If you love me you'll get me this calendar next year. Stuff! On cats! My favourite website in the whole entire internet!

I was an emotional wreck in the library last night, so I'm taking it slower today and trying hard not to panic. I feel like an anvil's been dropped on my head, the anvil of what-the-hell-are-you-doing. A friend has offered to hand in one of my papers fo rme, which has taken an enormous load off my mind, but still. I feel like incompetent warmed-over turd. I wonder if that's to be expected.

There's a letter in this month's 'Vanity Fair' (okay, April's, but it's the one in the newsagent without the great big 'imported' sticker) which makes me cranky for some reason. Okay, I've learned that there are enough gushy articles about the beautiful and aristocratic Lord Farquhar St James and his stunning wife Henrietta Bulgely The Third, inevitably illustrated by a photo of His Lordship standing, with head cocked, in a too-tasteful sepia lit living room somewhere expensive for me to really take it seriously, but, my word, don't have a go at magazine publishing in this country. Frankly, it's just not nice.

I can't tell if this letter criticising 'The Monthly' for photoshopping their publisher's head onto VF editor Groydon Carter's body. Felicity Dawson of Tasmania (who, 'as a subscriber to Vanity Fair... [is] by nature and training on the look out for rip-offs of any sort') describes 'The Monthly' as a rip off. Come on, Felicity, that really isn't fair. I'm not the greatest fan of 'The Monthly.' In truth I've yet to find an Australian magazine not featuring blurry photos of Paris Hilton bitchslapping Lyndsay Lohan that really satisfies me, and as the newsagent down the street will tell you I read a helluva lot of magazines. 'The Monthly' is okay, but if I can be allowed to borrow a phrase from Miss Jess Helen Garner sucks cocks in hell and there's only so much Mungo McCallum a girl can be expected to take. It's not even close to the same ballpark as VF, nor, for a magazine published in this at least nominally aristocracy free country, should it be. Also, *gripe,* for a monthly The Monthly is awfully slim.

I buy VF 'cause it's cheaper than Harpers, which is what I really want to get, not only for the astonishingly top notch writing but also the adorable little factoids scattered about the pages. Also, VF is prettier. I mean, did you see my Lyndsay a few months back in the black bikini and all the eyeliner? But I am not Vanity Fair's intended audience. I know no one of influence (excepting my uncle, who's a big shot in a council in West Australia some where, and also my BFF, Alan Jones), I don't holiday anywhere that doesn't involve a YHA, and I don't give a crap about Laura Bush. I do, however, need something overpriced and aspirational to go with my coffee, and if The Monthly sets my teeth on edge and Harpers is too expensive, VF is it.

Ahem.

Meeee-eeeeee-eeeeeee-eeeeeee.....

I work in a distant corner of a big office at odd hours. No one sees me and I don't see them, 'cept to have brief and satisfying conversations about whether a very fit man could outrun a zebra (answer: he couldn't, zebras have more legs). I'm normally a fairly well groomed person, in the sense that my hair's brushed, I usually put a bit 'o slap on and shower compulsively, but most days when I work they're lucky if I put a bra on. It is a good job and I like it because I do my thing without having to worry about social conventions.

So this afternoon, when I twirled my desk chair into the middle of theroom, stretched my arms and legs out as far as they could go, threw my head back and possibly made a little yawping sound like a cranky koala I thought no one would care. Hell, I could luxuriate in it and stay like that for several seconds, maybe twirl around in my chair a bit more... until I came literally eye to eye with the bossman in the glass walled meeting room adjacent to where I work, in the middle of a meeting full of besuited power types.

I like to think he thinks I'm adorably kooky, or maybe have a neurological complaint.


*any words I make are pissweak at the moment. The library is open 'til 3am tonight and I plan on taking advantage of it. That said, you may find me curled up on a bound edition of 'Punch' in the library tomorrow morning, red sharpied drafts of my essays plastered to my face.

Amazon, I gotta tell you, I don't like the way you look at me when you ask if I want you to 'track my package.' I can track my own package, Amazon. Now stop staring at my boobs.

Dear Rachael,

Thank you for your note. Look, you’re more than welcome to speak to Paul at my programme but understand one thing, Rachael, we are unbelievably busy. We run five hours of radio here every day. We don’t really have time to be doing research work for students, no matter how conscientious they are. I certainly wish you well but I’m wondering how someone in Melbourne could determine anything about a radio programme in Sydney on the basis of some transcripts. I’m wondering what prompted this assignment.

I’ll have Paul Christenson give you a call.

Kindest regards.

With best wishes,

Alan Jones AO.


I'm... speechless. So speechless that I deleted a post I made earlier. This email sounds to me like he might be feeling me out as an Elitist Intellectual, and also, regardless of what you might think of the man, he didn't have to reply to my email and I don't want him googling me and seeing nasty things. The paper itself is not nasty, it is objective as you can be in the chardonnay swilling arts, and I wouldn't want 2GB to get the wrong idea.

I'm actually a little scared now...

Update: Paul did call me, and he was a lovely man who answered my questions thoroughly and honestly. The thing with Alan Jones is I don't agree with a lot of what he says, I find his tone offputting, I don't like a lot of the callers and many of the transcripts I've read so far have been downright disturbing. I'm entitled to that opinion. It's also not what I'm writing about. The more I work on this the more I'm impressed with how many people turn to talkback radio to have their voices heard and to articulate a kind of Australian identity that really doesn't have any other space. It's something that can't be denied, and you've got to say this about the man, he does engage with his audience. He didn't have to reply to my email and his producer didn't have to call me, but they did and I genuinely appreciate it.

Have you ever wanted to ask a question of someone you used to know and have them answer it completely honestly? I've been thinking about that lately.

I had this girlfriend once and I was in love with her. Big, big love. It was helpless and visceral. I loved her like I breathed in and out and converted food into blood sugar and am genetically predisposed to connective tissue disorders and depression. I loved her and I'm glad to say I don't make a habit of that sort of thing. Anyway, in the early days of her relationship she told me she had a freckle in her right eye. Now, (a) I have a freckle in my left eye, right at the back and, (b) I like the Postal Service. Hopefully people will make the connection.

I really want to know if that was true or not. She was a romantic sort and it's the kind of thng that would have tickled her, and my optometrist tells me eye freckles are pretty rare.

The internet's kind of like a gigantic sea, so I've thrown it out there. If you ever read this, you know who you are. Please tell me, is your eye freckle real?

I know that materialism is, like, bad and shit, but I truly think I'd be a happier, more fulfilled person if I had a pair of yellow and black Onitsuka Tigers. I saw a girl with those exact shoes the other day in the library and she looked very, very happy.

Of course, one of these wouldn't go astray, either.

Oh, don't be jealous, MacBain. You're still my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are grey. If you could bring me a pair of Onitsuka's I'd love you even more. I bet the MacBook would bring me shoes....

June 18 - Holly Throsby @ Northcote Social Club
July 15 - Mates of State @ NSC (they are the sound of joy, trust me)
July 22- Jose Gonzalez @ The Athenaeum

I'll be there, hopefully advancing along the path to adulthood. Grow up now, ask me now!

(man, such enigmatic entries lately. I am the Internet Woman of Mystery)

I shouldn't care about America, but Stephen Colbert's correspondents dinner speech is cringey, true and hilarious.

Wonder how long until he's anthraxed by 'terrorists'?

I bought a big, greenish grey nanna cardigan and it's my new favourite thing. I put it on and I feel safe, warm and accounted for. I like it so much I don't need any friends or family any more, just my nanna cardigan.

It's just me and the cardigan against the world.

Since Thursday I've spent at least five to six hours at the library every day. I take a lunch break then I come back for more library.

Soon I will be a hummingbird.

...


meeee-eeee-eeee-eeee-eeeee.....

Happy things
Red Sharpie pens.
Post It notes.
The friendly combination of the two.
Pigeons.
The pigeon with a deformed foot following me around as though I was Sherlock Holmes and he was Watson after I gave him some of the crust of my apple pie.
Apple pie made by hippies.
Old cameras, possibly made from the hull of R2D2.

Odd things
The clock in the clocktower near our house inhales on and exhales off at night, like the light near the latch on a sleeping iBook.
The other day we discovered the carcass of a smashed, tortured, punished hard drive in our back yard (photo pending). Perhaps the remains were left there as a warning?
A claw hammer was on the kitchen table. Perhaps this, also, is a warning?

Sad things
The todo lists written in red Sharpie on Post It notes I leave behind me like a trail of hopeful, nagging breadcrumbs.
Passive aggression.
Michael crying in the bathroom on Big Brother.
Watching Big Brother in a house where such an offence carries a fine of nippleing the window for five minutes.
The caged quails at the markets, not so much because they're caged as they are quails and seem to get overlooked in favour of ducks and chickens.
Being told you're not allowed to have a pet quail, not even if it's housetrained and lives in your room.

Stop wearing those dicky fucking bows. Yes, I'm talking to the girls with their eyes glued shut with all that eyeliner and the teased hair, the ones who probably would wear that ludicrous crinoline in the window of American Vintage. I officially reached snapping point the other day when a small, round girl (not that there's anything wrong with small, round girls. Being the shape of a Faber-Castell eraser I appreciate the small and the round as they are likely to have actual boobs and an ass, and oompa loompa length legs look less foolish when you have one of those waist things) clinging to a tall, pimpled boy actually gave me a greasy (eye, you grots) at the tram stop. I'm sorry, but I'm not the one dressed like an inky dumpling with a dicky little bow perched on top of my head. Honestly, people.

Chloe and I have decided, what with all this bow-and-eyeliner nonsense, to form the League of Concerned Nannas and clean up this city's streets. We'll arm ourselves with a loudhailer, a hairbrush, a butterfly net, a bucket and quite a few bottles of Herbal Essence and we'll remind those surly, greasy kids that there is nothing wrong with looking nice.

As an aside, Pimp My Snack is just about the best thing ever. I particularly like the giant Jaffa cake as Jaffa cakes are about my favouritest biscuit ever. Hmm. I wonder if there's any way to make giant Tim Tams?

Oh, man, what to do, what to do? It seems that in order to belong in this crazy Australian blogosphere of ours I'm going to have to talk about at least one (1) hoohaa wax, but the thing is most of the people who read this aren't blogger people, they're my actual IRL (that's In Real Life for you kids who aren't as obviously cool as I am) friends who know me and, I suspect, could do without the mental image of my vadge.*

Do I declare my affiliation with the blogger crew, or do I avoid traumatizing my friends? SUCH A CONUNDRUM. I suspect the technophobic minger in one of my classes would have a few things to say about this. In a class on media and spectatorship this woman has declared her hatred of iPods, mobile phones, slash fiction, DVDs, the internet, and fun. That is a massive digression, but while we're on the subject of digressions I got a rather wonderful package in the mail this morning containing a copy of 'Faster Pussycat! Kill! Kill!' Someone sent me a boobie movie! Ace!

*Except for those kids who partook in an evening of drunken naked giggliness in my pool late last year. In that case everyone has seen everyone else's vadge and otherwise.

(Her name was Georgia and she took to the task like a woodchipper with a bit of Tasmanian old growth. I love her.)

I came home to find this on my door. Should I be scared? Concerned? Titillated? Should I run back to church? Should I watch out for lightning? Should I repent, repent, repent?

I don't get the gangrenous foot in those anti-smoking ads and the gross new pictures on cigarette packs.* I have no doubt that smoking cigarettes does all kinds of bad things to you, and that includes fucking with your peripheral vascular system, but surely just as many, if not more, people get gangrenous badness from type II diabetes. I mean, c'mon, if they're going to go the shock and awe tactics for public health then maybe they should be sticking those photos on cans of Coke and Tim Tam packets as well as cigarettes.


*As an aside, the ladies at my local supermarket now think I'm a nutjob because of those pictures. Why? I was buying cigarettes and said jokingly 'Oh, man, these are the ones that give you gangrene. I much prefer the ones that harm children.' The woman behind the counter looked at me blankly, then swapped the packs over. Sometimes it's much better when I keep my mouth shut.

I have the occupational overuse syndrome. It's in my neck and my shoulders and my upper arms and it hurts, as though someone let a sleepoverful of little girls loose on my muscle fibres and they've French braided, herringboned, plaited and four stranded themselves silly. Don't come near me, I'm infected, I'm ill, I'm syndromed.

I am blaming the following.
- Immigrants.
- Avian flu.
- Poor grammar in children.
- That cunt Camilla on Big Brother.
- Starbucks. Or maybe SUVs.
- Child obesity (actually, that one is rather plausible).
- The liberal media.

''I would really like if you could analyze my situation,' said J, now almost begging, 'and give me some tips and ideas of whether this kind of relationship could work?'

And this, curiously, for I could not explain it with any previous cases in mind, made Holmes laugh even harder, until he was rolling on the floor - dangerously from a doctor's point of view since Holmes nearly pricked himself with the cocaine needle he'd employed only an hour earlier and left upon the rug.'

From now on whenever I'm in a stressful situation, romantic or otherwise, and I need some advice I'm going to imagine what Sherlock Holmes would do. Probably deduce how close I am to my mother based on how long it's been since I had my hair highlighted, comment on how scuff marks on my shoes mean that my accounts are worse for wear, belittle me as a woman then snort some Coke. Oh, Sherlock Holmes.

I have a spare postcard. I've already sent postcards to everyone in my address book, a number that's growing but still slim. Who wants it? It's a fine postcard.

I can only talk about school stuff. I am become boring, blandener of worlds.

1,800 words of a 2,500 word essay written (although, at this point if I can hoist myself a little over 2,000 I'll call it a day).

My brain has categorically shut down. I look at this thing and wince. I'm hungry but I don't want to eat and besides we've only got toast in the house and if I eat any more carbs I may actually turn into a bagel, which would be amusing but would lead to many unecessary sparrow peckings.

I would like to pick up some prints from Ted's and then buy some clothes and shoes because I need them as I currently wear only two layers when leaving the house and I get the feeling this number will have to increase soon.

I could either (a) give up and go flounce down Brunswick Street with a coffee in hand and a mildly guilty conscience, knowing that I'll probably waste another day tomorrow on this MOTHERCUNTING WHOREMOTHER OF A THING when I should be working on, oh, I don't know, this little thing called my thesis, or I could (b) make a cup of tea, put on the Mr Bungle, choke back the nausea at my own mediocrity and the particular shitful corners I've painted myself into with this dreadful essay, poo out another 600 words of hyperbolated, overwrought nonsense then go waste some money on skirts I'll only wear twice before I remember I have man calves.

Sigh. I'll go put the kettle on...

1. You know when you look into a light and your eyes go all crazy? I must have stared into the sun with my right eye and my right eye alone because I can't see out of the fucker. It's been ten minutes, or at least as long as it took me to ask the library dude for something, banter back and forth about the crazy shit they have here, sit down at a computer carrel, print out another dense and needless article and load the embarrassingly obvious Blogger page. I hope this clears up, it's really irritating.

2. My favourite book of all time, next to 'Sirens of Titan' by Kurt Vonnegut and 'Sweet Valley High: Dangerous Love,' is the Pillow Book by Sei Shonagon. This is because I like lengthy descriptions of snow, court robes and the appropriate size of an oxen's forehead. Also, I am very sentimental. I lent this book to a friend in Canberra on a whim after some wine drinking and Gary Snyder reading (not on my part; Gary Snyder's a bit too 'trees are awesome!' for me), and they then left it out in the rain. No angst about that, but I really want to read it right now, and I'm thinking of it and now the internet knows.

3. If there's any better smell than the smell of hot laser print I don't want to know.

As an aside, I know I linked to Go Fug Yourself in the last entry, but any time those kids write about Tom Cruise I snort milk out of my nose EVEN IF I'M NOT DRINKING MILK. At the moment all anyone has to do to have me convulsed with laughter is say the word 'Flowbie.' I can hear him say it in my head! Oh, Tom Cruise, bitch is crazy.