Tuesday, July 06, 2004
Come and witness my karaoke prowess! Yes, tomorrow (Wednesday) is my Extreme Karaoke semi-final at the Laundry on Johnston St, Fitzroy. I still haven't decided what song to sing yet, and I'm starting to get really nervous about it. Last night I dreamed I was trying to tell the DJ what song I'd chosen and I couldn't remember.
This could be dismissed as pure dream paranoia, except that a very similar thing happened the week before last when I wanted to call my editor at the SMH about that stupid gay footballers article (which was actually in the paper on Saturday but I can't find it anywhere online, so I can't link to it). I called up the Herald switch but as the receptionist said hello, I realised that for the life of me, I couldn't remember the editor's surname.
So I said, "I'm after a section in the Saturday paper."
The receptionist said, "What section?"
I wanted to say "Spectrum" but I couldn't remember that name either, so I said, "You know, the one with the articles in it."
She said, "What sort of articles?"
And I couldn't remember the word "features" either, so I said desperately, "You know..."
"No, I don't," she said tartly.
"Ummm, kind of artsy articles and interviews and stuff..." (I was going to liken it to the Saturday Extra section in The Age, but I realised this would mean nothing to her.)
It was getting pretty embarrassing when in a blinding flash, the word "Spectrum" came back to me and mercifully she transferred me.
It was like that time on The Simpsons when Homer, deprived of his subliminal vocabulary-enlarging tapes, forgets the word for "spoon" and refers to it as a "tool used to dig food". Homer also once told his son Bart that "the doctors thought I might have brain damage." Bart replied, "Dad, what's the point of this story?" to which Homer responded, "I like stories."
And with that self-deprecating, circular segue, I'm back at my original point - tomorrow night's semi-final! It starts at 9pm and people will be judged on the cheer they receive, so please show up and cheer for me. Yaaaaay! you'll cheer. Yaaaaaaay!!
This could be dismissed as pure dream paranoia, except that a very similar thing happened the week before last when I wanted to call my editor at the SMH about that stupid gay footballers article (which was actually in the paper on Saturday but I can't find it anywhere online, so I can't link to it). I called up the Herald switch but as the receptionist said hello, I realised that for the life of me, I couldn't remember the editor's surname.
So I said, "I'm after a section in the Saturday paper."
The receptionist said, "What section?"
I wanted to say "Spectrum" but I couldn't remember that name either, so I said, "You know, the one with the articles in it."
She said, "What sort of articles?"
And I couldn't remember the word "features" either, so I said desperately, "You know..."
"No, I don't," she said tartly.
"Ummm, kind of artsy articles and interviews and stuff..." (I was going to liken it to the Saturday Extra section in The Age, but I realised this would mean nothing to her.)
It was getting pretty embarrassing when in a blinding flash, the word "Spectrum" came back to me and mercifully she transferred me.
It was like that time on The Simpsons when Homer, deprived of his subliminal vocabulary-enlarging tapes, forgets the word for "spoon" and refers to it as a "tool used to dig food". Homer also once told his son Bart that "the doctors thought I might have brain damage." Bart replied, "Dad, what's the point of this story?" to which Homer responded, "I like stories."
And with that self-deprecating, circular segue, I'm back at my original point - tomorrow night's semi-final! It starts at 9pm and people will be judged on the cheer they receive, so please show up and cheer for me. Yaaaaay! you'll cheer. Yaaaaaaay!!
