Thursday, May 13, 2004
Radiant cool, crazy nightmares. On Tuesday I went to have a "quick after-work drink" with Saige, except that Saige is the personification of that devil on your shoulder who goes "Get another beer! You know you want to!" Now I could pretend that Saige bullied me into drinking four stubbies and two-and-a-half pots that night, but that would be ignoring my own fundamentally alcoholic nature. In my defence, I did put up a pitiful fight at several points in the evening, beginning with a coffee instead of a Melbourne Bitter, and then when we went from St Jerome's to Rue Bebs I ordered a pineapple juice, at which Saige looked scornfully and said "Get yourself a beer, woman!" When we got to Cookie and she tried to go a third round, I put my foot down. Okay, I tapped it lightly on the ground and meekly submitted to sharing a final pot with Saige.
Anyway, I had to abandon my car in the city, where I'd parked it in a loading zone, and go back and get it the next morning. When I got back home, there was a beatnik poetry reading occurring in our spare room, which the Young Professionals are using as their rehearsal room (they have a gig tomorrow night at the Old Colonial Inn on Brunswick St if anyone is interested in experiencing that unique phenomenon!!).
I find it so hard to take beatnik poetry seriously. I'm in a dilemma - I've been invited to a reading of Allen Ginsberg's Howl, which I plan to endure purely for the accompanying "jazz cigarettes". And then I come home and it's being done with (apparently) no sense of irony, in my own house. I mean, there was this guy screaming this weird stream-of-consciousness poetry over random guitar riffs and bongos and pokings of keyboards with index fingers. It was quite difficult for me to get to sleep, given that this was occurring in the room directly above my own. How now, brown bureaucrats!
The next morning at 6:30am I was feeling like crap but I had to get out of bed to get my car from the loading zone. It wasn't that easy a project, and it was 8am by the time I got back into the city. And (here I pause to touch wood) my parking karma continues! It's amazing! For months now I've been doing more and more reckless parking misdemeanours, almost daring the parking inspectors to come and git me. Not paying for metered parking; staying in spots roughly twice the allotted time; and now the Great Loading Zone Steal of 2004, in which I was neither picking up nor setting down goods, and managed to park my car from 5pm to 8am in a half-hour loading zone.
Last night I met the screaming beatnik. His name is Sean and he's a friend of Hannah's from Brisbane. He talks in overwrought beatnikisms as well, to which I can't really do justice, but a typical sentence would go something like "Our vocabulary of fear is undergoing a cosmic expansion of the lexicon." It also turns out they recorded Tuesday night's poetry jam for posterity.
Also last night, I found out that two of my housemates are moving out, leaving our house with three soon-to-be-empty rooms. If anyone you know is looking for a new share house, email me on incrediblemelk[at]yahoo[dot]com[dot]au and we'll talk.
Anyway, I had to abandon my car in the city, where I'd parked it in a loading zone, and go back and get it the next morning. When I got back home, there was a beatnik poetry reading occurring in our spare room, which the Young Professionals are using as their rehearsal room (they have a gig tomorrow night at the Old Colonial Inn on Brunswick St if anyone is interested in experiencing that unique phenomenon!!).
I find it so hard to take beatnik poetry seriously. I'm in a dilemma - I've been invited to a reading of Allen Ginsberg's Howl, which I plan to endure purely for the accompanying "jazz cigarettes". And then I come home and it's being done with (apparently) no sense of irony, in my own house. I mean, there was this guy screaming this weird stream-of-consciousness poetry over random guitar riffs and bongos and pokings of keyboards with index fingers. It was quite difficult for me to get to sleep, given that this was occurring in the room directly above my own. How now, brown bureaucrats!
The next morning at 6:30am I was feeling like crap but I had to get out of bed to get my car from the loading zone. It wasn't that easy a project, and it was 8am by the time I got back into the city. And (here I pause to touch wood) my parking karma continues! It's amazing! For months now I've been doing more and more reckless parking misdemeanours, almost daring the parking inspectors to come and git me. Not paying for metered parking; staying in spots roughly twice the allotted time; and now the Great Loading Zone Steal of 2004, in which I was neither picking up nor setting down goods, and managed to park my car from 5pm to 8am in a half-hour loading zone.
Last night I met the screaming beatnik. His name is Sean and he's a friend of Hannah's from Brisbane. He talks in overwrought beatnikisms as well, to which I can't really do justice, but a typical sentence would go something like "Our vocabulary of fear is undergoing a cosmic expansion of the lexicon." It also turns out they recorded Tuesday night's poetry jam for posterity.
Also last night, I found out that two of my housemates are moving out, leaving our house with three soon-to-be-empty rooms. If anyone you know is looking for a new share house, email me on incrediblemelk[at]yahoo[dot]com[dot]au and we'll talk.
