| Note to Self: You ARE invincable. |
[Apr. 30th, 2007|12:43 pm] |
A Short Set of Rules to Live By
1.If you continue to drink Whiskey as if it were apple juice, you will inevitably lead a life uncomfortably similar to Patsy Stone. Say hello to a life filled with shoulder pads, black nylon stockings and hairstyles inspired by Ivonna Trump/Bronwyn Bishop. Imagine a photo album filled with photographs in which bright, crass red lipstick is smudged across your cheek and a fag is hanging from the corner of your mouth. Is this the life you would like to lead? I think not.
2.While your shell is a fine place to spend a great quantity of your time, remember how much fun you have when you vacate it for a night and join your peers in some mid-twenties Brunswick house party shenanigans. Despite popular belief, you do possess adequate social skills and you are charismatic, even though you feel like the little girl at the grown up’s table.
3.The majority of North Melbourne’s residents are not junkie-scum and do not deserve evil and suspicious stares at 11am on Sunday morning. You know that you love your street and the greater North Melbourne community. You know that it makes you warm and fuzzy inside when the staff at Hot Poppy know your order without even asking.
4.Even though Reality Bites was a film that you could relate to at a certain stage of your life, you’ve certainly outgrown it. Do not feel obligated to hold it in high regard in some lofty part of your heart that you’ve previously reserved for things such as your childhood teddy bear Plumpy and Fleetwood Mac’s song Landslide. Remember that: Troy Dyer is a dick. Lelaine Pierce is insipid. Vickie Miner is still cool.
Friday evening was Making Space, the art exhibition curated by Paloni and Borelle (Olivia and Jissie’s art production juggernaut). The exhibition took place in the same underground Degraves Street walkway that also houses Sticky and The Cat’s Meow. In the past I’ve had an affinity for art openings. I’ve been known to get stupidly drunk, to steal bottles of wine from unmanned bars and to receive hickeys from drunken friends. In my opinion, art openings are just excuses to drink free hooch and act like I’m sixteen again, while trying to figure out what substance the artist was on for the duration of their projects. That’s probably why I was so reluctant to attend Jissie’s opening on Friday after work. I wasn’t feeling particularly social, or in any way up for a night of art-inspired debauchery. I viewed this as a simple night that would be over by nine, and I could make my way home and curl up with a pot of chai and Evelyn Waugh. Of course, that all seemed to change after I had my third glass of red wine and a shared cigarette with Deanna in the Degraves laneway. After fairly minimal prodding by Rachael and Jeremy, I decided to go for dinner with them, Jissie and Deanna. I also decided to be unfaithful to my darling Shanghai Dumpling. I went just two streets over and fucked around in Shanghai Village’s bed. I felt dirty. I felt guilty eating their vegetarian duck. Shanghai Dumpling, I just want you to know that it didn’t mean anything to me. It was meaningless dumplings and Tsing Tao beer. I was thinking about you the whole time.
After dinner I was feeling slightly giddy. The idea of attending Aleks, Janita and Tristan’s house warming in Brunswick began to sound appealing. If worse came to worse, Jissie and I could huddle in the corner together while Rach gallivanted around with her ex-Narrabunda College pals. So we made our way forward, first stopping at Safeway and purchasing a bottle of Red Label whiskey and dry ginger ale. I s’pose I legitimised it by reasoning that if I was going to be the shy girl in the corner, at least I wanted to be the intoxicated and warm shy girl in the corner. This plan was derailed by Andrew and Lala’s attendance. I hadn’t seen Lala and Andrew for a good month and a half, and was ecstatic to see them. Instead of spending my night hushed in a corner, sipping whiskey with Jissie, I spent it entangled in catch-up conversation with Lala and Andrew. Since we had last seen one another, Lala has settled into her third storey walk-up in North Melbourne, while Andrew has settled into living with his younger brother Ed in Kensington.
Around 12:30 or so, Jissie and Rach had decided to call it quits while I decided to kick on with Andrew and Lala, and had chats with Olivia and Tristan, with Andrew departing a little later. Around 2:30 or so, after smoking some form of joint and drinking a third of a bottle of whiskey, Lala and I decided to go back to her digs. Upon arrival Andrew woke up, mixed us strong drinks and we chatted tll 4am, before I stumbled home in the rain.
I spent most of Saturday drifting in and out of slumber and watching Seinfeld DVDs. I was in no position to do much besides sleep and try like hell to get over my hangover, aided by slices of vegemite toast. In the afternoon there was some talk of going to Nova to see some arthouse flick with Jissie and Rach, however we all just ended up slumped on the couches of the Chet, watching Foxtel and then stupidly watching Reality Bites. Despite the obvious hilarity of the character Vickie Miner, the film is pretty awful and I mentally kicked myself for relating to this tripe for such a long time. Thankfully there were brief interludes by Dominik via text messaging as he sat in Canberra, getting his first taste of My Disco.
On Sunday morning I awoke to find some ninkumpoops (Jissie’s harshest of disses) had spray painted our front windows with some eyesore of a tag. It really pissed me off. I felt like I was some senior citizen, cussing out the no-good youths of the neighbourhood. As I tried to scrub away at the fluorescent red tag with water and bleach, I started grinding my teeth and muttering things in my brain about the awful nature of humanity and so forth. As if on cue, friendly passers-by relayed their condolences and a few even gave me some hints. My old Italian next door neighbour came out and gave me a razor blade to scrape the paint off the glass. Predictably all my anger seemed to disappear and I remembered just how much I love the 3051 community, little skater fucks aside.
Since it was Clare’s 24th birthday, I decided coffee and cake was in order and took her out to Hot Poppy. However, Hot Poppy isn’t really one for big pieces of flourless cakes, so I decided on a chocolate hedgehog and Clare went with the friand (I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was just a fancy-pants name for a fucking muffin). After an hour and a half and numerous cigarettes, we parted ways and I went home to play with my housemates. |
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| Why Make Yourself So Anxious? You Give Yourself an Ulcer. |
[Apr. 21st, 2007|12:15 am] |
I decided to have a quiet one as I have to be up bright and early tomorrow morning to head to the seaside, to bask and frolic in grey-ish blue swirling waters and to drink in local pubs. Paddy is currently in town on business, and in true bitches-with-careers (and disposable incomes) style, I decided to take her to Supper Club, as opposed to Hell's Kitchen or one of my other regular city haunts. It should be said that over the past few months I've developed a penchant for whiskey sours and Supper Club predictably exceeded my expectations. I fussed over which brand of whiskey I was going to drink that evening, as if to pretend that I was some connoisseur. Paddy and I shot the shit about work, people back in Canberra and her asshole ex-boyfriend, before parting our separate ways early in the evening.
Work was completely nuts this afternoon. A D&A abuser decided to drop in 'round 4pm and grace us with his violent presence. The CAT team were called twice. He hurled abuse at every worker, and other clients in our waiting room. I had to slip my 18-year-old client through the back entrance, even though he assured me that he could handle himself. He puffed up his emaciated chest, and I had to suppress a giggle. After work I was escorted to my tram for security reasons. I found that amusing considering that I live in North Melbourne and it has the highest number of rooming houses/half-way homes/shelters in all of the metropolitan region. Dealing with paranoid users has become daily routine. At least this guy didn't try to spit on me, or pull some lame-ass story about needing money for his prescription.
As I sat outside Ringwood Magistrates Court this morning, having a cup of coffee before a hearing, two punks came over to bum a cigarette. I use the term punk because that's exactly what they would describe themselves as. It was as if two bogans from Lilydale had rented Sid and Nancy and had decided that morning that they were going to be punks. While they attempted the basic aesthetic (even down to awful faux British dialects and gravity defying, egg-white supported hair-dos), they still seemed to be missing a certain authenticity. Their shortcomings became all the more highlighted. I rolled them two cigarettes and had a brief and meaningless conversation before they went on their merry way, fucking up the establishment or whatever. I'm so glad I side-stepped that whole Sex Pistols phase, and just jumped directly into bad whiny indie-pop that now grates on my nerves every time I hear Ben Gibbard's voice.
Speaking of lame attempts at music cred - I'm totally gay for Gang of Four. I've been listening to Entertainment! most mornings on the trams to work. It's kind of like Talking Heads' David Byrne meets Steve Albini. You can also see where Damn Arms want to be, and how tragically distant they are from that sound. Anthrax and Not Great Men are two amazing tracks. Why did it take me so long?
I've also been reading lots of new shit too, but revisiting my old favourites to provide some sense of comfort. It's probably too late to start prattling on about Jonathan Safran Foer without sounding like one of those Dave Eggers blow-job-giving groupies (we'll just ignore my increasing addiction to McSweeney's), but it should be stated that I've hopped on that bandwagon late in the game. As I mentioned before, I've been rereading James Ellroy in some sort of attempt to understand my father. It's a pretty fucked up thing to do when you consider how abhorrent Ellroy is. But, just like my father, Ellroy is engaging and admirable, just a miserable and complex man. My Dark Places both repulses and entices me. I love they way his honest approach to autobiographical writing has the ability to produce that internal tension. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 19th, 2007|11:48 pm] |
Eugh. Feel awful.
I was put in awkward situation. I stupidly took the honest route and spoke my mind. Note for future reference: do not allow yourself to be placed in an awkward situation after a glass of red wine - your honest opinion will be the only thing rolling off your insipid tongue.
I will curl up and listen to David Sedaris recordings.
I will reread the awful parts of James Ellroy in an effort to understand my father.
I will wish for something more.
It won't go away. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 9th, 2007|09:11 pm] |
Articulation is a bitch.
Women in my family are dropping like flies. My Aunt Faye died this morning. She died alone in her brownstone in Brooklyn. Insert predictable I-Will-Follow-In-Her-Footsteps hoo-ha.
I'm glad I don't live in Canberra anymore. Melbourne welcomed me home with a warm, humid embrace. Rach took the Grrl Swirls in for dinner. Too many stories, not enough lulls in conversation.
Sunday spent lying on a bed, moping and whatnot. Evenings spent driving around in Dominik's car, listening to Pulp and Bruce Springsteen, and once searching for Kambah Adventure Playground at 3am.
I was quite awful to people this weekend. I apologise. Megan, I'm sorry you bore the brunt of my snappish ways. Dominik, I'm sorry for all those terribly humourless remarks about your jacket (I hope the felt pin makes up for it). Owen (and Joe), I'm sorry for the emasculating conversation topics at dinner. Abbey, sorry for not trying to get to know your new gal-pals better. I'm sorry I deserted their party to get high with ex-Grammar boys.
I don't want to go to work. |
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| "He Coughed Up the Ball Like His Grandma's Chocolates!" |
[Apr. 2nd, 2007|09:27 am] |
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I think I can now officially call myself a Melburnian as I attended my first AFL game on Saturday afternoon, and have entered my first footy tipping competition (however, due to the Salvos being a gamble-free area, all tipping must be done across the street in the 7/11 carpark). Melissa, my lovely co-worker, is an insane Collingwood supporter, and took me along as her guest to see their first round of the season against North Melbourne. Since I have no loyalty whatsoever to any football club, North Melbourne seemed to be fitting considering my location and the fact that at one stage, the club had ties to Manuka oval. So what better way to spend an afternoon than at the MCG, trying to understand a game that looks like the bastard child of Netball and Union. While the game was surprisingly engrossing, I think I took greater pleasure in eavesdropping on the man behind us, who gave a sailor a run for his money in terms of four-letter words and homophobic slurs. My favourite expression he used would have had to have been "he coughed up the ball like his grandma's chocolates". What the fuck does that even mean? Regardless, I'm looking for excuses to slip that piece of gold into everyday conversation. Another upside to attending the football with a woman as opposed to sitting around the television with a pack of boys, is the opportunity to objectify the players and rate their appearance. Harry O'Brien from Collingwood was my favourite piece of eye-candy for the afternoon, while I also ranked the various codes of football in terms of overall player appeal (soccer coming first, while League lurked at the bottom - very out of character, but there is hardly a sport where boys with bad posture are over-represented). While I'm in no hurry to get a yearly membership for a club, I'm totally keen to attend another game, if only to adopt bizarre expressions from aged Collingwood fans. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 30th, 2007|01:13 pm] |
Pat Benatar's Love is a Battlefield has made high rotation on Jennifer Sound (my iPod with crappy headphones as my ears are too small for regular run of the mill headphones - count your blessings kids).
Mel sang this song so beautifully at Penny's 29th at Miss Libertines. Rach stole the show with her pelvic thrusts, singing Salt N Pepa's Push It. I sang Jolene by Dolly Parton, sober, to an audience of fashionable hipsters. Penny won over my heart with singing My Sharona, and during the instrumentals, quoted lines from Reality Bites. Note: Dominik/'Furious D', Rach has moved into my Top 3 Karaoke Acts of All Time, knocking your Duran Duran performance at Areebar/Church/Whatever out. You had better impress me with 1053 2CA goodness. I expect spirit fingers et. al next weekend.
On this note, I'm making an ultimate Grrl Playlist this weekend. I suspect that it will be littered with Anna Oxygen, Bitch and Animal ('Best Cock on the Block'), Lolita Storm and anything JD Samson has ever had a hand in. |
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| All of a sudden, I miss everyone. |
[Mar. 26th, 2007|08:21 pm] |
In some preteen, Dear Diary, twirling my hair around my finger, Corey Haim is so dreamy sort of fashion, I feel that the following should be stated: everything is breaking my heart. The onset of winter has always had this disasterous ability to remind me how incredibly lonely I am, and how much I yearn for butterflies, bed-buddies and intimacy. Summer has never had the power to provoke these feelings; something about the sticky heat and wanting an inpenetratable space (both literally and metaphorically) between myself and others. I have trouble relating to people in steady relationships, as I've decided that these people are of a different make to me. These are a breed of people who have little trouble in expressing emotion, and who fortunately aren't prone to over-analysing the most basic of human behaviour. Friends of mine fall in and out of relationships seamlessly, and I'm left sour-faced, stubborn, and ultimately unhappy. Particular friends grow tired of my consistently uncompromising outlook, and I fear I'm within days of losing their friendships. I'm not the person I once was - I've become an exaggerated version of my prior self, although I didn't think it humanly possible to become more shy, introverted and awkward than I was two years ago. The thought of going out on the prowl, liquored (and tarted) up, makes me nervous and anxious. I can't think of a worse way to spend an evening. I've become aged and dull (not that I think there is a direct correlation between the two mind you), and I've lost something I never really knew I had.
I'm sorry, but I can't fake it anymore, and I feel that that act was all you had come to expect from me. I'm frustrating, and hard work, and not that adorable sweet girl you've carved out in opposition to who you want to be. You should know better. |
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| A Better Son/Daughter |
[Mar. 25th, 2007|10:28 pm] |
My Great Aunt Jane died this morning. I awoke in a groggy haze to a phone call from my mother in Colorado bearing the bad news. My Great Uncle Max is not intending to hold a funeral, or a ceremony of any description. He is driving down to Finley from Toledo and has planned to have her buried at the Powell family plot, next to his parents (something I find somewhat amusing considering my Great Grandmother was always quite sour to Jane). Despite my Italian Catholic roots, this isn't the first time one of our family members has been buried without any sort of ceremony to mark the event. My late paternal grandfather passed away in January 2005, and there wasn't even a wake held, much to the disgust of my Aunt Sara, a woman who strongly clings to any remaining family members after both of her parents passed twenty or so years ago.
My mother also told me that they've found my grandmother a nice assisted living apartment in Broomfield, a couple of miles from her old apartment, and slightly closer to my Aunt and Uncle's house. However my mother's sister Jane isn't doing too well. The chemotherapy is destroying her body, and she is unable to fight any sort of infection, no matter how small. What's worse is the fact that she's fallen into a depression that terrifies my mother. My Aunt rarely wants to get out of bed, and won't speak to anyone but my mother, even ignoring her husband and their youngest, Erik. I hate to imagine my Aunt in that condition. This is the woman who giggled like a pre-teen school girl and threw pretzels at me after I gave an inpromtu lecture on smoking inside after walking in on her and my mother smoking pot in my mother's living room a few years ago. My Aunt has always been so full of energy, life and warmth that it's almost impossible to imagine her differently. Understandably my mother is concerned, and will probably extend her stay in the US.
Apparently all overseas phone calls are awful, and without a doubt, reduce me to a red-eyed crying mess. Receiving a drunken, angry, abusive voicemail message from my father was not something I needed on Monday morning. Frustrated that I hadn't replied to one of his emails, my father decided to leave a message on my voicemail, screaming/slurring "Fuck You!" before hanging up. While my father has a dangerous temper, I thought I had seen the last of it when I reached fifteen and stopped being quite the brat I previously was. However, his temper made a return and left it's mark on my voicemail. I pulled over on some side street in Camberwell and sat there for a good twenty minutes, rolling cigarettes. I get incredibly frustrated with my father. He dips in and out of my life, with very little regularity or stability. I get sick of routinely putting faith in him - faith to maintain some sort of relationship with me or faith to quit drinking - only to have him inevitably disappoint me down the track. I guess this time I was beating him to the punch. |
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| I dream of orca whales and owls, but I wake up in fear. |
[Mar. 17th, 2007|01:21 am] |
Those who know me well are aware of the fact that I'm prone to go through phases, usually characterised by obsessively consuming one thing or immersing myself in one activity for a period of time. That period of time typically ranges from a week to a month, and ensures, to some degree, that I'll play the part of a recluse and shut myself away for hours. However, my social life these days doesn't allow me to transform myself into the hermit I've slipped in and out of in the past. My latest phase has been post-World War II English fiction, mainly returning to my staple Evelyn Waugh, as well as reading various John Wyndham novels and whatever else I can steal from friends who won't disown me for dog-earing their paperbacks. For the past three weeks I've enjoyed nothing more than lying in bed at night, with the window open to the sounds of Errol, and reading till I fall asleep. This activity has been forced to set up camp on the backburner for the past week as all evening social engagements have either ended in a Prudence jaunt (both nights included a Moscow Mule, red wine and Hunky Spunky Bartender Boy) or arriving home too late to do anything but shut my eyes the second my head hits the pillow. Despite having numerous social engagements and receiving word from Rach that both Ramon and Pete found me impressive and 'rad', I still don't feel very 'on'. That was once again mentioned by another friend Clare earlier this evening as we stood in Jissie and Thomas' kitchen and drank whiskey sours. She noted that I seemed a little flat. It's a difficult comment to respond to, particularly when you have no idea why. I s'pose there are a number of things I could blame it on, ranging from anemia, to family issues, to the changing weather, but I'm unsure of whether any of those are at the root of the supposed problem.
***
I recently was involved in a discussion over pots of beer, red wine and cigarettes regarding personal role models or idols. While Rach said that Bjork was her sweetheart and/or shining star, I couldn't help but gush over Amy Sedaris. How this topic came up in conversation began with Rach defending Bjork's highly eccentric ways (leading to referencing this nugget of YouTube gold), and in turn, me exposing one of the bizarre little things I do in my head: what would Amy Sedaris do? Don't get me wrong, I dig on the majority of Bjork's music (Medulla and anything past it, however, can be shoved right back up Bjork's ass), but the woman is seriously, over-the-top, beyond-Britney nuts. More importantly, she's so detached from any sense of reality, to a point where her audience is unable to relate to her on any tangible level. I s'pose that draws on much larger concerns I have with art. If one's art is unable to speak to, or more importantly, to engage with an audience, what's the fucking point? Granted the various semesters I spent dabbling in fringe philosophy courses at university should supply me with the tools necessary to argue that the above opinion is ignorant for however many reasons, but to be perfectly fair, in most part, my university days were spent on orange vinyl couches chain smoking, or wanting to castrate Tim for failing to do his part for that piece of shit student rag. At any rate, back to the subject of kick-ass queens of kitsch versus eccentric Icelandic art wankers - Ms. Sedaris wouldn't tolerate a minute of Bjork's nonsense. She'd put a martini in Bjork's hand, a cigarette in her mouth, and tell her, quite frankly, to shut the fuck up. I s'pose that's why Amy is my kind of woman, and more specifically, my kind of role model. As I frequent various bars and clubs in this city, I'm constantly faced with art wankers, and all I would love to do is exactly that, to tell them to shut the fuck up.
***
Come in, come in
Come into my world I've got to show
Show, show you
Come into my bed
I've got to know
Know, know you
I have dreams of orca whales and owls
But I wake up in fear
You will never be my
You will never be my dear
Will never be my dear, dear friend
Dear dear friend, dear dear friend. |
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| Capturing Moods |
[Mar. 4th, 2007|04:55 pm] |
I’ve had a mixed twenty-second birthday. For the greater part, it was excellent; I was taken out for lunch on Friday, had a party at our office thrown by co-workers and after-work drinks at the Mountain Goat Brewery, as well as having dinner at Shanghai and drinks at Prudence with friends last night. The events that have clouded this fun roughly fall into three categories: family, career, and happiness.
My favourite Aunt was diagnosed with breast cancer three or so months ago, and the second round of chemo is destroying her body. For a woman who is so lively, hearing that Jane barely has the energy to get up in the morning is understandably upsetting. My grandmother who lives twenty minutes away from Jane has fallen three times in the last week and is now in urgent need of assisted living. Bruises have scaled her body and I can only think how scared and hopeless she must feel. Last but not least, my great Aunt (also named Jane, but who looked more like Jackie-O rather than Godfather II era Talia Shire) is on her deathbed and is not expected to live any longer than a month. My mother is understandably worried, and it’s obvious that the distance is killing her. She’s arranged to take a month or so off work and head over to Colorado to help get her mother into a home, and to help her sister through chemo. I started thinking about what I am going to do when my mother is diagnosed (again), for this sort of cancer has a history in our family, and it’s not really a matter of if you’ll get it, but more a matter of when during menopause. Rach asked if I would consider getting a mastectomy as a pre-emptive measure, and to be honest, I wouldn’t be too unhappy (God knows how often I complain about my breasts). If my mother was diagnosed within the next year, would I move back to Canberra to care for her? How would I support my mother and I? Would or could I expect assistance from my father?
Work is completely hectic right now, and for the most part I welcome the workload (minus the several incidence reports I’ve had to write this week including, but not limited to, suicide, police sieges and drug raids). Our team of four has decreased to two, meaning that I have taken on a co-worker’s entire portfolio (roughly an extra sixty clients), as well as dealing with various managerial responsibilities such as sorting invoices and making trips to Foodbank to pick up various items for material aid. I love when work is busy, however right now is an awful time to be bestowed such responsibility as I’ve been head hunted by another housing provider in the east for a position that would considerably advance my career. I’m torn at the moment as I’ve got a loyalty to EastCare as well as to my clients, however this career opportunity is enticing. This time last year I would settle for any sort of employment, and now I have job opportunities across the board.
While the career aspect to work has me slightly unhinged, work itself also seems to be grating my nerves. My clients are becoming more everything – more violent, more agitated, more work. I come home and try to unwind, and I worry that I’ve become desensitised to other people’s pain. Nothing shocks me any more – I hear stories of domestic violence every day and see women with cigarette burns and bullet wound scars and I don’t have the expected reaction. I don’t cry, and that frightens me. I begin to view people as potential case plans – working out which support systems to link them in with, working out their housing plan, working out the intervention order. They almost become faceless, just clients on paper. People tell me that this is normal, that this is the way that people in this industry survive, and that disturbs me. I don’t want to come to a point where I’m bereft of compassion, and everyone just becomes another thing to move on from.
There’s nothing like someone else telling you that they’re worried about your mental state to increase your anxiety levels. At Christmas, my mother told me that she suspected that I had depression, and provided me with a list of counsellors in Melbourne to arrange a consultation with. I thought she was over-reacting, and I threw some ill-advised infantile hissy fit about how I was not going to spend another three years of my life on anti-depressants (three years starting in Grade 11 in which I constantly had to fight the feeling of physically swallowing my own tongue as well as my libido practically absconding). After the start of the New Year, I had felt as if things were going swimmingly. I thought I was happy, I thought I was doing fine. Apparently I’m not. Rach, my coworker Melissa and Lisa have all mentioned that I seem to be, at worst, depressed, and at the very least, down. I know that these three women care, but being told that I’m not mentally sound by three people who know me well just created more anxiety, not to mention getting me somewhat angry. Of course I’m not 100% at the moment – my family is ten thousand kilometres away, and in their time of need, I can’t be with them. My mother’s sister barely has the energy to stand. My work is intense and exhausting. I’ve witnessed a great number of things people aren’t usually privy to. I’m sorry if I’m short on the phone, but I’m under some pressure at the moment, and I’m going to need for you to cut me some slack. I need someone too, and I can’t be everyone’s fucking shoulder right now. |
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| I will play in a noise band... |
[Feb. 23rd, 2007|12:04 am] |
I will play in a noise band as it will allow me to disguise continuous musical fuck-ups. "I meant to do that, motherfuckers! It's motherfucking art!"
I will play in a noise band as it will allow me to turn my back to the audience and they will excuse the fact that I have no 'junk in my trunk'. Black jeans that sit half-way down your arse are all the rage for us pancake-arsed folk.
I will play in a noise band as it will let me scream non-sensical ramblings into a microphone in public, as opposed to talking to myself on public transport. "Your washing machine can be picked up from the deli at nine."
I will play in a noise band as it will allow me to jerk ill-rhymatically to melodies that only exist in my head. My bouts of cerebal palsy will be mimiced, not shunned.
I will play in a noise band as I will be able to tell people that I play in a noise band and not have to explain what sort of genre it is. No one actually wants to admit that they have no idea what noise is. |
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| Lala: "Your name is Baby Stoned" (mao mao) |
[Feb. 21st, 2007|10:00 am] |
Since moving down here, Sam and I have had grandiose plans about getting mashed together, and on Friday night that finally came to fruition – it only took us a fucking year. Due to my increasing addiction to Arrested Development (I know, I know – way to completely ride the coat-tails of that bandwagon), we decided to smoke a few, make some sort of fancy pants risotto and watch Buster and Co. in their last season. Sam also had heard much about my love for Prudence Long Island Ice Teas, and since he’s come of age in the past month, we decided to hit up Prudence with Mikey, Andrew and Lala. Poor mashed Sam – conversation seemed to be impossible. We made it home from Prudence around 12, smoked some more, watched a few episodes and then crashed, which is nothing unusual considering my history with pot. The whirlwind of fun ended with breakfast at Hot Poppy the next morning.
On Sunday afternoon Rach, Mish-Mash and I cooled off at North Melbourne Pool, and I spent the greater part of my time in the water silently chastising the kicking and screaming children around me, making promises to myself to never have children, or at least not until I’ve developed some sort of patience. Screaming children aside, North Melbourne Pool is filled with hip twenty-somethings who wear their sunglasses in the water and fresh young couples with their fashionable newborns decked out in kid’s boutique gear. Needless to say, handstand competitions are frowned upon, as is frolicking in the kiddie’s fountain (let that be a lesson to you).
Monday night was Cloud City’s (Sammy’s digs) first gig staring Ian Mackaye’s latest outfit The Evens. Although I had barely any sleep the night before and a vigorous case of nausea, I’m glad I made the trek. The Evens were great, and Ian reminded me of my father with the added bonus of being able to get out a sentence in a timely fashion. Ian had this ability to sincerely engage with the entire audience, and the converted warehouse space made you definitely feel like you were just hanging out at your friend’s house. I loved the harmonies between Ian and Amy, although I can’t place my finger on exactly who they reminded me of. Congrats Sammy on such a successful gig – hope the clean up wasn’t too brutal.
It seems another wave of interstate guests is about to descend upon my humble abode, beginning with Abbey and Megan on the 7th. I’ve managed to score two days off on their visit, and I can guarantee the majority of those two days will be spent having loose lunches and hearing about their recent romps with various Canberran boys. It should make for entertaining conversation, even if I have had daily updates from Megan and late night phone calls from a very drunk Abbey and Roady. |
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| Please Don't Kick My Baby |
[Feb. 16th, 2007|04:59 pm] |
Tomorrow marks one year of living in Melbourne, and due to the fact that I’m a sentimental ink-slinger with a penchant for extreme time wastage, I welcome the opportunity to gush about the places, people and lifestyles this city provides. In some sort of anal-retentive Nick Hornby-esque attempt, I had hoped to compile a variety of top five lists outlining various haunts and sights, however it came to my attention that most fall within the drinking and feasting category, and to compile only one top five list of bars and restaurants would be akin to spending upwards of five minutes with Thom Yorke (read: incomparable agony). Suffice to say, I still dig on lists so I decided to make only one top five (a list of my five favourite things about this city), with the remainder of Melbourne’s charm filed alphabetically.
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 11th, 2007|06:52 pm] |
Excuse the terribly short entry as I am about to scuttle off to Lygon Street for Italian treats and good conversation.
Rough run-down of the past week or so:
-Conflict Resolution Training in Surrey Hills for three days last week. Learned how to de-escalate situations as well as dealing with violent clients. Doubt any of the above mentioned training will work with clients on Ice. Still, three days out of the office was bitchin'.
-Copious amounts of red wine + boys from Man Killed + work the next morning = painfully long Friday.
-Aleks and the Ramps new single is super cute. I still love If You Want It Come and Get It. Janita is also super cute.
-Is it just a whale?
-Lovely meeting the infamous Elyane finally, as well as Jess. Owen is now strictly known as Poggle, and Henry as Piggle. Owen and Henry are starting a children's music group. I am already a fan based purely on their improvisations on the curb out the front of the Rob Roy. Every child should be advised against licking railings.
-We never made it to the beach. Big surprise.
-The Night Markets are super romantic, minus the awful cover band made up of police officers.
-Warwick and I have an uncanny ability to have stoner conversations without pot.
-Magazine launch parties attract the awful late-twenties set who are more subtle at displaying their absent senses of humour.
-Missing Link was being unkind to the Riot Grrl genre - I purchased heavily discounted Le Tigre, Anna Oxygen and Gossip albums. I also purchased R. Borlax and I'm enjoying it. Thanks Jarod for the discount.
-I burnt one of my favourite shirts - it had a pussy bow and everything. Irons are not for children.
-I'm addicted to Arrested Development, and I am unable to decide who I prefer - Buster or Gob. |
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| A Lesson in Modesty |
[Feb. 1st, 2007|05:42 pm] |
I suppose I routinely use this journal as some sort medium to vent my work related frustrations and career uncertainties, and as a result, I can understand that it may be frightfully boring for the vast majority of you to read. That said, I'm in no mood to halt this rickety freight train and what follows is a collection of nonsensical ramblings that I don't expect any of you to attempt to read, let alone employ the patience necessary to finish it.
At any moment, I know I'm going to be found out. Day by day, I can feel my true role being exposed. I'm a fraud, and at some stage, everyone will work it out. On Tuesday I was assigned a new client. She is one of the many women I work with who have escaped domestic violence, and unfortunately, she is also one of the many women I work with who have escaped Sudan. After fleeing her husband, she moved to Melbourne with her four children (a fifth on the way), only to be ostracised by her extended family and left homeless. With little hesitation, I moved her into one of our transitional housing properties this week, and furnished the house with basic appliances as well as giving the family linen sets - everyday items that families require. As I left she said "God Bless You" and gave me a hug. Her children followed suit, and the smallest girl (dressed in the her best dress, no less) hugged my leg. I was deeply touched, but in an adverse way, almost feeling sick. I felt like such a fraud. I certainly do not deserve that sort of gratitude, and I most certainly do not deserve some sort of religious blessing. I'm doing a job that anyone can do - it's not this amazing act of kindness and virtue that people assume. There is so much background work that goes into the provision of social housing, and I feel like such a jerk because I get to reap the credit of so many people's hard work just because I'm the face-to-face worker. When I tell people what sort of work I do, they always reply with the standard "That must be rewarding,", and all I can think is "Yes, unfairly so." I felt so guilty about accepting her blessing - I haven't done anything amazing aside from basic transitional housing duties that anyone with a basic understanding of Microsoft Office and an introduction to the social housing sector couldn't do. I know this is something that will grate on me in the future - slowly, and with precision. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 24th, 2007|11:56 pm] |
Fuck this. My wallet has been stolen, and I've got fuck all. It's all fucking gone. I currently have the dollar-sixty-five in change on my mantle, no fucking tram ticket and no fucking liscence. Fuck having a bank with branches only in Canberra. Fuck going to work tomorrow. Fuck it all.
EDIT:
Thank-you anonymous junkie-thief for returning my wallet to my next-door neighbours front door-step (sans the $3.70 and weekly tram ticket). Honestly, I am very grateful, particularly since I wasn't too keen on waiting three weeks for a new liscence. Granted I cancelled every card, but thank-you for returning my darling vintage Glo-Mesh wallet with all its cards and notes intact. Your guilt must have been tripped after you spotted my Salvation Army business cards - bless your cotton socks. Also, thanks My Disco! for turning my terribly awful day into a wonderful night. I secretly melt inside every time I hear the intro to Perfect Protection. However, would it be too much to ask to hear Troubled Receiver every now and again? |
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| A Few Things on My Mind |
[Jan. 24th, 2007|09:57 am] |
| [ | tunes |
| | The Promise Ring | ] |
First and foremost, why the fuck can't Australia come up with a festival on par with Coachella? Granted I'm not the biggest fan of festivals (camping, for starters, not to mention having to spend three days amongst crowds high on whatever drug they managed to sneak in the gates doesn't sound that bitchin'), but I would suck it up if a line-up similar to Coachella 07 presented itself. Getting to see Jarvis Cocker, Sonic Youth, The Jesus and Mary Chain, Explosions in the Sky, The Rapture, Regina Spektor, ETC. within a matter of days just blows my mind. Fuck Big Day Out - your line-ups in recent years have sucked considerable balls and Ken West's recent spineless retreat has reassured this punter that her money is much better spent attending side-shows of the one or two artists she has any real interest in.
Secondly, spending time with a raging hypochondriac is never good for one's well-being. At present I'm convinced I've got endometriosis, not to mention an advanced case of microcytic anemia. At least the latter would explain my constant lethargy, while the former would explain a great number of things. Perhaps I should stop putting off making that trip to the GP. It can't be worse than the last time, and at least I won't be given a prescription for antibiotics the size of horse tranquilizers and a shopping list for cranberry juice and Ural.
Thirdly, I've become a domestic goddess and our house now smells of the generic brand of Domestos. It should be noted that I went slightly insane last night, and decided to scrub the floors of our house at 10:30pm while listening to Le Tigre and mourning their recent disbandment. I also bleached a number of towels and started washing the walls with ammonia to deter the small black ants from turning our staircase into their split-level home.
Lastly, I received news yesterday that has completely broken my heart and shattered the remaining faith I had in the concept and the strength of love. Seemingly out of the blue, Lala and Andrew broke up. Over the past few months, I have viewed Andrew and Lala as some sort of indicator that love does exist, and that it is possible to find someone who will adore you, flaws and all, and will be there at the end of every long hard day, equipped with a cup of tea, cigarette and warm arms to crawl into. It troubles me greatly to see this couple that I had idealised for however many months fall apart so suddenly. And even though Andrew and Lala joked that they were going to adopt me, it certainly does feel like I'm once again the child of divorce, and all I can think to do is to devise plans a la The Parent Trap to reunite my 'parents'. |
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| Thank-Yous Are Best Served Warm. |
[Jan. 21st, 2007|12:37 pm] |
Dear Cute Sideburns-Sporting Bartender at Prudence,
While I'm completely thankful for your continual generosity in regards to giving me double Long Island Ice Teas for the price of a single, this also means that I get entirely too inebriated in a short period of time and have trouble walking the four blocks home without either a) merging into terrace house front-fences; or b) keeping the contents of my stomach down. Also, when you play both Nick Cave and Pulp's This is Hardcore in a space of fifteen minutes, I fall in love with you even more. Unless you want some crazy idealistic redhead crushing on you, I'd suggest that you start playing other music and stop giving me free drinks.
Love from Long Island Ice Tea Girl.
Dear Clare, Rach and Jissy,
Thanks for being absolutely kick-ass friends. I love that one conversation can begin with talking about Handsome Tom and the IGA Heart-throbs, before moving onto the topic of hysterical ovaries a la The Female Eunuch, and ending on the horrendous and strictly self-indulgent nature of modern conceptual art. I adore the fact that I've met a group of women who share the same values and traits, and that we never take ourselves too seriously. I love that I'm a good three to five years younger than all of you, but I never feel the age gap.
Love from No. 1 Asset: Front Porch
Dear Chetwynd Street Crew,
Thank-you Andrew for the large screen television. Thank-you Mikey for the Foxtel, Wii and surround sound. Thank-you Rachael for bottomless cups of tea and vegemite toast. Thank-you Lala for bitchin' conversation and cigarettes. Thank-you Jarod for one-liners, and that face you did during Teenage Tourettes Camp. Thank-you Mikey and Jarod for introducing the term 'Bummers' into my vocabulary. Thank-you Foxtel for numerous hours of wonderful television goodness, including, but not limited to, Entourage, The Daily Show, Kenny Vs. Spenny, My Sweet Sixteen, etc.
Love from Semi-Permanent House Guest and Couch Warmer Chloe |
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| Important Lessons |
[Jan. 17th, 2007|10:25 am] |
01. Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo is quite possibly the greatest movie of all time.
02. There are various types of infinity. I now hold the trump card on the infinity + 1 calls.
03. Playing charades makes the tram come quicker.
04. Spoon is the greatest place in Brunswick.
05. Bloody Marys are my drink of choice for hot summer nights.
06. The Dismemberment Plan's Gyroscope is on a continuous loop in my head (and I'm lovin' it).
07. Shopping with males is close to being the most irritating activity known to me.
08. Prudence know how to make a potent Long Island Ice Tea.
09. Sally Spectre (Bold and the Beautiful, fools!) died. May her hair rest in peace.
10. Yesterday was the third time in my life that a client has threatened to go to A Current Affair due to public housing waitlists. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 12th, 2007|03:24 pm] |
| [ | tunes |
| | The Dismemberment Plan - Emergency & I | ] |
Word on the street is that I am completely smitten with this year. I know we're only in the honeymoon period, but I think it's safe to say that I'm gonna take this year home to meet my mother. She'll probably be her lewd and inappropriate self, and I'll be rubbing this year's thigh under the dinner table and making apologetic eyes.
While this week at work has been entirely too long, it's been entirely too short in terms of down-time. The last remnants of the party season left on Sunday morning, and this afternoon sees the arrival of Sari, Munro and Megan as well as Jarvis-lookalike Mathematics Major Matt, not to mention Miles on Tuesday. When Mischa and Helen told me that they were spending their summers lounging around on Sydney beaches and curing AIDS in Africa respectively, I thought I was going to be lonely in our house. Ha - now I'm wondering when I'm going to get a night alone.
Recently I've spent a few nights over at Chetwynd Street, sitting in the lounge room, smoking obscene amounts of cigarettes and bitching at the television with Rach, Lala, Andrew, Mikey and Jarod. It should be known that I'm totally gay for Lala and Andrew, and can say that I've never honestly met nicer or more genuine people. Last night Rach and I went to Killmore to collect Myra, Rach's new miniature Daschund puppy. While I held Myra, I felt my uterus sigh, as if to say "I know you're not going to be ready for kids for a good ten years, but don't let me wither away! I need this!" and me batting those thoughts away like flies.
Jissie, Clare and I are actually starting a band. I know, I know - four years spent talking about it, and now I'm finally doing it with people I've only known for only eight months. Right now it's looking to be a very Le Tigre meets Tracy + the Plastics type ensemble (with added burlesque moves I believe [a la The Town Bikes]) and that suits me just fine. |
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chlonline's journal