Sunday, July 18, 2004

Marty, Marty, Marty. Last night I went to have a 'quiet drink' with Saige. After four glasses of wine at Kitten Club we went to Yoyogi where we had an Asahi with our toriteriyaki. Then Saige bullied me into going to this new ultra-expensivo pub in the crap end of Lygon Street. Seriously: I've never seen so much effort go into the preparation of a pot of Carlton. It was like an Oreo ad: first you rinse the glass in the special glass-rinsey thing, then you pour the beer, then you use a spatula to carve off any excess head, then you dunk it in cold water. Then you say "That'll be $3.20 thanks." Was I paying extra for the ceremony, or to hang out with the cream of Chapel Street? You be the judge.
But anyway. Saige said that her friend Marty had googled something and stumbled upon this blog, and been aggrieved at not being mentioned. Perhaps this is because I've met him about twice. Marty is a creative writer and recovering goth. He is hot and looks like Jack White. He doesn't like being referred to as Marty. Yay! Let's hear it for Marty!

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