stop soon I will take up a gun. Possibly in manner of Annie/I Spit On Your Grave/that song about the homecoming queen. Possibly in manner of Natural Born Killers. It depends if I find someone who can drive or not. Never before have the vicissitudes of the seasons so wholeheartedly been embraced by my friends. We've had the emotional spring clean. We've had the emotional (or not) infanglement. We've had the sleepless nights due the overwhelming Springness. Some of us have had it all and some of us, not so much. Either way I am scandalised to watch weather dictate temprement to such an extent. Where is our ironic distance? Where is our city-dwelling unconcern with nature? Surrounded as we are by hectare after hectare of cement how are we so easily turned into frisky animals? We are meant to be turning into machines, friends, and not machines of rooting.

The day that I find myself swapping ideas for sex in public places with friends (the library as apposed to doing it in toilets of a bar for example) is the day that I start to suspect the party train might be pulling out too far** into spring fever madness.

This is totally not the future that was promised by The Matrix etc. Definately not what The Children of Men had in mind.

*n.b. possible metaphor

**seriously, I have no idea either.

Le Talkie Walkie

2006-11-13T16:47:00.000+11:00

Sitting at the bar yesterday afternoon, slightly sozzled, slightly bored by the singing of the man in the red shirt and offensive black vest and bolero tie, I found myself imagining the phone conversation being conducted on the other side of the closed door.

"dude, where are you? You were meant to be here 15 minutes ago"

"No way, I'm just going to buy her one more beer, I swear I saw her hands twitch just a second ago. One more beer bro!"

"Wtf are you talking about?"

"Maybe she'll take her hands off the bench from where I can see them if I buy just one more beer! Maybe she'll put them somewhere I can't see them, if you know what I mean..."

"What did you just say? Look, are you coming to dinner or not. We're about to order - pork or beef?"

"Huh? Oh, I mean, twitchers are such nerds don't you think?"

"seriously, get on your fucking bike and get here already"

And ... fin

Round Up Number Billionty Seven

2006-11-08T18:47:00.000+11:00

So bearing in mind the grumpiness of the below post and the fact that I now have The Cat begging for me to put it out of its misery by seeing if it can fly, here's a quick round up of things Herbert lately:

In an interesting development on a previous post I recently found myself riding not just into the dawn but out the other side of it and into 8am Friday morning traffic whilst on my ride from.... brunswick to airport west and back again via essendon/suburbs misc.

Celebrating "employment" with JZ at Rue Bebs on a Tuesday afternoon after going to see Children of Men. Our uni selves would be so proud of where we are now

Comparing the work at Kick and Someday while glaring at the drug addled freaks at Alia after bustling ourselves in for free and then despising all around us from our vantage point at the end of the bar

Cooking an awesome repast even by my standards for my friend Park on Saturday night (with a little bit of extra appreciation from S which was cool) and then being delighted by Taya's mother cooking the recipe from the GoodWeekend for her while my parents were at home doing exactly the same thing (although my pez broke it down over two days. Still. The amazing power of the GW, no?) - I thought the chicken was weirdly flavourless but the eggs were great

Attending the grammatically suspect but morally virtuous Walk Against Warming and getting to stand on a bench and see all the families etc assembled

Being fearfully impressed by my friend, BigFriendlyGiant's, music-personness but being even more impressed by his pretty ringlet-y hair the secret of which his beloved, Roo, was only too happy to reveal (thankfully, with the new crop I no longer have to remember the shampoo/conditioner combo she showed me repeatedly)

Bumping into S's little brother at social events: various as he starts out on what I can only believe will be an illustrious social-gategrashing lifestyle perhaps as glorious at the one I've constructed (well... maybe not). It is a funny thing to be confronted by younger siblings though. With the exception of the Z-clan, I had some vague idea that everyone's siblings existed somewhere else. Like "berwick" or "adelaide" or something. Apparently siblings exist in the ghetto too. Amazing.

Discovering that soccer in the park can cure hangovers but will not necessarily stop one from standing still at key moments in the game and pondering if one is really standing in the park and, if so, why wont the angles line up, can I lie down now, please?

And that will have to do until the next time, I believe.

Queasy

2006-11-08T18:27:00.000+11:00

I've been feeling vaguely guilty for not writing anything here for awhile.

On the other hand, having had some of this writing quoted back to me by my friend recently I may also be suffering from "writers block" or "bloggers remorse". I think probably the latter since, although I write, do I Write? Insert Mike Moore style thoughtful pause and "mmm" here. Indeed.

Also I am hungover and tired from my excellence yesterday which involved me catching one train to Flemington only to be brutally rebuffed by an attendent there (you want me to pay $50 to go and hang out by the drainage point at the back of the carpark?! For Realz?!) and hopping back on that train and going all the way back to Flinders St and trying again with a different train. I also spent a fair portion of that journey staring out the window and thinking "is it really worth it?" (but not in a satre type of way, natch).

In terms of returns for bets, well, no it wasn't. In terms of hilarity and chances to tell my friend how dreadful his prostate-supporting facial hair was, then yes definately.

The day concluded with a moderately-well behaved dinner with Spakattak, Gynger and Tone Loc (yes, the one and only TL) until TL started waving the knickers of gossip around and then snatching them back like some sort of demure little virgin all, 'nooo, I can't tell you that, you're a sieve!'

This irritated me greatly since how is one meant to assert that one is actually a Vault about certain things without confirming to the worst stereotypes of the accusers? Bah!!

Kick a Dead Man When He's Down

2006-10-30T22:36:00.000+11:00

Or "Why Naming Things Is, like, Totally Awesome"

Yeah so today there was a wrap up in The Age of what they ~~felt~~ thought about the Arts Festival. In the interest of, well, disclosure I should perhaps admit that I freeloaded my way into the opening of that sucker and I would like to thank/blame the Arts Festival for my recent descent into Big Weekends (and the concomitant Shame Spiral Of Doom that can only be silenced by more drinking).

Oh who am I fooling? The Arts Festival Opening was really just the first ringing of the bell of Summer. The bell of excess and vomiting but no sausages this year, for reals alright? Dainty Sichuan might be on the mauve terror list also now I think about it...

To return to the pressing lesson of the Arts Festival, however, and the bait and switch that they employed with "Now That Communism Is Dead, My Life Is Empty". I defy anyone to tell me that that is not an excellent name for a play. Accompanied by the photos of dour eastern bloc ladies with balls held to their swimsuit clad thighs, those boys were definitely on a winner. How terrible, how ... deeply sad... for want of a better expression, that theatre, like so much else these days, has succumbed to the thirty second power-grab-sound-bite attack. Where the 30 seconds of power are all in the title of the play and the horrendous, meaningless, sound and fury signifying nothing, usually covered by the "sell" of, say, an advert, are now contained in the hour plus time of the play.

My dad and I compared notes afterwards. It went something along the lines of "hey, how glad are we that we were twenty minutes late, right?" "Did that whole thing mean anything, anyway?" "are we so bourgeois that it is a cliché to be pissed off by that play... or wait, did it really just suck?"

The thing that it taught me was that that play would've been nothing and nowhere without it’s title. And without it's title I definitely would've been nowhere near it. Which could only've been a good thing.

Handjobs for the Holidays

2006-10-23T10:29:00.000+10:00

Sunday morning I found myself cycling into the dawn which was not something I'd done in awhile. I'd like to thank pre-daylight savings and the hard partying crew of Fitzroy.

I'd been dancing with a mirror for some hours previously although the image cracked when I shoved my finger up my nose to see if he'd copy that too (in fact, not so much).

I was never allowed/interested in going to blue light discos when I was a young un but that party seemed a lot like The Best Blue Light Disco You Never Went To. There was mad making out, there was booze, there were dark/brightly lit alleys. It was awesome.

It was also awesome to leave while hearing one of my own personal complaints being aired by a stranger. Namely Night Birds. God I hate the sound of birds at about 4/5am. Why must they twitter, why??

Do You Know The Way To San Jose?

2006-10-21T17:16:00.000+10:00

I do! It's via Auckland, Los Angeles and Caracas. And I'll be starting the journey on the 3rd of March.

plus

equals

I also found this image while I was searching google for images of a "jet plane" and thought it too strange and cute not to include...

Bad News...

2006-10-15T15:26:00.000+10:00

Friday I finally broke free of Office Lady's Aspbergeresque-oppression and threw myself into the alcoholic arms of Friday Night In The City.

Kicking off with the thrill of Alice Euphemia's jewellery launch/opening. There is something about those launches that bring out the latent Mean Girl in Hottness and I. The thrill of the carefully selected Outfits around us. The absurdity of the clothes. The stream of champagne. It all just spells Bitchery to us. The usual faces were there (ooh, poor choice by Lindel with the spotted leggings - and only just now have I realised that she is probably around the same age as me, not the decade plus I'd always previously imagined. Sometimes red lipstick is so aging) with BoyV turning up with an unfortunate bumpart to remind me why you can't go back again (as well as him just being too damn short).

Somehow the endlessly topped-up glasses of champagne inspired me not to stumble sensibly home but instead to stalk down my friend PrettyBoy (is it stalking if they tell you where they are? Surely that's an invite?) and after all it was on the way home, really.

Catching up with PB meant catching up on some interesting news... Apparently the message I'd left on his phone the night before had been missing certain key words. Like "ing" and "your girlfriend". Instead it had just used verbs and, since his girlfriend and I share the same name, I may've substituted "me" instead of her. Wooooh. I'm sure I'll laugh about this modern mixup, all sliding-doors style in later months but for now it appears as though I'll have to reinstitute my No Phones After 9pm policy. Despite an earlier post, technology is baaaad m'kay.

I'm not sure the no-phone policy would've helped with the later part of the evening where I ducked into the Copacabana club to use the toilets and, on stumbling out again was unable to find the exit and became instantly convinced that I was doomed to live in the club FOR EVER. I siezed up the faux-wood panelling with an eye to living with it everyday for the rest of my life, trapped in the windowless hell that was my new home. Luckily I remembered that the exit was to the right of the bar and finally stumbled through it. Phew.

I feel like I've run too fast for no purpose and I wish I knew where I was headed. Not a particularly original thought but by Saturday I felt hollow and ill at ease. It is unnerving to realise that nothing makes much sense and that one could possibly be a stunted psychopath when it comes to relationships. Or that one has a weakness for emotionally stunted retards? Which is worse?

What's In A Name?

2006-10-11T22:05:00.000+10:00

So the other day I found myself trying to decode a missive from my friend in havana which held news pertaining to "malibu heat" "snow white" "cinderella" and "the other one". I then found myself thinking of my friends in terms of "NoLogic" "SpakkAttack" and "ginga" (ok, I would use the last one no matter what).

I have just had a conversation with my mother where I referred to the current crop of freaks and weirdos that I work amongst soley by their secret spy names. Thus we have "Office [bitch] Lady" "That Woman" "Secret Bitchface" and "The Real P.A." We also have "The Campest Man In The World" and "Hot Arms". I ask you, when did life become so coded? (Barthes, don't answer that)

And then my shoes started to squeak...

2006-10-10T11:38:00.000+10:00

So this morning as I was ~~wandering through the office~~ bustling through the corridors of employment on my Very Important Stationery Mission, I found myself going a way I did not usually go. A way that, lets face it, avoided seeing a girl that I know, vaguley through [insert typical melbourne story of flatmates, friends of friends, drunkeness, parties etc] "the traps".

Why was I avoiding her? Would it have something to do with having a dream in which she appeared last night on her weekend long "having sex in public" tour which she commenced to do in front of me while I was waiting for the public toilets. So not only did this girl cut in the line in front of me (when I really really needed to go to the toilet, too) but then she had loud sex in the stall! With some ugly random named Greg! What a bitch! And I was forced to try to use the boys toilets but they were all urinals and there were boys in those toilets watching me. And I'd just been trying to convince my friends at the seaside that I really would eat the fish as long as it was sashimi/tartare.

In other up-to-the-minute work news, if I had it in me to kill and kill again I would cheerfully bludgeon to death The Office Lady of my current place of employment. Fuck I hate that bitch. We have just engaged in a spirited discussion on - wait for it - blue pens. Bitch has been whinging that there are No Blue Pens. This is, apparently, a level 'Brilliant Magenta' stage of emergency because she is Stationerily Autistic. This is not a widespread phenomena but one which is highly likely to develop in Women of A Certain Age who have worked in one company for nearly 20 years and never progressed beyond Office Lady. It produces a crippiling unwillingness to use any stationery that is in any way different from the stationery that has been used before. Thus all blue pens are not equal, to the stationerily autistic, but as with snowflakes, unique and terrible and to be feared.

burn in hell, Office Lady xxherbert

Manu Chao

2006-10-09T23:31:00.000+10:00

Tonight was the gorgeous S's birthday. It culminated in a traffic stopping procession of candle-whelders on their way to Merri creek to sing "happy birthday" to S and attempt to keep their just-made candleholders working in their job to stop the tea lights from getting blown out.

this is pretty much what it was like on the way to the creek

Not only was it delightfully choreographed by S's elf for the evening, it was also populated by people who were, in the words of Austen, willing, abled and determined to have a Nice time together. Nothing like a bit of discussion about electrolysis and nipple hair to bring people together....

Yes, I love technology...

2006-10-09T23:03:00.000+10:00

How is my ipod so prescient? A lot of the time I ride around vaguely cursing my ipod because it seems to insist on playing "randomly" the same five damn songs over and over and over and over again and then, out of nowhere my ipod appears to channel gattaga or maybe that film with arnold schwarzenegger in it where he pulls the tracking device out of his nose... one of those films that is all about the technology of the mind or some shit. Anyway. My ipod. Sometimes it reads my mind/the future. Helloooo hammerheads....

And then sometimes it just plays "Panama". And that's ok too...

Under the seeea

2006-10-04T10:07:00.000+10:00

Last night not much happened but I saw a friend's work at Tomorrow, ate delicious cheesey things that I strongly suspect her mother baked especially for the occasion and got utterly shikkered. It was swell.

The above image is something I found while searching for "under the carpet" a place that I believe could be almost as much fun as "under the sea" and which does not require me to attempt anything with photoshop. I also found this:

Last night I also saw a couple salsa (or merengue?) at The Spanish Club and I truly believed that if I just squinted at them long enough I would be able to get up there and follow their steps perfectly. HA. Either that or I was possibly checking out the man's arse which, in salsa (merengue?) wiggles a lot. A lot. Awesome.

Upon Reflection

2006-10-01T21:02:00.000+10:00

Yesterday I experienced the rather dubious thrill that was A Breakfast Date (with no night before if you get where I'm coming from).

The time was initiated by me as an attempt to take a stance against previous instances of gross (although charming and witty, natch) insobriety and so to soberly assess the potential (or lack thereof) of the young man. The role of "independent and impartial judge" was to be played by Sunlight, aka, the harsh light of day and I, the European-style magistrate would be there to gather all the facts and asses the evidence without anything getting in the way like, oh say, too much alcohol, sunglasses at night or The Music.

The role of Young Man was played with charm and quiet intensity by a resident of the Emerald City but I couldn't help feeling as though, despite being intrigued, at times a bit entertained and in general enjoying discussing Things for the first time in awhile, as though I had not just had breakfast with... a tall glass of water.

What the hell does that mean, herbert? Clearly there is no rational argument that can be mounted against the glass of water. I don't care how many annoying ad campaigns I see trying to paint water as some sort of horrifying bogey monster all water is is a mysterious liquid that we - finger puppets, humans, whatever - need in order to function. There is also the expression "s/he was like a tall glass of water" implying that someone is a revelatory quenching of the observer's needs. On the other hand there is the same expression which can be used to imply that someone is just as boring, but vital, as a glass of water. That is - transparent, tasteless and inoffensive. And prone to wearing vests. Although personally, I find vests very offensive. Hmm. I can talk myself out of just about anything, should I talk myself out of this? On the other, non-vest wearing hand, Emerald City was rather smitten. There's always the excitement of having someone be smitten with you. Particularly when, to quote KRS 1, "[they] think very deeply" . So is he a frog or a philosopher? Or both?

About Last Night Post...

2006-09-29T12:02:00.000+10:00

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%

2006-09-27T09:47:00.000+10:00

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

2006-09-19T09:47:00.000+10:00

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

2006-09-18T22:35:00.000+10:00

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

2006-09-17T22:33:00.000+10:00

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

2006-09-17T21:55:00.000+10:00

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

2006-09-17T21:34:00.000+10:00

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

2006-09-13T16:50:00.000+10:00

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?

2006-09-07T13:10:00.000+10:00

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!!!

2006-09-04T20:51:00.000+10:00

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

2006-09-04T13:45:00.000+10:00

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?

2006-09-04T13:28:00.000+10:00

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.

Fashion Killings

2006-08-26T18:09:00.000+10:00

This ~~morning~~ afternoon as I ambled down my local street perving on all the hipster young men and ladies who were out catching some daylight and unexpected sunshine along with me, I remembered a girl I had seen the night before. A girl that had filled me with such hatred that I had contemplated declaring myself a Fashion Policeperson and forcing her to remove the offending articles right away

The offending outfit involved a dark blue windsheeter or jumper or fleecie garment of a soft nature, whatever and on it was embroided a clown holding some balloons. Observe:

Yeah, I'd look sad too if I had that on me.

Clearly the above picture in no way conveys the true hideousness of the outfit since the girl last night had chosen to pair it with some awful high pants that gave her saddlebags. In short, she looked like the mothers who used to pick up the other girls from ballet when I was 8.

I am ok with people looking stupid for fashion. At times I'm sure I look incredibly stupid myself. Everyday I try to resign myself just a little bit more to the come back of shorts-with-braces and romper suits for 20 year olds. I am... comfortable... with these images, just:

I mean, I don't know why the girl above wanted to wear a bib-dress over a white t-shirt, maybe she didn't get enough of shit like that the first time round in the 90's, maybe she's subverting the dominant paradigm by doing it in velvet, who am I to judge?

The other day, while out shopping with my friend Hotness, we noted the rise in the enormo-tshirt, 80's revival style. I had an enormo t-shirt of my very own, back in the day. It was pink with black writing and said "summer fun". I was 7. I dont want to be wearing the enormo t-shirt again! I don't want to see girls younger than me "ironically" wearing clothes my friend's mother's wore when they were addled, desperate housewives with huge ash-coloured hair back in the 80's. I don't want it!

If I see that girl again I'm going to whip her out of those clothes and burn them right there in front of her

That'll learn 'em.

Westgarth

2006-08-26T17:35:00.000+10:00

Last night JZ, NoLogic and I discovered the incredible hotness that is the new Westgarth cinema in Northcote. Damn that cinema is hot. It makes you want to rub the chairs in a suggestive manner and then make out with anyone sitting next to you in celebration of just how hot the theatre now is. We managed to suppress these wrongtown urges however and settled in to the serious business of watching Thank You For Smoking .

Although the film itself is hilarious (but not enough maria bello. Why did they hold out on me like that?) the bits with katie holmes in them made me... sad. I know it's ridiculous but this was the first film I'd seen where she looked lopsidedly attractive and seemed able to act and now she's all locked up in some Scientologist compound with a plastic baby. Perhaps my feelings of sorrow were tempered by the inordinate amounts of time I've had recently to read Go Fug Yourself and Defamer.

Afterwards I went and met CS and The Wedge in Brunswick St and relived the highs and lows of CS's brief stint in the harsh and pedantic world of lawyer-speak. This naturally opened up the night for a whole lot of "Now when you say he's into dirty ho's what exactly do you mean by dirty? And ho? And "into"?"

My Milkshake Brings All the Boys To the Yard...

2006-08-26T17:22:00.000+10:00

If I could marry any beverage it would be this one:

Oh vanilla milkshake, you light up my life. You also make me cough in a vaguely whooping-cough-ish way thus fulfilling my requirement that I love things which are bad for me. Truly, your cold milky goodness is a wonder every time.

Pop Quiz

2006-08-26T17:19:00.000+10:00

"How old are you?"

.... er.... what?

Yesterday I ventured into the future and met The Youth. I had forgotten that 19 and 20 year olds are apparently obsessed with how old you are and where you came from ("um....the cabbage patch??")

Luckily some of The Kids are also storkishly tall and not adverse to picking me up and throwing me over their shoulders.

Why do I end up at bar open, why? why??

What's that Skip?

2006-08-23T22:00:00.000+10:00

Last night I had dinner with Jumble(sale) who perpetually manages to out late even me. Luckily for him I wasn't overly "zenned" from my preggers-woman-yoga (you can see why I wouldn't be overly zenned by that, no?) and was able to speak both polietly AND in words of greater than monosyllables when I saw him

Anyway, long story short we met at the Union and mere seconds after placing our order realised that the lure of the roo of The Napier was too great to be denied. Jumble was moved to enact a classic piece of "Dining Out Theatre" (the unnamed "engagement") in order to experience the below:

+

=

You have to eat skippy at least once to understand just HOW the earth will move for you. My god. Why did I waste so much of my life over the burgers at that pub?

The point of this post though was that I may have relayed a no-names-no-packdrill version about a certain incident already recorded on this blog to Jumble. He, in kind, responded with a story involving a friend, a first boyfriend, and a cunnilingus session that was apparently so accomplished it resulted in the boy wearing both chocolate and lemonade on his face. Jumble used this incident to moralise about the amazingness of the human body, the way that one can never know how individuals will respond to stimulus and something about "anxiety" that apparently hit too close to Jumble's home. Either way, I was forced to salute Jumble's circumspection and appreciation of, well, the nice-ities of human nakedness and so I am recasting a post that perhaps only three people have ever read. Still. It's the thought that counts, right?

Musings

2006-08-21T22:50:00.000+10:00

So to ramble on a bit more about Pandora: now I can't help but wonder, do I only like these songs in the context of the other songs they've been presented in? Would I really want to listen to them if I didn't think of them as being connected, in some way, with a previously established taste? Do I just like them right now or will I still like them in thirty minutes? A month? Five years? Do I love them in a way that secretly means I hate them and sort of want to vomit on them and their catchy strummyness?

Possibly it is not good to listen to Pandora for tooooooo long.

Flat

2006-08-21T21:52:00.000+10:00

Last night the ennui hit hard. My utter disdain for Natasha Hentsridge's haircut in the late night badness that was "Caracara... or... The Last Witness" was not great enough to get me to go to sleep. After all, I found myself asking, what was the point? It wasn't like I had anything to do in the morning. Sometimes excessive freedom is like a noose around your neck stopping you from doing anything at all.

Except watch bad t.v. and blog, obviously.

Grey, Ordinary

2006-08-21T21:26:00.000+10:00

So yesterday I was jolted awake by a vistor buzzing to be let in at the ungodly hour of... um... 12.30pm. This suprise attack on my sanity meant that I seemed to have been catapulted past feelings of "hobo's remorse" straight into smug self-congratulations that I had spent a blameless night getting utterly trashed at an over-crowded party and had done nothing bad to anybody. OR HAD I?

I was somewhere like this. Only without the lights. I knew too many people. I became paranoid/obsessed with over-share. I shared a cab home with two girls I didn't know and bummed a cigarette when I don't even smoke. It was the greatest cigarette I have ever smoked.

It's ok - I just caught up with NoLogic and she assured me that despite being in imminent danger of sliding off the couch I never actually did it and after burbling crap at her for awhile I left. We both turned angrily on Gynga when he dared suggest that perhaps we had danced at this party. Never!

Pandora

2006-08-21T21:17:00.000+10:00

Ok so I know that everyone in the world and their grandma knows about Pandora . I know this because, for godsakes, I remember sneering in borrowed cynicism and ennui when BoyF sent me the link months ago. I vividly recall pulling a face at the screen and muttering "like, ohmygod, I have totally already read the hype on that thing so long ago GOSH you are fifty years too late JEEZ" or something similar.

Well, the joke is on me because it is one thing to know about it and quite another to have the enormous amount of spare time that I currently have and to be able to listen to Pandora all day long. And maybe fall a little bit in love with it. Even if it makes me realise that there actually aren't that many things that sound like M.I.A. apart from, well, M.I.A. And how did it think that "Rythym is a Dancer" is something that links back to M.I.A.? Although it did remind me about fannypack. Which led me to wonder if they were still going out with the boys that they professed their love for in that track. Hmm.

I am starting to suspect that Pandora was put together by woollen-jumper-wearing indie boys though. It has a much higher strike rate for my "belle and sebastian" playlist than it's had for anything else.

Rock Steady

2006-08-19T12:47:00.000+10:00

Another morning, another Aretha Franklin track (alright, I admit I cheated - but I just couldn't face having my day defined by one of Pavement's more boring, feedback laden screechathons) and hold the press ladies and gentlemen a Saturday Morning Without A Hangover

Wtf? I hear you ask, is that even possible? It is if you had an alcohol free day the day before. That's right! No alcohol! ON A FRIDAY.

Perversely, given their beginning as Saturday night marathons of drinking and recklessness, cards - particularly poker cards - have now come to symbolise blameless hours of sobriety and occasional dalliances with mathematics. I tried to fight it, I fought it for years but in the end the nerds had the last laugh.

Damn you Sunday Afternoon Ladies and your pink lemonade ways. How else to explain spending a Friday night in, of all places, Monash Clayton in some brightly lit, slightly cold "wine cellar" room playing poker for fun (definitely not for profit)?

This morning I dreamt that I lived in a block of flats with a pond in it that expanded into a pool. I had to swim through it to get to my friend's room. I wonder what that means? And when will it be warm enough to go swimming again?

Excursions in Art

2006-08-18T13:40:00.000+10:00

Or: where to drink cheaply on a Thursday night

As I've said before, it's a rare Thursday that doesn't find me in a gallery in the city, somewhere, trying hard not to notice the art around me and swapping bitchy asides with either JZ or Lisel. This Thursday the theme was "so broke right now" which meant that L. and I started at Westspace where you had to pay three whole dollars for a glass of red wine and ended up at Spacement where the booze was free and the people... much prettier.

We weren't the only ones completing the circuit. Half the people at the rather sparsely populated Westspace opening headed back to the more convival side of town ... and the free booze... of spacement. And I'm sure I wasn't the only one who read the invite to westspace and saw pictures like this:

and this:

and was slightly confounded upon walking into the gallery at seeing a giant twig lit up by a lamp in one room and a shopping trolley all twisted up and shoved up the top of a pillar in the other.

Apparently the shopping trolley was meant to convey "the difference [which] is becoming more difficult to define. This installation is an exploration of the anxiety which surrounds prosthetic dependence in the wake of human frailty, whilst stiving to overcome it." Ahhh, my frail desire to convey my groceries home in a shopping cart. Thwarted and violently overcome by my amazing abilities with a blowtorch.

In no way do two of the photos on westspace's page match up with the work on display there last night. Wtf?

Luckily Spacement was like it always is - over heated, over crowded and over supplied (can one be oversupplied?) with free booze.

Panadarosa's work took up the backwall of the main gallery. Iuen and JZ mocked my love of their work by declaring me a lover of graphic design boys with skinny pants who stuck vinyl on walls. I think Panadosa is a bunch of girls actually but that aside - how did JZ & Iuen know? Damnit!

Things I Learnt From Last Night

2006-08-18T12:12:00.000+10:00

Free Booze Hurts

B totally slept with M and has outed him as a [redacted] (ohmygawd)
Tequila is still my enemy and whenever I think "oh, how bad can it be?" I relearn just How Bad It Can Be

I totally have to stop kissing my friends

Despite canoodling with a boy in the corner of Misty, Simon is not gay, he is rampantly heterosexual. I should've known - his shoes are always hideous

I have a crush on an artist who is totally not my type. I predict this is going to end badly/go nowhere.

Hi, I'm A Helmut I Mean "Hairstyle"!

2006-08-14T17:00:00.000+10:00

I like hair. I like it a lot . As some of my friends can attest sometimes, rather than being a fool for love I find myself a fool for hair. A good set of folicles blinds me to the short-comings of whatever's underneath. If there's enough on top I can even blind myself to a receding hair-line and an egg like forehead. Damnit!

I am, obviously then, a fan of the current hairstyle for boys which involves plenty o'hair, in a touseled "just got out of bed, hey there!" style and is sometimes charmingly paired with facial hair.

I have never watched the mighty boosh but I love it for the hair alone.

Imagine my horror, however, when watching channel ten the other day and finding out that it was possible to Go Too Far. There was an interview of graphic designers, sundry, where they were mumbling their love of... stuff... and need to roam freely, free to design and be and create cool... stuff. I love graphic designers. I do. They are clever with the making of pretty things but they are not always the most articulate. Well not when it comes to declaring their modus operandi on tv anyway. Anywhoo, there they all were, these smarty pants young men with their ingenious designs and their hipness and... their hair which seemed to be channeling the alien messages beaming in from the planet Xyron, in the fiftyfith galaxy or some such.

This is going TOO FAR people! Cut it back!! Stop before you finally hear the message instructing you to kill, and kill again....

Exploding Cars Don't Solve Everything

2006-08-14T14:04:00.000+10:00

Earlier I stated that sometimes all one wanted in a film was a good bit of exploding car action:

In the case of Infernal Affairs II the exploding car reminded me that actually, they can be used to make you appreciate the senseless tragedy of violence and crime and how nothing anyone does will ever make anything better. I hate you Infernal Affairs II .

I should've remembered this before I borrowed the vid:

Hong Kong: The Last Straw?

Eat the Baby!

2006-08-14T13:27:00.000+10:00

So Saturday found JZ, NoLogic and myself at something of a loose end. Sure we were at a gallery opening and there was free wine but somehow none of us had it in ourselves to write off the afternoon under the shiny steamer lids of Donna Marcus and her posse of sharply dressed, sharp haircutted late thirty somethings.

JZ had just been told about the gallery owner's favourite memory of him from when he was 8 so none of us were feeling the coolest. NoLogic hadn't showered in days and I was wearing pink and suddenly feeling an affinity for, of all people, Di Morrisey whose whinging in the Good Weekend I had minutes earlier dismissed as self indulgent piffle. Until I found myself and my pink top at the receiving end of several scornful and evaluative looks from some crow-like groups of ladies at the gallery. I had no black on me, none. Clearly I was an imposter on the scene of the worst order...

Staring at all the saucepan lids gave us an idea though. What does one do when one has nothing much to do? Why one goes and buys as much meat as one can and devotes the evening to cooking it.

Years ago, on a particularly hungover Saturday, JZ, Ex and I discovered the magic that was cooking programmes on channel 7. In particular, cooking programmes that celebrated cooking enormous and ridiculous quantities of meat. That day we went and bought ribs and steaks to wear as meat hats. No, to cook. The magic of Meat-As-Hat, though, has always remained.

The spice crusted bits of lamb were a revelation, the meat balls were definately better than anything my mum would make but, upon reflection we agreed that perhaps the thick lamb stew/stock we made using olives and fat from the leg of lamb to pour over the couscous was taking things a bit too far.

Ah, to eat so much meat you start to think you might be breathing it. Fantastic.

Radio Destiny

2006-08-14T13:13:00.000+10:00

I haven't played this game in awhile since usually I wake up to the news as told to me by Tinseltone and the rest of the breakfaster crew on RRR but this morning I threw my fate at the feet of my itunes and it threw back at me the awesome 80's classic badness of Aretha Franklin and George Michael

Classic!

Adventures in Temping Part I

2006-08-11T15:41:00.000+10:00

Being a receptionist is hardly taxing work. In fact, for the most part it seems that I get to sit behind a desk, write on this blog and look up the same three american gossip sites. In an attempt to add a flavour of surprise to this slightly tasteless existence I decided to follow a link and start reading Fanny Hill, Or, Memoirs of a Lady of Pleasure

Who knows why someone descided to place the entire book on the net or why they picked this particular pearler. It was written in 1794 and contains such classic moments as:

"But frequency of use dulling the sensation, I soon began to perceive that this work was but a paltry shallow expedient that went but a little way to relieve me, and rather rais'd more flame than its dry and insignificant titillation could rightly appease.

"Man alone, I almost instinctively knew, as well as by what I had industriously picked up at weddings and christenings, was possess'd of the only remedy that could reduce this rebellious disorder...."

Ah man alone. Nothing like a bit of patriarchial porn to make the afternoons fly by.

Putting aside the endlessly stated supremacy of the penis this story suffers, as with any pornographic text, from the boredom of repetition. It isn't just the characters who get tired of the same three steps repeated over and over again. At the same time it's still interesting to read because it's the same scenario over and over again. No anal sex. No cunnilingus. Barely any hand jobs even! Were people in the 1700's really so unimaginative? If you're going to write a book about fucking surely you may as well try to include as many different types of fucking as possible?

Check Out My Gravel Pit*

2006-08-11T10:03:00.000+10:00

Ah Thursdays.

I love Thursday nights. It is a rare Thursday evening that doesn't find me standing in an overheated room somewhere, glass of free wine clutched in one hand, back firmly presented to a wall of art. This Thursday I was actually there to SEE the art for once since my friend Claire was included in a curated show at the city library on Flinders Lane.

As ever, the space was overheated, overcrowded and the wine was terrible but free and the art... was actually really good. Aw.

Another predictable thing happened at the opening. Given that Melbourne is really just a bunch of villages and it is impossible to spend more than a year living here and not to start to devlop a glittering cast of background characters that you will inevitably bump into over and over and over again no matter how many nights/morning's you've spent vervently praying that you Never See Them Again, I bumped into the bestie of BoyX. This reminded me that mere hours earlier I had been gazing over my desk at a man who bore a striking and freakish similarity to BoyX and who had, in turn reminded me of my recently developed and hellaciously indepth and ultraly scientific theory I had started to formulate.

The Theory
While bored on public transport, I often find myself passing the time by working out who on my tram I should give The Eye to. This should not be confused with the Evil or Stink Eye but rather the roving, Hey Baby, I'm Thinking About What's Under Your Shirt (Maybe) Eye. The "maybe" part of this Eye is actually the most important part. You don't want to be one of those naff PT riders who have crossed the line from 'potential' into lewd drooler. But the point, the point... So the point is, I have found myself giving the glad eye to boys who markedly resemble Boys X and Z for no other reason except for the resembalance. I find myself thinking warmly of them and yet - I know nothing about them. Nothing! Why does this vague recollection of nakedness-past make me assume that the man on the tram is going to be nice, more interesting and with a similar music collection to someone else? That he doesn't even know? (although it would be weird if they did all know each other) Am I the only one who does it? What does it all mean.....

Conclusions as they occur

*the title of this entry was meant to relate to the doco I saw last night on the Wu Tang Clan but I can't be arsed changing it now - or writing about the film

The Third Way

2006-08-10T08:37:00.000+10:00

Last night me and JZ were going to get down with the myspace kids or touch the zeitegeist or maybe just sit uncomfortably in the cold for a bit and behold the hype that was Lilly Allen at St Jeromes. To the surprise of neither of us by the time we got to Jeromes' at 6.30 there was a queue almost to the end of the laneway. We decided to cop to our uncool/hipness and laugh at the people in the line instead (this was harder than it should've been given the wafts of tear-inducing stench from the garbage bins we picked our way past) on our way back to the tram and the more comfortable proposition of watching dvds and Wednesday night ABC (shut up, the ABC rocks on a Wednesday night).

So we ended up watching The Descent from Neil "Dog Soldiers" Marshall which I wanted to hate but which, upon sober consideration, actually has one of the best endings for a horror/thriller thing that I've seen in ages. Sure, the actual filming of the end sucks arse but the idea behind it is actually awesome.

If you've ever found yourself thinking at the start of one these thriller/horror/zombie things "oh goddamnit, that stupid beefcake is going to defy the odds and emerge attractively ruffled at the end in time to eat icecream in the manly aloneness of space/the apocalyptic future/back of an ambulance" or found yourself sitting vaguely stunned at the end saying "wtf? they all died? really??" and then every other time you've found yourself in the video store holding some dark covered dvd in your hand and you look at the back and you consider the gore and the blood and the killing and then the fact that you pretty much know the ending already and then you start singing "is that all there is?" and move to paris and take up smoking because you so fucking jaded by these movies and you already know everything... Anyway, if you've ever felt like that, The Descent is actually rather cool. I had to yell that it sucked on my way out though - it just wouldn't've been a satisfying night without some level of hatred.

Check It

2006-08-08T13:33:00.000+10:00

The other day, realising that I was in danger of never leaving my house except under cover of darkness like some sort of pot bellied, short, crime-indifferent batgirl, I got in touch with my inner senior citizen and took a stroll around my neighbourhood in the dying sunshine of a winter afternoon.

And this is what I saw (I am referring to the car, people, not the skyscraper):

This was a cool sighting for a number of reasons. Firstly, the car. The car is inarguably cool. Currently, I am temping at a large imported-luxury-car-glass-box type place, where I, the lucky receptionist, get to sit in the midst of yea verily a field of slumbering, 100k plus toy cars which are so small and boxy that when grown men sit in them they have to stoop a little. The cars I gaze at, in a vague and desperate fashion, first thing of a morning are not as cool as the car above.

The second, and cooler thing about this sighting was the girl sitting shotgun in this car. She was grinning like a cheshire cat. It was impossible not to grin back at her as she rolled past, driven by some shadowy male figure since she was so clearly Living The Dream.

Thirdly and finally, finding out what car that girl was sitting in has led me to discover that it was a car like one Steve McQueen used to drive. Finally - an answer to the question posed at the end of that Gomez track "sean connery... or steve mcqueen?"

A Weekend in the Country

2006-08-07T22:49:00.000+10:00

Meredith for the Cinema Set

So, the other night I trundled off to see my friends on the big screen. Sure, they weren't actually on the big screen (except H - Hi H! Glad to know the blinds match the drapes! I'm never shaking your hand again!) but they were credited on the big screen as being, y'know, integral to the whole process of bringing the big screen entertainment to us, the devout fans of Meredith.

If you've never been to Meredith you obviously:

1) Do not Live in Melbourne

2) Live on the Other Side Of the Yarra (you know who you are)

So for all you poor suckers out there - clearly I am talking about The Meredith Music Festival which happens once a year on a farm just outside of Meredith blah blah blah.

Just for something completely different, I'm not going to critique the film, A Weekend In The Country (which screened at MIFF, people - MIFF! They don't even pay you it's so prestigious).

Instead I offer a salute, ashtanga yoga style, to all the hundreds of people in the cinema who smuggled booze in. Seriously, it nearly brought a tear to my eye.

Here is a picture of all the people in the audience, thinking about booze:

The Age can talk all it wants about the rise in binge drinking and dangerous drinking and YooF Out of CONtroL etc but - the number of people at ACMI who had spent so much time and effort smuggling all sorts of types of booze in.... Well, it was just outstanding.

I particularly liked that the director attributed much of his insipration for the doco at hand to time spent smuggling booze into ACMI with his friend when they were younger. This was touchingly responded to by said friend brandishing forth his very own, recently smuggled in, illicit bottle of liquor

Ah, plus ca change, non?

For the record - I was sitting next to the bestie of the dude who wore the watermelon on his head last year. His cleanliness was unnerving.

The Final Fronteir

2006-07-31T21:05:00.000+10:00

Or.. Herbert Goes To The Movies.

Alone.

So a few years ago when Herbert was young and more didactic, it was stated that never, EVER, under pain of anything, would Herbert suffer what was perceived as the final, ultimate indignity of being a singular personnage - going to the movies ALONE.

As with all grand statements, time will make a fool of us all and so it was that on a rainy, cold, Monday afternoon after spurning the temporary warmth and hipness of st jeromes, I found myself buying a ticket for one to Tristram Shandy at the nova.

The day before I'd had to sit through an afternoon of my friends swapping their funniest moments from the film (it was a chestnut, boys, not a walnut) and their favourite quotes so what is one to do but get on the quote-quoteing-bandwagon and slap down some cash? One does want to be able to communicate with ones' peers afterall, no? Besides, I'd rather enjoyed 24 Hour Party People and although I'd long suspected that Steve Coogan might be a cunt I'd always assumed he'd at least be a funny one.

But no.

Not even a knowing, postmodern, direct to camera, winking-like-you're-epiletic-knowingness could completely sell this film to me. Steve Coogan is a cunt. And his cuntishness is the same as the small minded, bizarre, showbiz-specific cuntishness that has been highlighted and mocked since Billy Wilder/Robert Altman/any novelist writing about hollywood today. Just cos he has a wicked accent and a hot scottish "girlfriend" (kelly macdonald - you were so hot in Trainspotting , call me!) doesn't mean his behaviour as this Steve Coogan-Tristram-Shandy is any more interesting or endearing than anything shown on Curb Your Enthusiam or Arrested Development .

The ending, with its strange openness - as if the audience is at the bar with all the actors and actresses - is less-good than the best part of the film - the bickering between Coogan and Brydon over the end credits. This was one of the few points where I laughed out loud.

And how about seeing a film all by yourself, Herbert?

Well the fact that I'm happy to refer to myself in the third person somehow sez it all, doesn't it?

Something something like a Ready Made

2006-07-09T21:24:00.000+10:00

Alright I don't remember the words to that Beck song but I do remember going, finally, to the ReadyMadeMarket today.

To no one's surprise it was really rather good. It was also madly busy in places, which made me, a rather tiny slip of material thing, a bit overwhelmed. Luckily I bumped into a friend who was similarly overawed and also terribly hung over which is what you want on a Sunday.

I purchased this rather fabulous bracelet on my way out which I am going to try very hard not to lose. Don't you think it brings out the colour in my eyes?

I had an even better bangle in this style but unfortunately I lost it one night in a haze of red wine/poker/boredom-induced-boy-lolling badness. After I'd just glued the damn thing back together too after JZ had thrown it on the ground (repeatedly) to see what would happen (result: it broke)

I wanted to buy a brooch of a camel whose insides seem to promise a trip to the exotic Arabian nights but there was no price and I got scared and had to run away.

Little Red Riding Hood

2006-07-09T20:49:00.000+10:00

Or some shit about paedophiles and fourteen year olds

Due to the sudden emergence of my mad street writer/fighter skills I won two free tickets to the film "Hard Candy".

At the hour of winning I was pretty stoked until I invited my friend JZ along and he was all "oh, that film they're trying to get word of mouth about by giving away tickets to?" Er, yeah. That film.

So I went and drank beer, legitimately, in the cinema which was pretty sweet but it was pretty much the only sweet thing about the film.

I was persuaded out of my initial and extreme hatred and my expressed desire for the celuloid used to beam the dreary diatribe at me to burn in hell by the thoughtful analysis of JZ on the shit that went down. Although he managed to stop me from declaring a war on the claustrophobic, seemingly endless close ups, I still can't help but think - in the end - there was no exploding car and what the hell is the point of watching ANYTHING on a Saturday afternoon (unless it's a cooking show) if there is no exploding car?

Sample dialogue after the film (and after I had contemplated sending a message during the film to JZ informing him of how much I hated it and how much I wanted both the characters to die, suddenly and unexpectedly in, preferably, a car explosion or failing that, a gas leak which causes the sitting room to explode like in Speed 1 with Jeff Daniels and shit)

"Fuck that shit I fucking hated it, what the fuck was that all about, jesus? and with the ending, DID THEY THINK WE WERE MONGOLOIDS? WHAT THE FUCK? "or not" FUCK!"

"aw, you know, the way they developed the story from a crazy 14 y.o. until you realised that she wasn't crazy and that was kind of interesting and stuff"

"I suppose the way they speeded up certain bits was... ok... but why did they do that??"

"lions gate makes trashy films - think how cheap that was to make!"

By this stage I had allowed myself to let go of the rage and instead consider such pertinent points as:

Would it have worked if the girl had long hair? (no)

Why did she have to have those goddamn bogan curls at the back though, they shat me so much I wanted to hit her? (unknown)

Was she really going to go and see a film with some friend after persuading someone to kill themself - and, if so, which film? (unknown)

What happened to her skirt and red stockings, why did she change into jeans? (possible continuity error?)

Result: See Hard Candy if you have free tickets but don't expect any cars to explode

Beyonce and all that

2006-07-06T18:23:00.000+10:00

So the other day I was purchased my Step Towards Independent Womanhood Item Consumer Thing*.

Said item was, in fact, a rather large pink jellied vibrator. I had to hide it under my bed for a good seven days before I really, psychologically, accepted that the... impliment? was now mine to do with what I would. While it hid under there, sidling into my dreams and causing me to wake up at odd moments and fret that the switch had clicked on inadvertently, I took the chance to think about serious shit like - why did I now have a vibrator? Would it eat me while I slept? Were the sparkles in the gummy plastic coating a nice touch or a weird "my little pony" throw back?

So of course there is the whole 'why wait for indifferent orgasms from others when you can Take Power Into Your Own Hands Princess Shera Stylee' argument. There was also the 'it worked for that Charlotte character on Sex and the City and, although fictional, she was waaay more repressed than you so wasn't it about time you caught up with Charlotte - the fictional character?' argument which was particularly persuasive. Then there was also the old 'everyone else has one, what am I missing out on?' argument that really kicked me over the line. So I bought it. I hid it, I came home not-sober one night and finally tried it out and... well... I've had worse one-night-stands, it's true, but I didn't pay $42 for them either. Then again since I did purchase it I guess I now have time to get used to it, bend it to my will, teach it to laugh at my jokes and I'll never have to share my drinks with it.

At the same time, is there not something just slightly ridiculous about shoving a whirring, gummy, sparkly enormo-faux-dick up one's clacker? It is hard to lose my sense of the absurd.

*It has a name. It's name is Beyonce. Don't question, just accept.