Hello, friend

Interactive Talking Plush Portal Turret from Jonathan M. Guberman on Vimeo.

I am a creature of pure hangover

Because last night we went and saw our friend, The Boy from Brazil, playing with his band at the UTS uni bar. The bar had absurdly cheap Jameson (your tax dollars at work - thanks, uni subsidies!) and a bartender whose freepour technique was to start pouring and only stop because there was no more glass left to pour whiskey into. I am also suffering a bit because Little Lord Frenchelroy invited me to share a cigar, and I am far too weak to say no to a cigar of moderate quality when I'm a bit pissed, and so my whiskey hangover has a cigar hangover to keep it company. The two of them have got nice and cosy down in the back of my head, and I can just tell that they're going to lurk there for the rest of the day. I have already had a medicinal cupcake and a litre of water, and while the hangovers did appreciate being thus propitiated, I don't think I've convinced them to leave just yet. Maybe later I will try sacrificing a large felafel burger to them.

But my hangover is totally justified. We had a really nice night and caught up with The Boy from Brazil and his lovely girlfriend, who we haven't seen in years. The band was very good, though they did have one small problem. This is how I break their performance down;

Guitarist A+

Bass Player A+

Drummer B

Saxophonist A+

Trumpet A+

Keyboards A+

Female vocalist A++

Male rapper (SHOULD HAVE BEEN) ABSENT FAIL

That's mean - he was quite good, and was obviously having fun with it and not taking himself hugely seriously, but still... I was tolerating it up until he started doing the old 'I say hip, you say hop' bit to a room of about thirty people. 

Frenchelroy was in a bit of a mood about something, which was not helped by some drunk girls trying to balance a cocktail menu on his hat. Though I did cheer him up by confessing my weakness for beaujolais, which gave him something to sneer at and perked him right up. Ah, the French. So predictable. Next time he needs cheering up I'm going to tell him that Australian brie is better than anything you can get in France.

We met some really lovely German guys who humoured all my inane questions about Germany with patience (given that I was asking them a lot of searching questions about rural volunteer fire brigades in Bavaria, this was above and beyond the requirements of polite social interaction). As a side note, why do Germans have such a reputation for being humourless and severe? I've met a lot of Germans over the last year or so, and they have all been the loveliest, kindest and funniest people, with perfect English and nice teeth. Something else I've noticed about Germans is that they all seem to be really curious about what German words English speakers use, and it occurred to me that our selective knowledge of German must be a bit odd for them. Outside of a few bits and bobs (yes, no, hello, goodbye) I don't know any of the basic German words or phrases. But I do know words like zeitgeist, shadenfreude and weltanschauung, which express relatively complex ideas. Most of the Germans I've spoken to are totally unaware that we have adopted these words into common usage in English, and it must seem strange that someone who can't even introduce themselves in German knows a word like senchut.

It all gets a bit blurry after that. We'd managed to miss the last bus home, so we jumped in a cab. We came home and woke everyone up by stumbling around and giggling, which we promised we wouldn't do this time. Then I woke up and realised it was going to be a hangover day. And that's everything that has happened in my life up until now.

This is why they tell you not to go food shopping when you're hungry

Today's receipt from the supermarket;

• Gnocchi, potato, dry
• Kraft peanut butter, crunchy, 780g (in my head, this is to go on celery sticks as a snack - it will be eaten by the spoon, possibly with ice cream)
• Thick cream (no reason other than it was on sale)
• Unsalted butter (cupcakes, cupcakes, cupcakes)
• Block milk chocolate (also on sale)
• Toblerone qty 2 (also on sale)
• Smith's chips, crinkle cut (also on sale - curse you, Woolworths)
• Frozen peas (to prevent scurvy)

And what sort of dinner do we get from all that?

Gnocchi with cream and peas, and chocolate cupcakes. I am on a high of carbs and unrefined sugar, but when I come down I will be very, very disappointed with myself.

The other day my brother came home from work and pulled a Toblerone out of his backpack. 'This', he said, looking extremely pleased, 'is a present from past Jdack to future Jdack.' I love this idea. Right now I am quite upset with past Tash's lack of discipline. How could she cave like that after only three days of definitely-not-a-diet? How could she do that to me? But when I was eating that dinner, I was letting future Tash worry about the consequences, because back then I was present Tash, and I was enjoying my evening gorge. Right now I'm thinking that maybe future Tash will need to go for a long walk. But by then I will be present Tash, and she'll think that maybe yet another future Tash should go for that walk. Of course, when I go out on the weekend I will curse past Tash for being too lazy to get some exercise, because what will by then be present Tash won't fit into her dress. Am I making sense? Damn you, sugar rush. I'm going to go and lie down, and let a more rational future version of myself write the next entry.

EDIT: I am not alone! I just saw this, which explains this concept in a much clearer format. Hooray for comics!

I'm not a hero, I just have a short fuse and a foul mouth

Scene:

I'm walking to work on a rainy Monday morning. Things I am full of: bloat and ennui. Things I am not full of: food, because I am on what I am refusing to think of as a diet. Rather, it is a program of self-denial that aims to allow me to achieve a socially mandated, unrealistic ideal of beauty that I am not strong enough to pretend I don't care about, or disciplined enough to attain. In short, I am not my usually sunny, Pollyanna-ish self.

As I walk across the road at the lights I am preceded by a heavily pregnant woman with a toddler in a pram, and followed by a man in about his early thirties. As we cross to the far side of the road the red light starts to flash. Immediately, the shiny new BMW that had been waiting at the lights starts to inch forward. The hatchet faced matron in the car is obviously in a rush to get back to having nothing better to do with her life but demean shop assistants, because she instantly starts shouting at us to get off the road, and - just as the extremely pregnant woman walks in front of her car - gives us a series of blasts with the horn. 

Now, none of us had been dawdling. The time from red light flashing to this woman becoming irate was infinitesimal. And the pregnant lady was really very pregnant, and obviously somewhat shaken at being shouted and honked at so aggressively. The man and I, as if with one mind, turned to the driver of the BMW and unleashed a fairly appalling stream of profanity, accompanied by hand gestures that I didn't even know I knew. This was profanity that seemed to spring from somewhere primeval. This was genetic level linguistic abuse.

The BMW driver looked suitably shocked at being spoken to in such a way, and it felt really good. In spite of the fact that I had just spoken words in front of a toddler that she probably shouldn't have had to hear, I couldn't help but feel that I had done my small part to avenge the petty wrongs of the world. To stand up for the defenceless. To work off some of my Monday rage at someone who deserved it. The sun shone. The birds sang. All was well.

And end scene.

Nice try, McCarthy

Yes, it's that time again. I am looking for another job. Seek and CareerOne are getting a lot of looks at the moment, as is the UAC website because if I go back to uni no one can judge me for not having a job, right? Students are the wave of the future, right? 

Anyway, I was looking on Seek just now at the Arts, Media and Entertainment jobs under Graduates. In all of Sydney there are 42 jobs in this category, and I'm pretty sure there are more arts graduates than that running around out there. I can't kneecap them all - I'm just one woman - so the competition is obviously going to be pretty stiff for the decent jobs, even with my several weeks experience sitting at a desk trying to look as if I have a clue as to what I'm doing.

Luckily, I found this ad;

That

That's me! I'm a socialist! I read Noam Chomsky all the time, I'm on the e-newsletter list for Australian Marriage Equality and I even just dyed my hair a little bit red, and... wait. Oh. Not that kind of socialist. Um. I might have to ask my husband before I can commit to this sort of work. Um. Good luck with that, though.