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I've had a good day, although I'm kicking myself for not remembering it was a certain Brother Drunk's birthday, well technically yesterday, now, but still, there is kickage. And plots. Plots to be filled out come Monday.
But yeah, back to me. Because it's all about me, and if you didn't realise that by now, man, did you ever misunderstand the LJ concept. ;)
Escrima training today. [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com] came by to watch, and she picked a good session to sit in on, since there were the usual partner drills, and then some advanced stuff for those of us who have got a grip (pardon the pun) on the whole escrima business, and some kumite (orchestrated sparring-type drills) and then kata revision. Revision for me, because it's seriously been a couple of years since I last did those, due mostly to the Lost Wodonga Years. Two hours of theraputic banging of bamboo canes against other bamboo canes, which did much to relieve the tension created by two Court Days From Hell, and managed to abrade the skin from a total of five different spots on my hands. Three blisters on the right, two on the left, which progressed rapidly from the fluid-filled bubbles to popping, tearing, and ripping the rest of the skin flap off in order to get it out of the way, leaving highly unattractive round holes in my dermis. Damn wussy office hands. So yeah, I've got five bandaids on my five blisters, and will no doubt provide horrified amusment to the fellow drones at PERIN on Monday.
I'll detour slightly for a moment to explain the sudden burst of verbosity and five-dollar words. I've been reading The Tasmanian Babes Fiasco by John Birmingham (prompted by a Five Questions Meme query from the afore-mentioned Birthday Boy), and the style is verbose, extravagant, amusing, and highly contagious. And me, ever the personality sponge, am fighting the urge to find myself a place in a student share house and drink large amounts of beer and live off fish fingers and turn up to work catastrophically stoned. Which would provide, again, horrified amusement to my fellow Prisoners of the Cubicle, at least until I get my arse fired and possibly jailed for contempt of court for blowing raspberries at the magistrate every time I thought they had fucked up. And that story ends with me possibly sharing a cell with Pauline Hanson, and you know it's all going to end bloodily from there.And hey, I have Dopeland to continue with. Fear me.
So, I'm am writing under the Influence of Someone Else's Personality. I'm sure it will wear off soon.
Bounce and I left the Sports Centre at Melbourne Uni to discover that spring was only a sham, and it was raining. A lot. And windy. Much more so. One of those horrible bone-marrow-freezing, soul destroying Antarctic blasts we get periodically. So we fled to Thresherman's, purveyors of good cheap food and Patron Saints to Students (I used to go to this place when it was one shopfront only and I was in the throes of my Arts degree), where a small child was fascinated by the way I was inhaling a large plate of starchy food whilst Bounce and I talked things Martial. Eventually Other Duties called and we went our separate ways, Bounce to her lovely warm tram, me onto the bike (already wet, what with bike parking never being undercover) into that soul-shrivelling wind. And there's nothing like having a delivery van zoom past you in the wet, filling your right ear with a frigid spray of water.
I stopped by the video place on the way home, because there were plans afoot for [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com] to come over and retrieve his DVD player after allowing himself to be subjected to He Died With A Falafel In His Hand, which is, I've since discovered after my reading spree, a nice blend of both that and the Babes Fiasco. No karate dykes, tho'. However, there seems to be a Birmingham revival, and not only the DVD copy, but the video copy were both out. I decided I'd go home, shower, return feeling to my extremities, and try the other video place in Sydney Road. No biggie.
For some reason, I decided to scrub the shower whilst I was in there (for the second time today). Yes, with the blistered hands. Sometimes my inner Neat Freak likes to punish me for letting things slip in recent years. So yeah, there I was, srubbing the grouting mould with a scrubbing bruch covered in Jif, managing to flick it in my eyes (always a great thing to do whilst you're wearing your contact lenses, not), and getting a result which was better than before, but still not the pristine perfection that was the shower upon my moving in. And since I'm already packing boxes and scoping out estate agents in my mind (I have five months left on this lease, and already I'm planning the next move), the Return of the Bond looks to be an issue for future trauma.
*stuffs the Neat Freak back into the darkest part of her psyche and relocks the box*
So, freshly showered and capable of movement in my lower limbs again, I decided on a nice hot cuppa and letting my hair dry before making any treks to the video store. And then the phone rings. It's [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com] again, calling from Toronto, with one of those freaky four second delays, so our conversation sounds a bit like those current-affairs interviews where the host is interviewing someone via satellite and they keep interrupting each other until they work out the delay time. But yeah, good ol' talk, definite improvement on the last time, and when I got off the phone I realised I'd missed Phil, twice. This is getting to be a habit. People only ever ring my phone when I'm not there or already using it, I swear. But yeah, his own To Do stuff had intervened and he was piking on me for the movie session, and frankly I don't blame him, it was filthy weather out there. So I got chummy with Mr Birmingham, became a Pod Person, and then settled down for a quiet evening with a long-neglected friend, the Internet.
And thus ends our tale.
***
I've had a Thought, re this party I have to dress up for. I have the boots, the velvety pants, the leather jacket and there's a Gothic clothing shop in Sydney Road I've been meaning to explore. So, should I find the appropriate bodice-y type thing, I'm going for a vampiric kind of effect. Think Vampire Willow, only with dark brown hair (cause I'm getting [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com] to help me dye it again). I didn't want to lash out on an entire costume, and this way I have something I can wear clubbing and such. ;) And no-one seems to think I will make a convincing Saint, so Sinner it is.
But yeah, back to me. Because it's all about me, and if you didn't realise that by now, man, did you ever misunderstand the LJ concept. ;)
Escrima training today. [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com] came by to watch, and she picked a good session to sit in on, since there were the usual partner drills, and then some advanced stuff for those of us who have got a grip (pardon the pun) on the whole escrima business, and some kumite (orchestrated sparring-type drills) and then kata revision. Revision for me, because it's seriously been a couple of years since I last did those, due mostly to the Lost Wodonga Years. Two hours of theraputic banging of bamboo canes against other bamboo canes, which did much to relieve the tension created by two Court Days From Hell, and managed to abrade the skin from a total of five different spots on my hands. Three blisters on the right, two on the left, which progressed rapidly from the fluid-filled bubbles to popping, tearing, and ripping the rest of the skin flap off in order to get it out of the way, leaving highly unattractive round holes in my dermis. Damn wussy office hands. So yeah, I've got five bandaids on my five blisters, and will no doubt provide horrified amusment to the fellow drones at PERIN on Monday.
I'll detour slightly for a moment to explain the sudden burst of verbosity and five-dollar words. I've been reading The Tasmanian Babes Fiasco by John Birmingham (prompted by a Five Questions Meme query from the afore-mentioned Birthday Boy), and the style is verbose, extravagant, amusing, and highly contagious. And me, ever the personality sponge, am fighting the urge to find myself a place in a student share house and drink large amounts of beer and live off fish fingers and turn up to work catastrophically stoned. Which would provide, again, horrified amusement to my fellow Prisoners of the Cubicle, at least until I get my arse fired and possibly jailed for contempt of court for blowing raspberries at the magistrate every time I thought they had fucked up. And that story ends with me possibly sharing a cell with Pauline Hanson, and you know it's all going to end bloodily from there.And hey, I have Dopeland to continue with. Fear me.
So, I'm am writing under the Influence of Someone Else's Personality. I'm sure it will wear off soon.
Bounce and I left the Sports Centre at Melbourne Uni to discover that spring was only a sham, and it was raining. A lot. And windy. Much more so. One of those horrible bone-marrow-freezing, soul destroying Antarctic blasts we get periodically. So we fled to Thresherman's, purveyors of good cheap food and Patron Saints to Students (I used to go to this place when it was one shopfront only and I was in the throes of my Arts degree), where a small child was fascinated by the way I was inhaling a large plate of starchy food whilst Bounce and I talked things Martial. Eventually Other Duties called and we went our separate ways, Bounce to her lovely warm tram, me onto the bike (already wet, what with bike parking never being undercover) into that soul-shrivelling wind. And there's nothing like having a delivery van zoom past you in the wet, filling your right ear with a frigid spray of water.
I stopped by the video place on the way home, because there were plans afoot for [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com] to come over and retrieve his DVD player after allowing himself to be subjected to He Died With A Falafel In His Hand, which is, I've since discovered after my reading spree, a nice blend of both that and the Babes Fiasco. No karate dykes, tho'. However, there seems to be a Birmingham revival, and not only the DVD copy, but the video copy were both out. I decided I'd go home, shower, return feeling to my extremities, and try the other video place in Sydney Road. No biggie.
For some reason, I decided to scrub the shower whilst I was in there (for the second time today). Yes, with the blistered hands. Sometimes my inner Neat Freak likes to punish me for letting things slip in recent years. So yeah, there I was, srubbing the grouting mould with a scrubbing bruch covered in Jif, managing to flick it in my eyes (always a great thing to do whilst you're wearing your contact lenses, not), and getting a result which was better than before, but still not the pristine perfection that was the shower upon my moving in. And since I'm already packing boxes and scoping out estate agents in my mind (I have five months left on this lease, and already I'm planning the next move), the Return of the Bond looks to be an issue for future trauma.
*stuffs the Neat Freak back into the darkest part of her psyche and relocks the box*
So, freshly showered and capable of movement in my lower limbs again, I decided on a nice hot cuppa and letting my hair dry before making any treks to the video store. And then the phone rings. It's [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com] again, calling from Toronto, with one of those freaky four second delays, so our conversation sounds a bit like those current-affairs interviews where the host is interviewing someone via satellite and they keep interrupting each other until they work out the delay time. But yeah, good ol' talk, definite improvement on the last time, and when I got off the phone I realised I'd missed Phil, twice. This is getting to be a habit. People only ever ring my phone when I'm not there or already using it, I swear. But yeah, his own To Do stuff had intervened and he was piking on me for the movie session, and frankly I don't blame him, it was filthy weather out there. So I got chummy with Mr Birmingham, became a Pod Person, and then settled down for a quiet evening with a long-neglected friend, the Internet.
And thus ends our tale.
***
I've had a Thought, re this party I have to dress up for. I have the boots, the velvety pants, the leather jacket and there's a Gothic clothing shop in Sydney Road I've been meaning to explore. So, should I find the appropriate bodice-y type thing, I'm going for a vampiric kind of effect. Think Vampire Willow, only with dark brown hair (cause I'm getting [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com] to help me dye it again). I didn't want to lash out on an entire costume, and this way I have something I can wear clubbing and such. ;) And no-one seems to think I will make a convincing Saint, so Sinner it is.
