The Beatles Said It Best

What would you think if I sang out of tune
Would you stand up and walk out on me?
Lend me your ears and I’ll sing you a song
And I’ll try not to sing out of key

I get by with a little help from my friends
I get high with a little help from my friends
Gonna try with a little help from my friends

What do I do when my love is away?
Does it worry you to be alone?
How do I feel by the end of the day
Are you sad because you’re on your own?

No, I get by with a little help from my friends

Do you need anybody?
I need somebody to love
Could it be anybody?
I want somebody to love

Would you believe in a love at first sight?
Yes, I’m certain that it happens all the time
What do you see when you turn out the light?
I can’t tell you, but I know it’s mine

Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends

Do you need anybody?
I just need someone to love
Could it be anybody?
I want somebody to love

I get by with a little help from my friends
Yes, I get by with a little help from my friends
With a little help from my friends.

There Is No Sanity Clause

"So, are you thinking of going back to teaching?"

I seem to need a position statement on this one. Not for your benefit, gentle reader - I realise I'm preaching to the converted and to the happy-to-put-up-with-my-whinging camp - but to the parents of friends and friends of my parents who just won't let it go.

So, no, I have no immediate plans to return to teaching. Perhaps you have, in fact, noticed that I DO a bit of teaching on the side anyway - although it certainly doesn't seem to have struck you that I look happier and healthier given that I don't work 18 hours a day and I'm not vomiting compulsively at the sheer terror of going to school every morning. Doing what I do still makes the world a better place with the pleasant side effect of making me a better person. I've even started WRITING again, for Christ's sake. Now, isn't that a wonderful thing, given that I've been telling you that's what I want to do with my life since I was five?

I know that for the most part they mean well but I wish that some people would fuck off and worry about THEMSELVES, for a change. Thank you.

I Watch Short Shorts

Alright, it's sulk time. I went to the see the St Kilda Short Film Festival in its national tour tonight...by myself! My every single solitary friend was, as of 7 this evening, at work, intrastate, interstate or overseas! (Sobs quietly)
You bunch of bastards, you : )

They showed eight films in all, of which my favourite, I think, was 'Lucky'. It was a very short short indeed, and I can't really describe what it's about without giving it away, but if you get the opportunity to see it, then do. Another beautiful one was 'The Twelve Months', an animation based on a traditional Russian fairy story about a put-upon little girl who meets a kindly giant in the forest. They must all have been rather well-funded, which disappointed me a little, but I had to remember that I only got to see a few of the 100 that made it into the festival, and there were over 600 entries altogether. More power to your collective elbow, amateur film-makers everywhere.

Brass Monkey Time

We haven't had a decent winter in this city for years.
Last night, though, when I went to bed, I was wearing...

- thermals
- nannaish flannelette pyjamas
- knee-high socks
- a scarf (I kid you not)

and the bed was adorned with...

- flannelette sheets
- a hot water bottle, and
- a tabby cat

and I was STILL cold!

Sorry, did someone say 'muggy'?

I Was Brave Yesterday

Silly, but brave, and received in kindness, which makes all the difference.
Be kind to those who are brave with you, because it's so bloody hard.

She Promised Me the Stars

Jenny, you were supposed to honour your raincheck for the Planetarium this weekend! How could you go to Sydney instead? : )

Instead of moping around being a pikee, I went to see
The Assassination of Richard Nixon with Julie.

I don't know if I can really say much more beyond this: it's a brilliant movie, go see it, but it hurts. Every minute of this film hurt me. Nightmarish memories of the recent past? Certainly. But it brought my fear and pity surging forth - here I am, trotting along contentedly in my little life, when all around me people are chained to treadmills of meaningless and degrading work just to eke out some kind of mean existence. Is it worse to do it in ignorance or, as in this film, to know you're trapped? The terrible thing is that all too soon I will forget how I felt after this one. Great film.

The Soap Gets in Your Eyes

Jenny and I were running a competition at work tonight to see whose episode of our favourite soap to caption would be sappier. She won - my "two hearts beating as one" speech couldn't compete with her marriage proposal set to music.

I thought you might enjoy some little snippets from our in-house cast list which helps us tell who's who:

Brooke Logan Forrester - Ridge’s current wife; has been married to Eric, Ridge, Dr James Warwick, Grant, Ridge, Thorne, Ridge.

Deacon Sharpe - former barman, former band manager, former alcoholic; usually wears a goatee/five o’clock shadow; once married to Bridget but had an affair with her mother and wrecked it all.

Denis - Paige's dead husband, unless that's a fabrication on her part.

Serge (pronounced Sir-Gay)- camp caterer to Spectra, now on contract.

Dr Taylor Hayes Forrester/Doc - Ridge’s beautiful, saint-like dead wife; psychiatrist; has died twice; is currently dead but recently appeared in ghost form; was once kidnapped by a sheik and held as an amnesiac hostage.

And my absolute favourite instruction:

Colour Massimo's mental telepathy dialogue white on blue, prefix with MASSIMO: and position as if he's addressing the person he's trying to communicate with.

Har har! (Ala Nelson Muntz)

I got laughed at in the library today!

I was waiting patiently in line, thinking my thoughts. A middle-aged couple came through the door, arm-in-arm, and just before they passed me at the counter the man tried to stifle a giggle. It didn't work. He laughed, loudly. He kept laughing. After another couple of metres his missus obviously wanted to know what was so amusing, so he stopped, turned around and pointed at me.

"That girl," he boomed, "is carrying TWO CANS OF SOUP!"

It's true. I was. The library is running a fine amnesty. I'd resigned myself to never visiting a library again, but bring in a can of food for their charity drive and the slate will be wiped clean. Goodbye, debt! As I'm very good at borrowing library books but rather remiss at returning them, I had quite a tidy sum owing indeed. A simple can of baked beans wasn't going to do it, so I bought two enormous cans of the nicest soup I could find. I did pause in Woolworths, flirting with the idea of tinned oysters, but worried that they weren't very hearty (or tasty) and perhaps would be taken as sarcastic.

Anyway, I guess there are worse things to be than a source of amusement.

Does anyone else feel deeply uneasy about artificial sweetener?

I know I do! Surely it has to be carcinogenic or something...

I'm (Still) Thinking About My Doorbell

Happy Unbirthday, Your Majesty - and happy long weekend to the rest of us.

Alana took us out on Saturday night, but not before lodging the White Stripes in my brain! Had a great meal and a couple of pints at our favourite pseudo-British pub and then wandered over to the Troubadour for a couple of sets and a relax. I love it in there - so cosy and intimate and free from poseurs (except for us!) and there's something terribly comforting about brown couches. We kept an eye on the girl soundly asleep on the one next to us.

Afterwards, in fairness to GP, we decided to go and find a dance, and headed over to a club Alana had visited once before and enjoyed. The pinball machines were fun and we'd had just enough to drink to be suitably stupid in the photo booth, but the DJ was in melancholy mood and everyone on the floor must have been in on a fake ID, so we kept our groove things to ourselves (probably wisely - you know me :)

Disappointed, we wandered over into town to a place that...isn't there anymore! Hmm. We'd promised ourselves pancakes before bedtime, so we hung around nursing last drinks until we were all hungry enough - chicken crepes at 3am! Woke up just in time to do a couple of hours exam revision with Vince, who has his last piece of assessment tomorrow (yee-ha!) and twisted Alana's arm into coming to work with me for a couple of hours so I could catch up on some captioning I really should have finished on Friday.
I have such indulgent friends : )

Today I went out early (I love airports) to meet my sister coming home from a chef's conference thing at Hamilton Island. Very envious having looked over her photos of brilliant sands...time for a holiday, methinks.

Friday, Friday

Thank goodness it's over - I'm stuffed!

Feeling virtuous, I managed to arrive at uni this morning long before I'm normally awake. I'd been summoned to help administer, in true Italian style, the oral exam for one of the second-year Italian social/political history subjects, and preened delightedly each time I was introduced as 'a member of the Italian teaching team'. (I'm such a bluffer.) Quite amazing I managed to get my head out the door at the end : ) For all its length it was quite an interesting experience - I am now brimming with 'prompting' techniques - and for all of you out there who I just couldn't kick towards the answer, it was the economic entry criteria of the EU which provided the main impetus behind the efforts to reform corruption in the late 80s and early 90s. Thank you.

On the way home for a lightning lunch before work I got stuck in one of those inexplicable traffic jams. Two kilometres into the freeway all three lanes of traffic...just...STOPPED. And there we stayed for 20 minutes. I hadn't been in a gridlock for ages. I ran through my usual host of emergency activities. I retuned the AM band on my car radio. I put all my cassettes (remember them?) back into their correct boxes. I cleaned out my wallet. I cleaned all the crap out of my air conditioning vents with an old parking permit. At last we started to crawl forward again. One of those big light-up traffic signs told us to merge into two lanes, which we did, and then, just as we got ourselves organised, we were back to normal and up to full speed. No accident, no roadworks, no nothing. Odd. And the end of my lightning lunch!

And, just quickly...

Because I really need to get to bed, but while I think of it I'll add this:

I'm reading The Meaning of Things at the moment, which is just a collection of little essays about all sorts of topics like morality, nationalism, paganism, guilt and so forth. I had hoped them to be more of a drawing together of different writers' opinions, rather than the personal musings of the author himself, but they're nonetheless thought-provoking.

I liked this bit in the introduction because I think it clarifies for me one of the reasons I find most (ever the indecisive liberal) organised religions so profoundly disturbing:

Some people seem unable to allow that mankind is the source of what makes the world bearable - pity, beauty and tenderness - nor that it is human genius which is responsible for the achievements of art and science. Such people have to believe in the existence of supernatural agencies as the source of the world's good, while fathering its evil exclusively on human beings.

We are evil, evil people - and we are also wonderful. It's ALL our fault.

Spike: An Intimate Memoir

I'm really glad I read this one. Not because of the style of writing (because although it's easy to read I do feel it's missing a bit of polish, not that that's important given the subject matter) and not even because of the sensational goings-on inside, but because I now feel I have a balanced view of Spike Milligan after years of straight admiration for his work. Now I can temper my appreciation for his talents with an understanding of the utter hell that those close to him endured to allow those talents to be exercised. I came away feeling he was a lively, cheeky, sharp-witted, dangerously sensitive and desperately unhappy man. He loved his wives but couldn't live with them, maintained an extensive 'harem' and suffered from depression so vicious he locked himself in his office for days at a time and voluntarily underwent electro-shock therapy. What he would have done without his manager of 30 years, Norma Farnes, I don't know. It doesn't seem that he would have lasted as long as he did.

It highlights too the incredible difference between lovers and friends. Friends can, at the same time, offer you unconditional love and tell you when you're being a pratt, as Norma did - but they can go home at the end of the day and then you're someone else's problem. Passionate love is something else entirely - and part of the pay-off for that intense connection with someone is having to be there when the shit has hit the fan. You can, perhaps, shield your friends from some of your deeper insecurities or more horrible habits, but not your lovers - or your family, for that matter - and there's the distinction. You can only be on your best behaviour for so long! Perhaps you can survive on friends alone but life is best when someone can tolerate your awful bits for the sake of loving your good ones. We need both kinds of love to prosper.

Horoscopes Are Crap

I know. I KNOW. They're useless and puerile and written by sports editors.
If you read and believe them you're sad and immature and demented.

BUT...

This isn't about me, it's about my car : )

When I apply the principles of numerology to Erik the Red's rego according to an illustrious weekly rag which shall, for my own pride, remain nameless (well, people shouldn't leave it on the break table) I get this:

7 - a good car for writers and those in the spiritual fields as it encourages
in-depth thought and analysis. Your intuition is high while you're behind the wheel. However, this car breaks down often or attracts minor dents.

Well! Where do I write all my best material?
Whose car is more often at the mechanics than anyone else you know?

It's unbelievable... It's amazing... It's RUBBISH.
But we all need something to cling to : )

Wow!

Hugh Laurie in the lead role of a US TV series... House starts here in June, apparently.

The Weekends Go So Quickly

The later I read into the night, the longer I sleep, the shorter the days seem...

Yesterday afternoon I attended an engagement party. I was feeling a bit nervous about it, almost put off going and initially felt rather out of place in the middle of this strange and much younger crowd, but everything evaporated when I caught sight of my dear childhood friend and his beautiful bride to be. It was wonderfully encouraging to see two people so dedicated to the idea of being together. A long and happy life, Darren and Jenn - all my love goes with you.

Alana joined us for dinner and I whipped up my favourite dhal and puppodums - mmm! - and we set about destroying a chocolate pudding in front of 'Meet the Fockers', which I really enjoyed. "Well, I'd better get going..." finally sorted itself out at 2:30am, and then I read until 3:30...so it was lunchtime when I woke up again!

GP found my keys, missing since Friday, in the obvious spot - in the chiller cabin in the fridge - so in celebration I drove Erik the Red over to help my parents bury a dead photocopier and took them out a coffee in honour of their anniversary. Determined not to let THIS cat disappear, I came home and led Zig-Heil around the garden for the first time on the end of a shoelace, much to the amusement of all the kids at footy practice over the road : )

Now, I think a bubblebath - candlelit, no less - and a book, and an early night this time.

Happy Birthday, Neek!

Imagine My Delight

The cafe at uni uses sugar sachets that have little maxims printed on the back. Imagine my delight this afternoon when I discovered that every packet in the bowl read:

We first make our habits then our habits make us.

Just for the Record

It's 2:38am and 'Full Tilt Boogie' is finally ready for broadcast : )

If I ever meet Quentin Tarantino I'd like to shake his hand and them belt him around the ears for ending every sentence with 'alright?' and allowing Harvey Keitel to speak unscripted for more than 30 seconds. Goodnight!