I need to be microwaved, urgently. My ions or the tiny spaces inside my atoms need exciting into action. I blame Superman, a roll of gaffertape and my opera cape, these three things should never under any circumstances be combined. I am under strict instructions to not publish this photo of Superman but due to the gaffer tape opera cape incident I'm too tired to follow instructions.
Last night Superman and I headed to Rita's surprise birthday dinner. I wore an opera cape and red leather gloves, Superman wore my black pashmina as a scarf, he does that from time to time. I don't mind but I was slightly alarmed when I wrapped myself in it five minutes and ago and found it smelled like man instead of perfume dust and good dresses.
I spent a considerable amount of time and effort going person to person in an attempt to organise a spot of waltzing after dinner. I thought surely I could not fail to succeed, Superman bet my $1.12 that I would indeed fail. The tables were grey melamine, there were pink napkins stuffed into wine glasses, the middle of the tables had a raised rotating section, I was sure that all of this was in my favour. In the end when I gave the signal nothing at all happened so I waltzed around on the miniature dance floor in front of two mountain men playing country versions of Jimi Hendrix songs with tiny Ronita who yelled "Guitar! 8 9 10!" at odd intervals until she tired of being danced about on my hip and insisted on being taken to see the fish tank.
After the giant platter of stacked balls of deep fried ice cream arrived with a lone sparkler sticking out of the top we sang happy birthday and I was struck by the irresistible urge to give an impromptu speech. I said to Superman "I must make a speech!" I stood up in my green jungle print 1950's party dress and stared them down, those thirty people in their jeans and t-shirts. I insisted they all listen to me and one by one they did. Unfortunately I said "I just have a few things to say, oh wait I don't have anything to say", recovery was difficult from that point, sorry about that Rita.
I sat in my puddle of weariness and odd shame all the long way home to the city. I cheered myself up somewhere around Parramatta Rd by singing the names of all the shops into one long song. Superman begged me to stop. There are a lot of shops on Parramatta Rd.
Reinstalled at The Peach where I can generally stay out of trouble (let us not remember Zissou) we lit a fire in the library and talked, at length, about nothing in particular until suddenly it was after 3am and we were watching Laurie Anderson videos on you tube. This is where gaffer tape, a lamp and Superman prevented my gentle fall into comfortable slumber until sometime after 4am.
Spencer came by in the morning wearing a cowboy shirt and some shoes sharper than shark shit. He pulled a plastic case out of his leather satchel and waved it around, holding it by the tips of his long fingers, the one that can reach all the way to the bottom of a jar of pringles, it was a rough mix from his new album so I climbed up the bookshelf to play a cd (the stereo is very high). Things got very Rock in The Peach today with Spencer sprawling his long legs and sharp shoes out the end of an armchair and Superman sitting in the opposite corner and the rough mix playing on repeat. We filled that room with cigarette smoke, conversation and the fuck off undeniable evidence of just exactly why we lock ourselves away in rooms undertaking our own private necessary tortures.
I don't write songs, that's not my brand of necessary torture, but sometimes, if you stop kicking and screaming at life you'll find someone delivers a reason why, right through your front door and I think this is what I wanted to say last night in that grey melemine restaurant holding a pink napkin and standing like a fool in party dress and an opera cape. It might sound simple, like a table full of friends eating fried ice cream or two men sitting in The Peach with the stereo on but what it means is something so complex I can't find a way of staring at it.
Last night Superman and I headed to Rita's surprise birthday dinner. I wore an opera cape and red leather gloves, Superman wore my black pashmina as a scarf, he does that from time to time. I don't mind but I was slightly alarmed when I wrapped myself in it five minutes and ago and found it smelled like man instead of perfume dust and good dresses.
I spent a considerable amount of time and effort going person to person in an attempt to organise a spot of waltzing after dinner. I thought surely I could not fail to succeed, Superman bet my $1.12 that I would indeed fail. The tables were grey melamine, there were pink napkins stuffed into wine glasses, the middle of the tables had a raised rotating section, I was sure that all of this was in my favour. In the end when I gave the signal nothing at all happened so I waltzed around on the miniature dance floor in front of two mountain men playing country versions of Jimi Hendrix songs with tiny Ronita who yelled "Guitar! 8 9 10!" at odd intervals until she tired of being danced about on my hip and insisted on being taken to see the fish tank.
After the giant platter of stacked balls of deep fried ice cream arrived with a lone sparkler sticking out of the top we sang happy birthday and I was struck by the irresistible urge to give an impromptu speech. I said to Superman "I must make a speech!" I stood up in my green jungle print 1950's party dress and stared them down, those thirty people in their jeans and t-shirts. I insisted they all listen to me and one by one they did. Unfortunately I said "I just have a few things to say, oh wait I don't have anything to say", recovery was difficult from that point, sorry about that Rita.
I sat in my puddle of weariness and odd shame all the long way home to the city. I cheered myself up somewhere around Parramatta Rd by singing the names of all the shops into one long song. Superman begged me to stop. There are a lot of shops on Parramatta Rd.
Reinstalled at The Peach where I can generally stay out of trouble (let us not remember Zissou) we lit a fire in the library and talked, at length, about nothing in particular until suddenly it was after 3am and we were watching Laurie Anderson videos on you tube. This is where gaffer tape, a lamp and Superman prevented my gentle fall into comfortable slumber until sometime after 4am.
Spencer came by in the morning wearing a cowboy shirt and some shoes sharper than shark shit. He pulled a plastic case out of his leather satchel and waved it around, holding it by the tips of his long fingers, the one that can reach all the way to the bottom of a jar of pringles, it was a rough mix from his new album so I climbed up the bookshelf to play a cd (the stereo is very high). Things got very Rock in The Peach today with Spencer sprawling his long legs and sharp shoes out the end of an armchair and Superman sitting in the opposite corner and the rough mix playing on repeat. We filled that room with cigarette smoke, conversation and the fuck off undeniable evidence of just exactly why we lock ourselves away in rooms undertaking our own private necessary tortures.
I don't write songs, that's not my brand of necessary torture, but sometimes, if you stop kicking and screaming at life you'll find someone delivers a reason why, right through your front door and I think this is what I wanted to say last night in that grey melemine restaurant holding a pink napkin and standing like a fool in party dress and an opera cape. It might sound simple, like a table full of friends eating fried ice cream or two men sitting in The Peach with the stereo on but what it means is something so complex I can't find a way of staring at it.
Comments
Grizelda that is a terrible photo of Superman, terrible and I should take it down and I agree it is kind of terrible in that you don't get an accurate sense of what Superman looks like but I think it explains the sensation of eating an after dinner mint in a Chinese restaurant in Faulconbridge quite well.
I do not know why I am typing about the relative straightness of people's teeth. I do not care about Superman's teeth. It is nice that he brushes them often, for the sake of his own dental health, apart from that I do not care two straws about the relative straightness of Superman's teeth. It is not important.
He just shook his head slowly and walked away with a wry grin upon his face.
although it must be hard these days as they are mostly just phone 'shelters' and you probably get goose bumps on your legs.
You know, I'm actually starting to wonder why I need to be near a phone when I get changed.
And since you asked, it was a kind of dejected walk to the nearest predatory dental clinic.
But you just KNOW people would talk.
Hey - perhaps there should be public toiletphones? Let's all stop wasting our precious time with separate defecating and dialing! Let's start spouting shit with BOTH ends simultaneously! Let's stop me quickly, before I say anything else! Oh, do let's...