saturday : 30 aug 2003
It is 3:42am precisely and dad turns 60 today. My brother's family of three is travelling north of BrisVegas to see him for the weekend. I visited Queensland in July for my niece's first birthday and my own 34th. It would have been marvellous to be up there now for dear old dad, but unlike an electron, I cannot be in all places 'at once'. I will call later today to wish him a happy birthday.
The dancing was what I needed. While there was no band, the atmosphere was reasonably pumped – fewer people means more room to vogue on podiums, less crowding at the bar, and free entry. No complaints here. On the way down I dropped in for five minutes on Angela and her darling daughter Rhiannon, who live a few blocks from me. Although it was half past 11, they were still awake. Rhiannon was playing a shooting game on the PS2 where one uses violence to solve problems, and Angela was letting the stress of another hard week at work ebb into the futon mattress. Although they were overjoyed to see me, neither wanted to come clubbing. Human nature is so unpredictable.
In keeping with dance night traditions, the club had organised foolish games with which to entertain the patrons. They consisted of (a) the first guy to eat ice cubes off a girl's torso, (b) the first girl to eat a Polly Waffle protruding from a guy's crotch, and (c) the reddest bum in a spanking competition. Apart from killing the energy of the dance music, these interludes gave me an opportunity to buy drinks from the bar without missing a good song. The regular DJ had control of the decks as always. He is OK but occasionally tests out a new song which tends to chase people off the floor, as well as reminding me to address any bladder or shoelace problems. Once warmed up though, I got moving and hardly paused before the final track rocked the PA system four hours later.
With Coles closing at midnight, I picked up a box of Savoury Shapes at the petrol station instead and munched those while trudging through light rain back home. Of course, I deposited complimentary biscuits into random letterboxes along the way – my generosity knows no bounds.
The terminator fast approaches so I had better get what little REM sleep is attainable. There is salt on my brow, which means I had performed a solid exercise workout while dancing. Hopefully I can expect a few hours of quality snoozing, then have a hot shower upon waking at the crack of 11:30am.
friday : 29 aug 2003
A windy Friday night. I am just home after downing more-than-one slash less-than-six pots of Carlton Draught in town with fellow code monkey Chris from work, followed by a salad roll from the local burger joint.
The immediate plan tonight is to cut loose with bourbon and dry before heading off to a local nightspot for a bout of clubbing. Heat two weeks ago was pretty good, but starting late meant that I was running on vibe and atmosphere rather than carbohydrates and booze. Even though the cover band will absorb precious dance time, I always enjoy watching competent live performances. Previous fixtures at this venue have all been entertaining – bashing out a guitary mixture of golden moldies and recent favourites. If they manage to render Evanescence's 'Bring Me to Life' convincingly or some Blink 182, I'll consider the cover charge well spent, never mind picking up or getting smashed, which is not likely at their prices, hence the homestead head start. "And here's a drunk we prepared earlier..." Euan and Suzie are watching footy and will probably hit the sack soon. I did not go out last weekend at all. Thus the front door and the nightspot beyond beckons to me like a bug zapper to a moth.
The week has been turbulent but in unremarkable ways. I finished the Nick Hornby book in record time and confirmed the restoration of cuts to Death Wish II on DVD (Sleaze Hounds: 1, Conservative Fuckheads: 6375). One late night working and another spent laughing through the new bachelor TV show pretty much sums up my recent history. I also baby-sat for two of Marylu's boys last Sunday night. If they didn't enjoy the plastic bow-n-arrow tournament, I sure did. Watch kids shoot missiles armed with rubber suckers at various targets for two hours and you are bound to see some seriously funny shit. (Yes James, that arrow you licked really did go up the dog's bum, honest.) Speaking of spectacles, check out NASA's Hubble Site to ameliorate any disappointing Mars-gazing experiences.
sunday : 17 aug 2003
It is cold and dark outside. Rain is pelting the windows, the house is silent, and I am too sleepy to watch a film or read about bloody hobbits. Now is a good time to reflect upon an interesting week.
Work was full-on, with continuous support issues to handle and lots of programming (or 'code cutting' as I call it) for some existing reports. This is the way I like it: firm deadlines and more work to do than a mere five days allows for. A string of late nights had sapped my energy reserves, but that somehow makes it all the more manic and enjoyable. Despite having so much fun in the corporate fish tank, the arrival of Friday afternoon was welcomed by all of us.
The evening started badly when my left thumb jammed itself between a pair of glass doors at the pub. Following a natural impulse, I pushed harder to slide it out the other side, but this only wedge it in more. Then the pain hit. Trying to stay calm – and knowing people inside were watching this crisis unfold – I pulled the door backwards slowly, eventually getting the all-important opposable digit back under my control. Besides pouring it down your throat, the other good thing about beer is that the chilled glass is handy for treating bruises and minimising pain. After a few Carlton Draughts, I had forgotten the whole episode. Four of us went in search of food when things slowed down to the point where our group was almost the largest in the venue. We ended up at Chilli Cafe for spicy Asian food and good conversation. For me, that was Friday night. I put down Lord of the Rings and turned in just before midnight. Trust me, no one was more shocked than I!
Saturday night made up for it. The divine Alice was celebrating her birthday in Brunswick Street, Fitzroy. Because Suzie and Euan drove me in, I was planning to have a big night, or at least go with the flow. Well, needless to say, there was a lot of flow. But even before the desired effects started to kick in, I had already (a) walked into the lady's toilet (to the bemused surprise of two young women) thanks to not wearing my glasses and hence misreading the symbols, and (b) pointed out to everyone two patrons who looked like – sorry – who "were" Claire Danes and Lisa Kudrow. At this point I theorised to someone that it was going to be a long night. How true that was.
Drinks and more drinks followed, all at a steady rate. This was not a bingeing night. Our group was an urbane, witty mix of backgrounds and professions. Euan wore his kilt for the occasion and looked amazing, all of the women were dressed to-die-for, and the other guys were smart, smiling and relaxed. Still, with no dinner in my belly, I had reached that pleasant buzz on the borderland between conversational virtuosity and mischief making. Which way would I go? As it turned out, the survivors bought more drinks at another bar on Brunswick before splitting up and catching taxis going in opposite directions. I wanted to dance, needed to, but it was too late to journey all the way home on the Nightrider to go clubbing at my suburban haunt, so I went to Heat at the Crown Casino complex instead.
Attendance was below the norm for Heat, which may have explained the frequent commercial dance tracks. That suited me fine. I find it hard to dance to music I am unfamiliar with, and I prefer more melody. Hard techo is largely rhythmic with sparse electronic soundscapes. If it's driving and relentless like it was at Sirens one Friday night, I will go off, but those cases are rare. Give me commercial dance (and a good PA system) anytime. I stayed at Heat until closing time at about 6:00am. It was still dark and frosty outside, with the first signs off dawn leeching through the eastern sky. Depressingly, the first train out to the 'burbs was at 8:00am. Compare that to 5:00am Saturday mornings. There were no Nightrider buses, either. Argh!! I had breakfast at Maccas then ambled over to Flinders Street station for a one hour wait in the cold with no empty seats available. Stuff that for a joke. I could walk to South Yarra station in 45 minutes, so I did.
St. Kilda road – deserted, strewn with broken bottles and hungry seagulls – was quite an experience in the weak non-light. For instance, the monuments in the Botanical Gardens had a solemn quality that is only possible in the post-clubbing silence of dawn. The stark trees looked like frozen wraiths, and there were joggers, but not many. I heard one sucker approaching from behind. I turned to look, then continued walking. Imagine my surprise when he slapped me on my back and called out a derogatory remark! This particular fitness nut was actually one of the IT managers at work. We stopped to talk. He was as shocked as I was, although granted, I was wearing a black Hugo Boss single-breasted suit with a purple flower in the lapel, which I had picked at the garden clock to match my new Sportcraft shirt, and high-gloss Italian shoes. He wore an Adidas track suit, runners, and a bemused expression. One of us looked out of place.
I made it to South Yarra station with three minutes to spare – just enough time to relive my full bladder at the facilities – and boarded the train without my monthly ticket. Being fined was the last weirdism that could have happened, but I know from experience that inspectors never check early trains. Regardless, I had a colourful story ready to spin if I was caught. Anyway, it really was Sunday now. I got home at 9am and pretended that I had a full night's sleep. The dancing, long walk, sunshine, and bizarre encounter had woken me up. I caught some shut-eye later and spent the rest of the day having a 'quiet one'. Tonight I'll return to the bloody hobbits and dream of seeing Claire Danes and Lisa Kudrow in the lady's bathroom in Fitzroy.
wednesday : 13 aug 2003
Things are ticking along nicely – no complaints is the order of the day.
The unfinished portions of this website have been seducing me away from regular update chores like the journal, movie reviews and Chopping List. Doing a bit here and there just keeps me from applying for three week's holiday (without pay) to finish it all. In-progress creative projects eat away at my mind. Drawings in particular hijack every spare minute of my time. I remember carting half-done illustrations to work so that I could ink in another square inch to two of the picture at lunch time. Except for taking showers, I would not do anything without keeping that damn artwork within reach. Procrastination has delayed many an idea, but once I begin work on something, nothing else matters. Anyway, on with this entry.
The social highlight of last week was, again, Friday night. A dry, two-hour departmental information session was followed by complimentary finger food and alcohol. As a bachelor who buys rather than cooks 95% of all meals, you always take advantage of such gifts from the heavens. I took advantage. By the time I arrived at the pub afterwards, I was ready for a lie-down, or at least a leisurely puff on a Cuban cigar, but a rendezvous with other friends awaited.
After dodging raindrops during a quick march downtown, I arrived late, as I had forewarned. Everyone was chatting and sipping glasses of social lube. Boy, they looked comfortable. I grabbed a G&T and joined in. The banter eventually circled around to food, so we migrated to a Vietnamese restaurant and asked for a table seating ten. That was a pretty funny dinner, for reasons I cannot precisely recall. Suffice to say, you had to be there. At the end of it I was feeling rather bloated, since I had consumed a full meal plus wine (thank you Richard), on top of the savouries, VB and social lube from three hours before. 10:30pm was still early, however, so George and I cruised over to a few nightspots to mingle with the other nightowls. I danced to 80s music downstairs at D:ream while also checking out Noise Club upstairs, which featured DJs blasting out some entertaining though incredibly harsh Merzbow-style sonic armageddon. Wikkid. The rest of the weekend was spent indoors: the only guaranteed way of keeping money in your pocket.
Last night Michael from work invited me down to Prahran for "steak night" at the local, with Carlton Draught on tap as an appetizer. Yes thanks. The Godzilla-sized slabs of meat were served fast. Being a wasabi vetertan, I asked for the hottest English mustard and, like the Big Lizard himself, breathed fire more than once. Sorry about the singed eyebrows, Michael. Tonight I had a peasant's dinner consisting of 1 x small apple, 1 x dried apricot, 1 x tin of pink salmon, 3 x almonds, 1 x glass of OJ Simpson, 1 x Roman carrot, 1 x glass of water. I also exercised. Free pizza for lunch, you see...
wednesday : 06 aug 2003
It is 9:34pm and I am drinking Jim Beam Black and Diet Coke, listening to Limp Bizkit playing 'Nookie' loud on the stereo. I just spent 45 minutes talking to friends in Sydney, two comic book artists and horror fans I have known since 1992. Last night I finally submitted the long-overdue DVD review of Bride of Frankenstein for Michael D's great Australian site. Work is extremely busy in that satisfying hero-for-a-day manner, and the weekend is shaping up to be pretty ace.
In my sad, grey little world, life does not get much better than this – at least for a school night.
After drinks on Friday evening with some workmates, one of whom had planned to have a "bender" but didn't due to the way things unfolded, the weekend was strictly hermit mode for me. Saturday was spent in denial of my decision to get that DVD review published by Sunday midnight. The procrastination itinerary included watching movies all day followed by a gourmet feast at McDonalds, then some prurient Internet surfing, and capping it off with a magnificent broadcast of Rage, which played a collection of guitar-based music including a new Nine Inch Nails clip for 'Deep', and a selection of songs that were just fucking swell. The usual programme director must have been off sick. Good riddens! As is customary, I reached the brink of REM coma at about 2:23am, vowing to crash "right after I find out what the next clip is". A few microsleeps and a strong cup of tea had me perking up again, so I ended up pulling the plug (reluctantly) close to 4:00am. A shmart person would have downloaded the play list on the Rage website. But I is not shmart. Plus it is more fun not knowing what is coming up. There is nothing worse than enduring hours of total rubbish in order to catch a run of Foo Fighters clips at 3:30am. Like those mice that get shocked with electricity in lab experiments, I learned the hard way. As for setting the VCR to record it, well, that's just not the done thing; it is cheating. I eventually got the review completed – thank you for asking – at 2:00am Monday night. Time management is not one of my strengths.
Speaking of time, last Thursday morning my train was cancelled. Annoyed but philosophical, I hoofed it over to the newsagent for some 'library reading' and found a double issue of Mad Magazine, featuring piss-takes of Minority Retort, that awful SF series Endlessprize, and Bored of the Rings. Of course I bought it immediately, even though Mad's hit rate normally hovers around 15%. (Remember: not shmart.) To my surprise, I found myself grinning and chuckling under my breath at a number of gags, despite being surrounded by silent corporate mannequins on all sides. (My favourite bit was the Vending Machine Kung-Fu ensemble, which I photocopied and stuck to the side of our snack-food Dalek at work.) I am sure the image of a well-dressed monkey in a business suit giggling at a copy of Mad stayed with some of those commuters until, say, morning tea, or maybe even lunch time. Mad indeed. Or to quote a popular IT data processing phrase, "garbage in, garbage out".
Earlier this week I promised a friend that I would try to open up myself more on this journal, rather than merely reviewing my life, which I fear has been happening lately. I swear though, if I ever get the poems circling in a holding pattern in my head down on paper, so to speak, you will be pleading with me to get back to telling anecdotes. Nevertheless, let me end the same way I started, which is to say I feel great right now, all things considered. And that's not the bourbon talking.