Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
So the dude turned up. A lot of people turned up actually, and they all scrubbed up rather pleasantly. A crowd of well-tended bodies draped in eastern suburbs threads. Faces made up, perfume on, hair styled. It made a change from sweat and gym shorts. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. My yoga studio is in a cool part of Sydney, a stomping ground of the fashionable, rich and creatively inclined. No wonder everyone kitted out well. And as for the boy? Well… he’s hot. And he said hello. He swang into the kitchen to grab a beer about two seconds after me, as I was sorting myself my first grapetiser of the evening, and gave me a very friendly hello (was I imagining it, or was that a look of happy surprise I saw flicker across his eyes? I was probably imagining it.). Naturally I returned his hi, and then scuttled out as coolly as I could. It was a fleeting encounter. And the only word he said to me all night. So should I be discouraged? Well let’s see. He did stand quite close by on a number of occasions (including one prolonged moment in very close proximity (a small room packed with people) where I was given privileged views of his quite breathtaking loosely-white-t-shirted chest, and the opportunity to appreciate his perfect boy form and height. Man, now I sound like a pervert.), and I’m pretty sure I saw him looking at me a few times across the room. But if he didn’t come and talk to me, he’s not interested right? It’s so hard to know. Maybe he’s just shy like I am. Or maybe I’m living in la la land and I’m so not his type. Or maybe he’s in love with one of the teachers (they’re all pretty smokin’) and came to the party to hang with them. None of it matters. All is fine. What will be will be, etcetera, etcetera. I had a really good time at the party, made some new yoga girlfriends (one who also has a music recording project) had fun on the dance floor, and got to check out the hot boy from time to time. What’s not to love? And you never know, maybe I’ll get another hello next time I see him in class.
I have just returned home from a mammoth Christmas shopping effort. I come from a relatively big brood and they take some shopping for. But it’s all done, the sun is shining and now I can concentrate on what I’m going to wear… to the yoga party. In my “meeting boys” entry (Day 41) you may recall I was in somewhat of a quandary as to whether or not I should go. Well I’ve decided it must be done. I need to meet new people right now because of my current friends being tied up, and where the spunky boy is concerned, the one way I’m definitely not going to meet him is by staying home. Speaking of friends being tied up, none of the people I had pencilled in to come to this do with me can now make it. Christ on a bike. It’s like what I was saying yesterday. I don’t think any of my mates genuinely abandoned me on this one. Things just came up (that, and they’re afraid of yoga types). But much like the way squillions of years ago no-one could stop the tectonic plates from shifting and pulling big bits of land apart, right now I can’t seem to control the forces that are pulling me away from a lot of the people I know. I’m going in a certain direction regardless of whether anyone else is coming with. And so I will rock the party on my own. But this should be okay. I’m getting more used to striking up conversations with strangers without the social loosening agent of alcohol, and everyone attending has something in common – a freaky love of the hot room. There’s something to talk about already. What’s more, if any crowd’s going to be inclusive and welcoming, it’s a yoga crowd (I think?!). So fuck it. I have a cool frock and a radical new shade of nail polish. Let’s get this party started.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
It appears I have hit a patch of trouble. My fellow music project participant is pissed off with me, and I am pissed off with him. The unvoiced tension has already delayed progress by a good two weeks. Now the anger is in the open, it might derail the whole thing. My music projects have been plagued with people problems for the last year, and I'm starting to wonder if I should go it alone. Maybe I'm a monster to work with. Maybe we all just need a break. Does making music really have to be this hard? It doesn't help matters that my other band member is also my best mate (or maybe I’ve fucked that now too). A stiff drink wouldn't go astray around about now.
Monday, December 14, 2009
I went to the movies early this evening on my own. I did this 1. because just about every friend I have either has kids or a mortgage, both of which apparently prohibit them from doing anything at any time, and 2. because I love the movies and I’m damned if I’m going to wait for the DVD just because everyone else is housebound. (Of course, it could be that all of my friends have simultaneously decided I’m shit company, but let’s not think about that right now.) Anyway, Nigel-ing it to a movie is a bad enough look as it is. What got me though, was the number of actual nannas attending the screening. Everyone was old. Could it be that through my decision to not drink, I have jolted myself into a parallel universe not suited to my age? Are the activities of the alcohol-free, also the activities of the ancient? Well, not necessarily. You could argue that staying in all the time, like most of my friends have been lately, is a pretty nanna-ish pastime. They all drink. But it’s also true that since not drinking, I haven’t been going out as much as I used to. The emphasis has more been on getting up early and using the day. I also suspect that the odd partying invitation has not been extended because people think I don’t “party” anymore. Well I don’t “party” but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to go to the things. Me oh my, let’s all pack a sad. (I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me.) Oh whatever. On with the show. Maybe I’ll go find me a new gang down at the rest home.
I just watched The Hangover on FBO. It was much like a real one: shit. It never ceases to amaze me how much completely bad art gets through Hollywood. It shouldn’t amaze me. I work in advertising. What we do doesn’t even make it into the category of art, but is very often bad. It’s the fate of many a creative project funded by some form of big business. The enormous amounts of money, while you’d think they’d help to improve a project, actually get in the way of anything good being made. The people paying the money automatically want some (usually creative) input into the project (which is almost unfailingly disastrous). The people receiving the money are so desperate not to lose it, they’ll do pretty much anything to please the cash suppliers, even if it means raping their own art and turning it into some kind of limping and terminally ill Frankenstein. It’s shuddersome. (“What rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?” WB Yeats, The Second Coming. That, by the way, is some seriously good art; one of my favourite poems of all time.) Anyway. It still surprises me that with all the quite amazingly talented writers, producers, directors etc swarming around LA, movies so sloppy in form, scripting, dramatic and comedic timing so often get made (not to mention significantly hyped). They are towering shitheaps of shoddiness, with gaping holes of done-too-fast or too-many-writers strewn all through them. But enough of that. Bad art be gone! And on to the present, in which I am currently (a little bug-eyed due to the hour). I’m feeling really good though, because I had a good day of feeling a new kind of strong in my non-drinking zone. We had our end of year work lunch, which wasn’t as rowdy as other years (probably due in large part to my own lack of rowdiness) but was very pleasant. I had a properly good time hanging with my work mates right through until the early evening, and felt no need for the aid of the dreaded drop. Which brings me to the other present, the one I received from Secret Santa. It was a five-bottle set of mini flavoured Absolut vodkas (I love those little bottles) accompanied by a pocket-sized bible containing a passage on the heavenly virtues of not drinking. I liked it. And the bible provided hours of entertainment at the table (you ever read it? It’s some crazy shit.). Oh gee, I can actually, like right now, hear my flatmate’s girlfriend puking in our toilet (the result of an unfortunate collision with some Friday night drinks). Oops, and now she’s smashed something. Maybe time she went to bed. Maybe time I did too. I can always give her my bible to read if she needs it tomorrow morning.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
Today in the yoga change rooms, I learnt something new (I seem to be doing a lot of that lately). While applying moisturiser after class, I struck up a conversation with two girls about, low and behold, not drinking. One girl was looking for ways to cut down, and the other seemed to have a pretty good handle on moderation. The moderation girl also knew quite a lot about livers. Basically, the upshot of what she was saying was that when your liver has had enough of being hammered, it stops being able to clean your blood (makes sense). This means that toxins (from our environment and the things we consume) start being allowed to go to other parts of your body. And because your body doesn’t like toxins it does the only other thing it can to neutralise them: it makes fat. At least I think that’s what she said. Anyway, the result of an unhealthy liver apparently, is weight gain, a sluggish system, and a mind more prone to things like depression. As I’m not drinking anyway, I thought this might be a good time to cleanse my liver too. Why the frick not? I’m borrowing my little brother’s liver cleanse book today. Will restricting my diet as well, be one step of self control too far? Could be. Whatever. Give it a whirl.
I have another party under my belt, this time an all day, barbequey affair involving pretty constant consumption of French champagne, imported beers and nice New Zealand wines by the other guests. I drank tonic waters, raspberry and sodas, mineral waters and a cup of coffee when I felt my energy waning as the evening set in. Except for getting sick of fizzy drinks, it really wasn’t too bad. Because the people there weren’t on a mission to get slaughtered, there was plenty of interesting conversation and some really interesting people delivering it (a diamond merchant, a family court barrister, and a high powered television exec to name a few). They were charismatic people and I learnt some cool stuff off them. The really cool thing though is that I can remember what they told me today. Awesome. The food too was exceptionally good (I am so all about food right now. Oink!). It was a quality do. The quality of the alcohol, I must admit, did give me the odd pang. I freakin love good French champagne, and seeing it burbling frothily from bottle to flute did make me want to pour some down my throat. I even made the mistake of taking a whiff of my sister’s glass. Don’t do this. The nose is a powerful persuader of the tongue and taste buds. If you’re trying to abstain, getting your schnoz involved just makes things more difficult. So I stuck to my non-alcs, and earned the praise and amazement of everyone around me. While it’s quite nice to have your purity and strength of resolve acknowledged and applauded (the people there really were very supportive), it also marks you out again as an outsider; a kind of circus freak that people marvel at. It’s hard to relax and get amongst it when you and everyone else are constantly monitoring how you’re going. But again, it’s all okay. These are early days and I’m just beginning to find my alcohol-free social feet. Give me a few months and with any luck I’ll be pirouetting from person to person, so light and bubbly that no-one will detect I haven’t been quaffing buckets of the stuff. Here’s hoping anyway. For now I begin with baby steps.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Impatience is apparently not a virtue. Knowing this however, does nothing to stop my frustration at things that move slowly. Slow walkers infuriate me (sigh, anger is such an ugly emotion), exercise regimes that don’t show quick results bum me out, and it’s best not to be at the table with me if it’s been 50 minutes and the food hasn’t arrived yet. I’m not big on queues either, just by the way. But it’s not these things that are currently on my mind. What bothers me on and off lately, is the speed at which my music project is progressing. Really I shouldn’t be worried. Over the last 28 days we have been making pretty steady progress. And with any project there will be delays. But there have been recent tensions in band-land that I fear may delay things further (why are bands so fraught with human conflict?). And I am very much aware that with Christmas only three weeks away, the year is very nearly over. Before we know it, it will be the end of 2010’s first quarter, and any meagre budgets record companies may have had to throw at tiny acts like ours will already be allocated. But trying to persuade others of the need for speed can often have the opposite effect. The more you impress the need for urgency, the more they drag their feet. I suppose it’s a kind of rebellion. Really though, if I’m honest, I think my current NOW urge is simply a personal mania, with no reasonable basis in reality. In reality we probably couldn’t be progressing much quicker. So how to satisfy the unreasonable demands of my inner taskmaster? Why get a haircut of course! Chop, chop, fresh head, something new. We’re making progress.