Filed under: Miscellanea
It so happens that I have booked myself a little holiday. In April, I am going to Kuala Lumpur for 9 days to…I don’t know. What does one do in Kuala Lumpur? (Answer: whatever is highly rated on tripadvisor.com. I love you, internet.) The thing about this particular jaunt into the world, however, is this: I am going all by myself. Completely alone. I have never done this before.
Let me clarify. I’ve flown by myself. I’m fine with that. In fact, it makes me feel pleasantly adventurous and world-weary, all at once. I’ve just never holidayed by myself. There’s always been someone at the other end. It’s like going to the movies – it’s just never really occurred to me that it’s something you can do alone. So why now? Jealousy, mostly. The young man is taking his powerful, powerful chin to Eastern Europe to teach English for three and a half months alarmingly soon, and naturally, I’ve been gripped by travel envy. I want adventures, too, and this mini jaunt over the next set of uni holidays will hopefully provide me enough of a fix to tide me over for another six months or so. I did attempt to recruit a travel buddy, you know. I spoke to a few different friends, but nobody was in a position to go exactly where I wanted to go exactly when I wanted to go, what with their ‘lives’ and ‘responsibilities’. Impatient, I threw caution to the wind and just booked for me.
I think I’ll like it. I’m just not quite sure how to do it. I had a taste of it when I visited Wellington last year for an impro festival, but as I was there for a specific event (and surrounded by lovely, ever-gregarious improvisers), I didn’t quite get that sense of being completely adrift in the big world. I went exploring on my own, but I had a show to go to at night and jolly people to have beers with afterwards. That’s the bit I’m nervous about. I’m going to sit alone in restaurants. I’m going to be nervous about venturing out after dark. I’m going to see funny things and not have anyone to tell. (Well, except you, internet. I love you, internet.)
Still. I’m going to be downright smug when I catch a train from the airport by myself in a country I’ve never visited before. I’m going to spend hours in the supermarket examining local products (I love foreign supermarkets: different and familiar at the same time). I’m going to go to naff tourist attractions instead of temples, sometimes, because I’m the only one I’ll be trying to amuse. I’m going to go shopping for stupid crap. I’m going to loiter somewhere all afternoon because it’s fascinating.
The best thing is this: afterwards, I’ll come home and I’ll tell you all how much I enjoyed it, and how it was different, but it really wasn’t such a big deal. I’ll be able to do it again, should I so wish.
Perhaps I’ll even go to the movies on my own.
Filed under: Miscellanea
Dearest Mother: there are some things you should know. For your benefit, I have compiled this list. Perhaps you could print it out and pop it on your corkboard with the forwards that have particularly resonated with you.
1.When you telephone me, you do not have to start each and every conversation with ‘HELLO AMY, IT’S YOUR MOTHER HERE.’ There are several reasons for this. Firstly, when you ring me, YOUR NAME APPEARS ON THE SCREEN. Should I have developed temporary dyslexia, well, it still wouldn’t be a problem. There’s a picture of you. Secondly: in this, the twenty-ninth year of our acquaintance, I like to think that I can, on at least some occasions, recognise your voice. I understand that you wish to help, and I do appreciate your efforts. You have clearly chosen your words carefully. After all, you do not announce that it is SOMEONE’S MOTHER. That would just be confusing, as mothers are rife. You do not announce yourself as YOUR FAMILY MEMBER OF SOME DESCRIPTION. This, too, prevents confusion on my part, and I thank you for it. You have made things very clear. However, quite frankly, your compulsive self-announcement indicates to me that perhaps the lady protesteth too much. Am I adopted?
2. Should you choose to visit me – well, thank you. It’s nice to see you. I admire your innate ability to turn up unannounced. I often rise at respectable hours and do productive, wholesome things, but somehow you only seem to surprise me on the Saturdays where I’m having a little sleep in and haven’t done any washing up. This I can live with. You can’t disown your (clearly adopted) child at this late stage. However, if you’ve taken it into your head that we’re to have a jolly outing, notified me ahead of time, and turned up tooting merrily from your car at the appointed hour – well, dearest Mummy, I CAN hear the horn, and I AM in the process of getting ready. You don’t need to start holding down the doorbell for 15 seconds at a time, or – worse – YOOHOO, AMY, IT’S YOUR MOTHER HERE-ing whilst tapping at the windows.
3. I understand, however, that for the last few years you have lived in a world where car horns are but a gentle buzz, and doorbells a subtle whisper. What you must realise, old girl, is that not everybody has a discrete little hearing aid THAT THEY DON’T TURN ON. I know full well what has happened when I ask a question or make a witty remark, and you make some sort of non-committal neutral noise and quickly change the subject. You’re not fooling anyone.
I do think there is some hope for you, particularly in relation to point one. You are an avid emailer, and understand that because your name will appear on the email you don’t need to open with HELLO AMY IT’S YOUR MOTHER HERE, but merely: ’AMY: HERE IS A LIST OF DOT POINTS OF AREAS IN WHICH I THINK YOU COULD IMPROVE YOUR LIFE AND ALSO A FORWARD OF AMAZING PICTURES’. This means there is hope for you on the phone front. That said, I look forward, in 30 years, to receiving an incoming life-sized hologram from a little old lady who clearly states her name, address and artificial hip number in the hope that I will eventually be able to recognise who she is.
My writing style – namely, rants about things that happen to me featuring EXCESSIVE CAPITALISATION and – often – too many dashes – may be influenced by my genetics. I present proof positive of this with a guest post from beyond the grave. This rant was written for me by my late grandmother about ten years ago now. It is about a thing that happened to her, and features EXCESSIVE CAPITALISATION and – I think – far too many dashes.
I’ve had this kicking around at home for a few years, and have always thought it rather charming. I don’t know if the wider world will agree, so this is, first and foremost, posted for my family. If others happen to be reading, however, here’s a bit of background.
Betty Hollingsworth – ‘Mama’ (pronounced ‘Mah-Mah’, not ‘Mumma’). I read somewhere that it’s a Welsh term for Grandmother, but don’t quote me on that. That’s just what grandmothers are called on my mother’s side of the family. A lovely, strange, bossy old lady. She liked to write. She didn’t care quite so much for editing. If she was alive now, she’d have a blog.
Frank Hollingsworth – ‘Grandad’. Runner of errands and general assistant to Mama. Teller of terrible jokes.
Aunty Sue – My aunt, an antique dealer (yes, it’s relevant).
U3A – ‘University of the Third Age’. A series of lectures and classes for seniors with which Mama was very involved. She took just about every class they had, and was on their committee, organising things like the event described herein.
Buckle up.
As it turned out: not too long. A few years later, she died. Cancer. She’d still be here if she hadn’t dismissed abdominal pain as nothing for months on end. Grandad died about two years later, after a rapid decline. He didn’t have a job to do anymore.
It was hard to read this for a while – hence the old wet smudges on the original scanned document. For the last few years, though, this story has only made me smile, and I think that’s a good thing.
Here’s some festive cheer from the sketch group of which I’m a part. We shot this the other night just for you.
(I am the girl one.)
So, to quote Krusty: have a merry Christmas, happy Hanukkah, kwazy Kwanzaa, a tip-top Tết, and a solemn, dignified Ramadan.
Filed under: Miscellanea
It has come to my attention that the manufacturers of candles and bath products have completely the wrong idea about how Christmas smells. They seem to be under the impression that it smells like minty things, and pine trees, and far too much cinnamon. They are wrong. For their education, and yours, Dear Reader, I present a definitive list of The Four Elements Of Which Christmas Really Smells.
Proper Christmas Trees
By this, of course, I mean sensible plastic ones that have been gathering dust in the cupboard all year. For real authenticity, the plastic should have that smell of having been ever so slightly baked by the heat. All issues of hemisphere-appropriateness aside, the idea of a tree being chopped down dead to wither slowly under pretty lights seems – well, mean. I’m a sentimental creature (probably particularly so following the recent death of my tomato plant from blatant neglect).
Tinsel and Chocolate Orange
Many know the delicate aroma of rustly metalic plastic. The real trick, however, is to infuse it – and all the decorations for your plastic tree – with the delicious scent of Terry’s Chocolate Orange. I can’t remember which particular decorations lived in an empty box of the aforementioned citrusy delight, but that’s what they smelt like, and that’s what all Christmas decorations should smell like. Always.
Actually, everything ever should probably smell like this.
Essence of Verandah
AKA mosquito coils and timber. Particularly evocative teamed with a hint of sizzling moth fresh from the beckoning, deadly blue light of the mozzie zapper and the dull almost-reek of overripe mangos from the tree in the backyard.
Christmas Beetles
This is something of a catch-all. What I mean by the smell of Christmas beetles is that whiff of summer at night – cut grass and sweaty hair and expanding corrugated roofing and the cool side of the pillowcase and excitement. It’s hard to say that all in one go when you’re six, or nine, or twenty-eight. Therefore: that’s what Christmas beetles smell like.
Mmm! Intangible!
There. Put those in a candle, and I’ll buy it.
Filed under: Miscellanea
You there! Feast your eyes upon TREASURE.
I am not entirely sure what is going on here. Is this fine gentleman emerging from a comically large beer stein, or is he just standing behind it watching you drink? If so, why is the interior of the stein green? I don’t know what he’s got planned, but he does, and his guilt is written all over his face.
Anyway, fuck it: OOMPAH!
Renato is lying. He was never able to stop at just one.
There’s so much to consider when deconstructing comedy. Why do we laugh? Do we seek to validate our own foibles when presented with those of another? As we reflect upon the human condition, is it enough to snatch brief moments of joy taken in absurdity?
Do we all have a carrot? I don’t, but I can put straw in my boots. Does the dog have a carrot?
Warning: it will be a racist party.
Ah, smoking wreckage: the stuff of which nostalgia is made. Remember that time we all hid in the cellar and though we were going to die? It’s just not like it used to be, kids. The manufacturers of this record were wise to the fact that this title, whilst delightfully catchy, might not be in the best of taste. This is why the back of the record sleeve is devoted to a bizarre sociological essay vaguely related to why it’s okay. A responsible person would have a scanner that actually works (in my defence, it used to…one laptop ago) – or, at the very least, a camera for which she can find the SD card. Not me. More terrible phone pictures!
I can’t help but think that attention spans may not be what they used to be. But don’t worry:
All is well with the world.
Filed under: Miscellanea
It’s 8:00. Well, maybe 7:59, maybe 8:01, but usually 8:00. It’s less a symptom of punctuality and more the fact that this is the absolute latest time I can leave for work and make it on time. I cut things fine.
The door to my flat shuts on the first attempt, the door to the building takes a second go. It’s hot. Standing, fidgeting, waiting for a gap in traffic. Across the road, down through the park (eyed suspiciously by plovers). I peer across the valley of the busway at the railyards. The Suncorp clock purses its lips, but a surprisingly hearty, fragrant bit of shrubbery (oleander?) behind a fence is more cheerful. My forehead begins to get damp.
Under the rail bridge, dodging its drips of mystery liquid. Round the corner, into the bald heat. They’ve taken mercy on the guy in the bird suit with a cardboard sign – he doesn’t have to promote earlybird parking in the summer. Jaywalk again, and then the beautiful shadow of the ugly Transit centre. This is where my bus stop is, but walking is quicker, and the temporary shade is incentive enough to keep going. On, through the cloud of smokers and the stream of surly humans from Roma Street station. The Citycycle bay is always entirely full, or entirely empty. The ads on the bus stops change.
Society’s finest loiter on a rock by the post boxes, waiting for the bottle shop to open. Bitter smoke wafts from a bin. I glance at my reflection in a dark window, the transit centre ends, and I step back out into the sun, wishing, every time, that I’d taken the extra ten minutes to catch the bus. Across the road again, past the building site for the new courts complex. It’s not so interesting now it’s not an enormous hole in the ground to peek at through a fence, but the crane branded ‘Jon Monocrane’ always makes me laugh. Jon doesn’t believe in expanding his fleet, and that’s good – the longer it takes to build the complex, the longer I’ll be able to walk for half a block in the shade of scaffolding.
On, on, on. Under the overpass, past the cafe on the corner. It is the first time of the morning that I smell coffee, and every morning it’s like suddenly remembering a wonderful thing exists. I don’t stop, though. It’s late, and coffee is hot. Past a hotel, dodging taxis and the mini-bus that always seems to be pulling up to deposit a Singapore Air crew. I’ve been up for 40 minutes, while they’ve been flying for 40 hours, but they’re made of cool, precise plastic, and my hair’s gone from shower-damp to heat-damp before it ever had a chance to dry.
Clinging again to shadow, I position myself carefully in the thin shade of a stop light. It only covers part of my face, but it helps. The lights change, and I’m striding across to King George Square. The stark design is jollied only slightly by a few trees and benches. A big screen blares breakfast television with the colour turned up too high. The skeleton of the city Christmas tree looms. The ugly, solar-powered star is already attached. It looks alien. I smell coffee again, and think of the air-conditioned busway that lies below me.
Adelaide Street. Dodging people, relishing brief blasts of air-conditioning as I walk past arcades and shopping centres. Christmas decorations are up. Faux-icicles hang, glistening. Fibre-optic wreaths sparkle, and Starbucks is covered in enormous vinyl stickers depicting a winter wonderland. I fan myself ineffectively as my hair drips onto the hot cement. Edward Street. I’m getting close, but I’m running out of time. I pick up the pace. The bus I could have been on pulls up. Turns out today was a good traffic day on North Quay. Darting around the corner, I dash up a flight of stairs and past the entrance to Queensland Transport. People mill outside, waiting for it to open. It’s nearly 8:30. I cut through the courtyard of St Stephen’s for another tiny dose of grass and trees, then through a small arcade. I feel bad for a sad little stationery shop tucked away from the street. Faded displays and clipart signs: I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone in there. Smoker’s benches, sandwich shop, more coffee smells.
I’m here. Jaywalk. Jaywalk again, then reach the shelter of the giant sails surrounding the entrances to Waterfront Place, through the sleek glass doors and into the enormous marbled, mirrored lagoon of climate controlled lobby. Empty space, neutral art and a real, live pianist playing twee favourites.
Down the law mines.
Filed under: Things I Like
The firm at which I was working was often given a number of tickets to various events. The good ones never made it to plebs like myself, but occasionally there’d be a cattle call for tickets to things like a football game, and the first few fortunate…plebs…who replied to the email giving away said tickets could bask in the dubious bounty. On this occasion, the tickets were for a race day. I can’t say I particularly care for horses. I don’t quite comprehend gambling (I mean, I understand the THEORY, but I don’t quite grasp the mechanics). Nevertheless, these were not tickets for football, and that made them of interest to me. Shortly after, I received an email from a mailing list I was on. Some local improvised comedy group, or something. I think I’d been to a pub show of theirs once before I went overseas, and quite enjoyed it. They were holding a festival, and were having a ticket giveaway for Saturday night…the same day as the races. This was clearly Free Ticket Day. With my amazing powers of hitting reply, these tickets also became mine. I informed my Dear Cousin (my constant companion since…well, forever) that we were going to have a Grand Day Out. We would wear pretty dresses. We would sip champagne. We would pat ponies and make witty remarks to young men. When we had finished with such things, we would retire to the Theatre and enjoy some sophisticated humour.
HORSES AND THEATRE, TOGETHER AT LAST
It did not go quite as I had planned. When we got to the raceway, there were an alarming number of children about. There was also a man in a Shrek suit, a jumping castle, fairy floss and a petting zoo. It was Family Day. (The petting zoo was delightful. There were piglets.) My Dear Cousin had recently broken her arm quite spectacularly (she still has bolts in her elbow. Bolts!) and was having trouble accessorising her formidable cast. Outside the zone of wholesome family fun lay the zone of suited-up Normanby attendees making great strides towards the moment in the afternoon during which they would vomit on their own shoes. We headed for the member’s area, brandishing our tickets. It was full of old people, but at least the drinks were served in glass instead of plastic.
The races were not what we had envisioned. That was alright. We decided that the best course of action was to enjoy a refreshing beverage. We observed some horses. We didn’t bet on them, because we didn’t quite understand how to do so. We enjoyed several more refreshing beverages. I played with the piglets again. It was an interesting anthropological excursion, but in time, we grew tired of the races. After an early dinner, we adjourned to the Powerhouse to see this improvisation lark. Of course, before it began, it was only natural that we enjoy a refreshing beverage.
It was fortunate that I took the chair to the left of my Dear Cousin and therefore did not have access to her poor injured right arm. You see, about three minutes into the show, I gripped her arm and started muttering about how I could do this. I released her – temporarily. Any time they started a new scene or game, my eyes widened and I grabbed poor Dear Cousin’s arm again. They were making it up. They were JUST MAKING IT UP! I COULD TOTALLY DO THAT! COURTNEY, I COULD DO THAT! DOESN’T THAT LOOK FUN? THAT’S THE KIND OF THING I WOULD LIKE! By intermission, she had fingernail marks in her forearm, and I was in a state of frenzy. (I thought it best to take a moment to have a refreshing beverage.) At the end of the show, I was convinced that this was my calling. I cited the evidence. Hadn’t I always made up poems and songs when a kid? Hadn’t I always loved Space Jump in drama class? Wasn’t I funny? HEY? COURTNEY I COULD DOOO THIIIS. Finally, Dear Cousin raised an eyebrow and advised me to do exactly that.
Hmmm. Well, I hadn’t thought of that. By this point in the evening, whilst upright and coherent (if slightly over-enthusiastic), I would not have described myself as stone-cold sober. Buoyed by the fact that I had seen piglets that day, I marched up to the information stand the company had set up and basically barked YOU THERE I WISH TO JOIN YOUR CLUB I DON’T NEED TRAINING I AM VERY GOOD AT EVERYTHING. I was politely pointed in the direction of their beginner workshops. FINE.
The next day, I felt a bit sheepish at my…youthful exuberance. Still, I poked around in my mind a bit and found that despite the veneer of embarrassment, my original sentiment held. I could do this. I was sure I could. I signed up for the workshops. And you know what? I was right. I still had a lot to learn, though, and from the first workshop, I was smitten. Impro…Mafia? Okay. Sign me up. (Oooh, that guy in the workshop with the Nintendo tshirt and the prominent chin is cute. Young, but cute.)
At the risk of my prose turning purple, those free tickets were tickets to a lot more than a comedy show. They included entrance to a whole world of amazing friends and colleagues, opportunities outside of impro, and even an introduction to a cute young man with a prominent chin with whom I’m now shacked up. Impro gives me great joy, and I’m so incredibly glad I found it. It feels the same as making up elaborate stories and plays at the age of six. It feels like putting on a show in the garage featuring the dog and charging Mum 20c admission. It feels like everybody in the classroom laughing when you make a cheeky remark back to the teacher. It’s pretty much the most fun thing in the world ever. Impro is not a Thing I Like. It is a Thing I Love.
Filed under: Miscellanea
A few weeks ago, I posted about my absolute favourite and most despised thing at Expo ’88. (Despite the sentence structure, they were two different things. I’m not that emotionally complex.) Sadly, I had a picture of neither. Fortunately, I have always believed, in my heart of hearts, that the internet is magic. I was proved right when the kindly Aaron Doyle of olilolo.com provided me with pictures of both from an Expo ’88 souvenir book. This prince amongst men scanned the images. I now present PHOTOGRAPHIC EVIDENCE of my ability to retain memories for over two decades.
This is Hachi. Hachi was the finest miniature-ancient-Japanese-village-dwelling hologram of a carpenter the world has ever known, and he still holds a (low-resolution) place in my heart.
TEENY LITTLE REALLY REALLY SUPER GUY
This abomination is The Terrifying Beard Man. Don’t be taken in by the smiling children in their fluorescent playclothes. They are unaware that THINGS are about to POP SCARILY OUT OF HIS BEARD with NO WARNING and they will have to HIDE BEHIND THEIR MUMS.
Lord of Nightmares.
I cannot tell you how happy I am to have pictures of these things. These plus the copy of ‘Penny Pollard In Print’ that I found at a stall at the Arts Theatre fete the other day pretty much equal nostalgia heaven.
I am fairly eclectic in my musical tastes. I’ve always thought of metal, however, as something I would have no interest in whatsoever. It just didn’t seem my kind of thing.
The imagery surrounding it influenced me more than I initially realised. I was an oddly fearful little thing as a child, and didn’t like the look of any scary grownup band tshirts with skulls and worms and monsters. I couldn’t even cope with these things depicted cartoonishly on the covers of Goosebumps books. I wouldn’t go near the scary movies in the video shop because I didn’t want to see their covers. (I’ve never entirely grown out of such things. I’ve never seen Donnie Darko because I saw a picture of the rabbit suit in it once and got spooked.)
Unicorn-free zone.
In my mind back then, the metal genre (not that I could have named it then) was basically the horror music genre. I doubt 10-year-old me would have embraced it if had been more unicorn focused, but I probably wouldn’t have been actively terrified of it. The worst thing was this: on the bike track by Norman Creek, some disillusioned suburban teens (I presume) had written IRON MAIDEN in big letters by the canal. We went on wholesome family bike rides fairly often, and the words made me think, initially, of a kindly robot princess or somesuch. I’m not sure how I learnt that the phrase really referred to both torture device and a scary grown-up band, but once I did, I had to avert my eyes when I saw that particular bit of graffitti. I felt tricked. This had not been the work of robot princess afficionados at all.
I wish.
I didn’t think to question the TRUE FACT that I Did Not Like metal – and particularly Iron Maiden – for many, many years. However, it was recently pointed out to me by several of my esteemed associates that my fondness for (amongst other genres) EPIC GUITAR might translate into tolerance – if not fondness – for that particular band. At a certain point in the evening, I am not impartial to a bit of shouty big-hair karaoke. Alright, I thought. Smashing my air guitar violently against the stage, I bit the head off an air bat and hurled an air TV out of a hotel window before downloading an Iron Maiden best-of (air-legally). Yep, I went for a compilation. I’m hardcore.
So what did I think? It was, at once, just what I expected, and not what I expected at all. The metal cliches were there, but they were less all-invasive than I’d imagined. All the classic guitar chords and harmonies I like anyway were there, but with a rather more energetic (and, after a while, a bit samey) drumbeat, and some (slightly more hardcore) duelling fiddles. Glam rock has flirted with metal more than I initially realised. I’ve always had a soft spot for the occasional bit of…well, c*ck rock (HURR HURR HURR), so a lot of the music that I’ve always liked owes a lot to old-school metal, and might JUST be classified as such itself at times I SUPPOSE (Led Zep, anyone?)
To be honest, I guess I’d been thinking of metal as the really terrifying gutteral screaming stuff. Which, I suppose, it is, sometimes – it just didn’t occur to me that that wasn’t, well – it. Nobody shouted TOO much at me. When they did, it was at a pleasantly self-aware, AC/DC, strutting-around-in-the-80s level, not a terrible screaming evil level. It wasn’t scary. It was basically the soundtrack to Jack Black movie, and fun in a guitars-on-fire-IN-HELL sort of way. I particularly liked ‘Bring Your Daughter To The Slaughter’ because it was almost a parody of itself. Did I like it ironically? I don’t even know.
I also theorise that most Iron Maiden songs work better on the second listen. I’m basing this entirely on the fact that I listened to ‘Run To The Hills’ on Youtube before listening to the whole album. Maybe I was just relieved, when hearing it again, at noticing a vague acquaintance amongst a group of (reaonably affable) strangers, but it seems that if you know there’s an interesting tempo change/totes fully sick guitar riff coming up, anticipating it is enjoyable. Having it strike you out of the blue – at lease for me – is less fun.
Overall? It was enjoyable, if a bit of a genre novelty for me. I’m not going to delete the album. I think it would be good walking music, actually. ENERGY! SLIGHTLY ANGRY ENERGY!
I’m yet to find something that I was actually completely right about the first time. This is beginning to alarm me.
Metal: successfully Tried Again.
