Saturday, April 22, 2006

A sad night in with the computer and a screen full of memories

Earlier tonight, I got yet another SchoolFriends.com reminder in my inbox. Apparently, someone I probably had absolutely no interaction with other than possibly laughing at them being stuffed in a rubbish bin by bullies in the schoolground (as oft happened to a particularly unpopular younger cousin of mine, and, dang it, it was funny) had decided to update their details on the website. Just for ca-razy kicks, and the fact I was unprecedentedly bored, I decided to mosey on over and trawl through the Class of '93 roll call of names. Just to see who was there and get the past a-blastin'.

So, I clicked around my former classmates' names, observed who was now married to a property developer, the proud parent of two dogs, and living the dream up on the Gold Coast, did a few other random searches, updated my profile in an attempt to make it seem mildly less twit-like than the one that had sat there for four years for other unprecedentedly bored former classmates to scoff at, and promptly got b-o-r-e-d (e-r).

Since the last time I bothered looking at this site (when I signed up in 2002), it has had added functions, where, for $19.95, the nostalgia-lorn can email a former school friend, completely out of the blue, after an absence of years or a decade or few, with a personal message, viz:

I have always loved you.


Or, for the coy, unimaginative, or clinically brain dead, there's the multiple choice option, dubbed "the easy ice-breaker". The ice-breaker provides a ready-made choice of simple messages tailored by SchoolFriends.com:

The benign:
* I'd love to hear what you're up to now
* I hope life is treating you well

The shamelessly forthright and (potentially) sexually potent:
* It'd be great to meet up again ...

Or, the rather dead-end observation:
* I can't believe how the time has flown!

What's more, beside my name, there was the option to place a banner, should any disinterested party make the grave mistake of not wanting to click and read my profile full of rivetting news of the past 13 years. With this banner, I could gloatingly advise any (or all) of the following tidbits:
* I'm engaged!
* I'm married!
* I just had a baby girl!
* I just had a baby boy!

Or, the decidedly defeated (or hopeful, depending on why you'd choose to broadcast it):
* Just got divorced!
* Single again!

Or, a revelation:
* I'm gay!

After finding there was, alas, no banner for:
* I'm in prison!

Or:
* I'm out of prison!

Or:
* I'm certifiably insane!

Or:
* Die! Motherfuckers! Die!

I did choose one banner to show that, yes, I am thirty and doing just fine:
* I'm a grandparent!

Just for ca-razy controversial kicks. But then I changed my mind, and left the damn thing alone.

Monday, April 17, 2006

Indie kids can't dance

So, on the night before Good Friday, I found myself in some uber club-slash-rave thing my friend Sambo took me to with a gaggle of her mates. The last time I went to anything vaguely resembling this was in 1997. And my dancing style hasn't evolved much since the "two stomps forward and two stomps back" meets "hands chopping wildly akimbo above my head, to the side, down low, and culminating in great whirling looping loop-to-loops" moves studiously cultivated in my living room before Happy Mondays' music videos when I was 14. So whether it's harking back to 1997 or 1989, I was totally retroid on all six dancefloors, cemented more so by the white and fluorescent green print Excellent! Party Time! tee I bought especially for the occasion.

After a good seven or so hours of this, at 6.30 am, some guy, looking rather dubiously like a Guru Josh "Infinity" flashback in his floppy fisherman's hat and sunglasses, sidled up to me, hurled a bottle of water into one of my chop-chopping loop-to-loop hands, and exclaimed gleefully into my ear:

"Oi! You remind me of Ibiza!!!"

Which, from what I know about the dodgy Spanish clubbing resort, is rather like being told:

"Oi! You remind me of Schoolies' Week!!!"

Still, I kept on stomping and flailing until we were all kicked out into the morning sun an hour later.

At least I wasn't packing a whistle. Or a chupa chup.

End.

Saturday, April 08, 2006

On Kingsland Road

Scampering past the yellow Metropolitan Police sign shouting "MURDER: WE ARE APPEALING FOR WITNESSES*" out the back of my flat, I boarded a bus for a slightly more savory part of town. Coincidentally, on the hunt for a new abode.

As I wasn't sure which stop to get off, I stayed on the lower deck. Usually, I'm on the top deck, with one hand hoisting a Jolly Roger flag and the other feeding Polly a cracker as I pretend to be the captain of a big red pirate ship sailing the seven seas of east London. AHOY!

Anyway, a guy hopped on to the bus, aged anywhere between 17 and 40. I only noticed him when the bus driver boomed:

"YOU ARE NOT TWELVE!"

Bandying about a concession card of some sort, the guy thoughtfully caressed his 5 o'clock shadow and contested:

"Nah, man. I am so twelve."

"Show me your ID," demanded the bus driver.

"What ID? I'm only twelve!" he replied, throwing his non-twelve-year-old manhands in the air.

"Well, what year were you born?"

Quick as a flash, he retorted:

"I dunno, man. 1992 or some shit."

And then the bus driver waved him on.

End.

*Yes, both frighteningly and sadly, a 23-year-old guy was recently stabbed and killed on my council estate, barely even 50 metres from my flat. It happened around 7.20 pm a couple of Fridays ago, still in daylight, with plenty of people around, including me upstairs drinking wine with my housemate. Supposedly it was drugs and gang related, which makes me feel marginally better about my personal safety than if it was a random attack, admittedly. Doing their rounds, the police knocked on my door the other night to ask if I saw or heard anything or recognised his photograph, which I didn't, but putting a face to the horrible yellow signs that are everywhere made me feel sad. Anyway, enough blog fodder about that.

Sunday, April 02, 2006

Behold! The greatness to come

Yesterday I began my detox diet in preparation for being the New Me. In my mind’s eye, the success of which will help me transcend my present unremarkable status to be not only able to fit into size 27 jeans, but will result in unfathomable coolness, allure, and an added 5 cm of height. Slenderizing my thighs and downsizing my arse will undoubtedly lead to an A-type personality expert in many areas from beat-boxing, quantum physics, Italian neo-realist cinema, banjo playing, and kickflipping. In all, I’ll be the greatest 30-year-old child prodigy that ever was.

Day one of the detox consisted of hot water and lemon; carrot juice; a surprisingly tasty health smoothie (apple juice, raspberries, blueberries, soy milk, cottage cheese, flaxseed oil, lecithin granules, and powdered concoction that I must remember isn’t called Soylent Green, but ‘Beyond Greens’, featuring all the green vegetable extracts one could possibly hanker for and more); a handful of almonds; some miso soup; and a salad consisting largely of alfalfa sprouts. This honest to goodness day of frugally righteous eating in the name of detox was peppered with 10 cigarettes … after quitting for a whole entire week. The irony of which hasn’t escape me.

Aside from that little quirk, I feel positively salubrious. If I keep this up for six weeks, with progressively fewer cigarettes, and a lotta exercise, this She’s All That makeover of mine …

HOT DAMN!

Black cab metres will stop ticking, red buses will stop between stops, the Houses of Parliament will empty, hooded youths will cease their antisocial shenanigans, Greenwich Mean Time will come to a grinding halt, and all 25 zillion CCTV cameras in London town will swivel in my direction. Together, the whole of London, nay Britain, will be gawping and exclaiming to one another in a particularly non-British way:

“HOT DAMN, SHE’S ALL THAT!”

In awe of the wonder that stands before them, a few befuddled souls will wonder aloud how exactly it is that I came to be so fine. Me, I’ll simply whip my Pantene hair from side to side, flash a blinding white smile, wave a manicured hand (holding a celebratory Bacon Double Cheeseburger Deluxe) and shrug:

“Good genes.”

End.