Saturday.
EXT. UNDERGROUND DOGFIGHTING PIT NIGHT
OUR HEROINE has been transformed by dream logic into a Bukowski-esque deadbeat boy, skinny and pale and reeking of sweat and a week-long bender. S/he is desperate, down to his/her last. S/he is crouched inside a low, poorly constructed rusty cage. S/he can hear dogs baying nearby, straining at their chains.

S/he has agreed to act as bait in this dog fight, barely protected by the cage, in exchange for some feeble payment from the Hells Angels circling the pit. It occurs that perhaps no amount of money is worth a painful mauling.

OUR HEROINE lifts a corner of the cage and slinks away into the night, her footsteps disguised by the din of the dogs and shouting men.

INT. TRAIN CARRIAGE NIGHT
OUR HEROINE is again small and pale and female, but still stinkily sweaty. She has somehow found a train, and is speeding away with THE CHLOE to an undisclosed location. She feels calm but unsteady, as though something terrible and unavoidable is about to descend. And, surely enough, something does.

Headlights flash in the windows as dozens of motorbikes roar alongside the train. THE CHLOE is seated closest to the window, and OUR HEROINE cowers next to her, her head pressed against the seat in front, terrified of the venegeance the Hells Angels will wreak on her for failing in her task as dog bait. The train grinds to a halt. Huge, Tom of Finland style men clad in gleaming leather, their faces obscured, stalk on to the train.

HELL'S ANGEL
Rachael? We're looking for Rachael. We won't let this train go until we find the bitch.

OUR HEROINE realises that if she doesn't come forward every soul on this train will die a painful and piteous death. If she's going to die, she realises, she may as well do so with a shred of dignity.

OUR HEROINE
I'm Rachael. I'll go with you. It's okay.

HELL'S ANGEL
You do realise what's going to happen, don't you? We have no other choice.

OUR HEROINE
I think so.

HELL'S ANGEL
We've got to kill you. Right here, right now. We can't just let someone break their promise, especially not when we've paid them.

OUR HEROINE
I know.

The HELL'S ANGEL seizes OUR HEROINE, his huge hand tangling in the hair on the back of her head. He drags her into the aisle.

FADE OUT.

Fortunately, superfluous lists are easy.
- My hamstrings ache because of (a) inappropriate footwear, (b) nebbish dancing at the Rochester, my new favouritest place on a Saturday as the DJs are tiny and cute and in a box, (c) hard to the core gym action, as I am determined that 2007 will be the year when the words 'good gracious, ass is bodacious' are used to describe me. I am temporarily walking like a Thunderbird. I may have to rethink my 'stretching is for little girls' policy.

- The party in the ghetto of hate was wonderful! I got crunk on a bottle of triva night cheeky red, and I'm proud to say at the beginning of the night I even used a glass. Certain buttocks were touched, the happy couple were resplendant in matching shirt and dress, and there was a farmer.

- The handsome man from the IGA, let's call him 'Handsome Tim,' has a new haircut and it is an affront to the women and men of the area. Without his sweaty forelock and facial hair he can no longer be Handsome Tim. He's not even, as we used to call him during his clean shaven phases, Moderately Attractive Tim. He is now Lawnmower Tim, or Lobotomy Tim, or just another anonymous IGA staff member. For shame.

- The stuff I take to help me sleep also makes for the worst, most vivid dreams you could imagine. This is an unpleasant conundrum, as without this stuff I increasingly don't sleep at all. Suggestions would be appreciated.

- However, this week there was goulash.


And I discovered that when you use too many plums in an only moderately fruity cake the result is uncomfortably endometrial, but delicious.


And on Australia Day, there was a half-naked boy in a tutu.

I had good intentions to take advantage of today and Get Things Done, really, I did. I had my lists and my goals and everything else, but then along came Sublime-ation with her link to FourFour and his post on Matthew Barney. This then lead to a day-long YouTube orgy, searching for scraps of Bjork's Yoko. All I can say is... damn.

Firstly, YOU MUST WATCH THIS TRAILER OH MY GOD YES.



Secondly, I cannot stop watching this clip where the little kid pukes and Bjork and Matthew Barney do... things. Why am I kinda turned on by the shot where Mr Yoko looks at the back of Bjork's neck, and then Bjork looks at the back of Mr Yoko's neck? Also, the sound track is brilliant.



Also, party bus! Wood! Vaseline! Construction workers! Fan dance! WHY?



In other time wasting news, did you know that there's a special feature on the DVD of Rize which teaches you to crump? Chloe and I are now 80% more rizzad with our new moves.

Look at that car crash
Hug me with your clothes all off
Insert your hand in crotch.



I have a diner
No I don't, I smash you
Angry sex on stairs.



TV is torture
Vagina in my stomach
Hey, where is that gun?

I spent the early hours of 2007 stripped to the waist in my bedroom vigorously working a lint roller over my chest to remove the crust of sweat and blue glitter that a 16 year old in some kind of avant-garde bubble skirt thoughtfully tipped down my shirt at the stroke of midnight.

New Years' was fun. We danced. We drank. The handsome man from my local IGA was, fortuitously, working behind the bar at the place we went to. My mind went blank when I finally worked my way through the queue and, unable to even contemplate the cheap Jagerbombs everyone else was drinking, I asked for a red wine. He gave me a pot glass full. We've yet to actually, you know, talk, but I think the next time I need to buy $10 casks of Lambrusco I might say hi.

Lately I've been returning forms to school* and thinking about how amorphous and different this year will be compared to my other four years. I'm excited about starting (researchy) work again. I'm going a bit... strange without anything to do. I'm glad I decided to dive straight in but I can't help feeling that I'm a bit too enthusiastic about the whole thing. I have also been contemplating my intense, intense dislike of people who (a) refer to their own pets as 'it' and (b) hate cats. I can eventually, reluctantly warm to someone who calls their pet 'it,' but the cat thing is a deal breaker. There is no room in my life for cat haters. I have also been watching a great many reality dramas about weddings, and discussing, at length, the pitfalls** of the strapless corsety wedding dress with my contemporaries. I have succumbed to a head cold.

I think 2007 is going to be a good year. If only this head cold would go away.


* I always call uni school. I suppose this is because I feel like a precocious child at a dinner party about the whole thing.

** Such pitfalls include: squashed, pleated armpit fat, backfat spillage, tight-jawed smile in photographs from boning-related asphyxia.