Should there be one thing in existence that one human being should never force another to sleep on, it's couches, particularly without the comfort of a doona. With this uncomfortable thought sticking in my brain in the nanoseconds before my innate ability to sleep in the most uncomfortable of places kicked in (cold tile kitchen floors included), I spent a mere six and a half hours slumbering on what was possibly the most solid three-seat lump of material in existence. Couches themselves though aren't so uncomfortable, and given my amazing ability to sleep anywhere, I shouldn't have been complaining, however, when one's host only provides you with two baby (emphasis on baby, especially in size) blankets and her old quilt for comfort, it gets...well...erh...a bit chilly. I regretted almost at once removing my sloppy joe, but unfortunately, my arms somehow cemented themselves to my torso in what was, conceivably, my poor heat starved self's autonomous attempt to reduce the amount of skin exposed to shiver the night away. 

But I digress. The purpose of this pain- discomfort, fine, I'll stop the hyperbole- was an early awakening to travel to Pakenham's most esteemed of weekend attractions; Robert Gordon Pottery (DON'T LAUGH!). As a child, one of my fondest memories was visiting this factory outlet in order to embellish blank plates and bowls with my own stamp of kitschy absurdness. My obsession with farm animals was palpable at the time, and as a result, I adorned practically everything with my own comically frightening depictions of cows, chickens, horses, cows. Upon one of my lurid creations, I recall spending a lot of time and effort sketching a caricature of a cow; a very detailed, yet equally  disproportional and charming little thing. To my horror (and no doubt the glee of the person operating the kiln at the expense of my own innocent stupidity), I discovered upon receiving my now glazed and shiny masterpiece that pencil was burned- washed off?- in the process. Alas, my artwork was nothing more than the most abstract of organised black and white blobs. In that time, the staff at RG have perfected the art of explaining that pencil does not stay on in glazing to a tee, emphasising it for the particularly dim by writing it everywhere. Maybe they did say it to me as a child. Maybe I was just an inattentive little shit.

So we painted, and given my particularly predilection for anything remotely Asian, I selected a noodle bowl, and in atoning for my childhood instruction lapse, I outlined all detail in a strong shade of black.

For those wishing to show off a bit of artistic hidden talent, or sate their fetish for clay and porcelain, I'd recommend you go. I have to be frank- you're not going to create Faberge quality delicates or Maxwell Williams style modern plates. You paint- plain and simple. You're assigned a number at the start of your session (society's favourite way of reminding you of how laughably easy they've commodified your existence) and sat down with no more than eight colours to paint with. These shades will look as dull as anything dull, but examples rest around to remind you that glory is only eight shades of hell and a paint brush away. In terms of the actual colours, in a nutshell, there's light blue, dark blue, light green, dark green, mauve, yellow (SUNSHINE!), brown and pale pink. To frustrate matters more, there's no way of mixing the colours without the end result looking remarkably like an oil slick to a dog, however, therein lies a greater sense of satisfaction knowing that you've achieved something aesthetically significant in the end.

I could ramble on. In short, it was a wonderful little activity, if somewhat marred by the moral outrage at a girl of no more than ten sporting a Supre bag (and no doubt clothed in their merchandise! PARENTS!). This is probably the most I've written in the entire week, and it has exhausted me for the best of 45 minutes. I'm hoping to work on my comic with more concept arts, and maybe continue with my playthrough of the Wind Waker.

I promise this won't sound quite so self-indulgent next time- it's hard for me to remember that I have an actual diary with actual pages for the actual purpose of sustaining a writing habit. 

I sign off now, feeling somewhat accomplished.
Toodlepip

X!

The Butterfly Effect @ Inferno

The most base assumption that people make about me when I attend concerts that fall under the umbrella of Australia's prog/hard/alt rock umbrella is that I'm only there because of a boyfriend or the promise of some means to advance in the world. I believe it must be something to do with the fact that I, unlike the majority of most Traralgon-born human beings, prefer not to spend my existence decked in tracksuit pants and the latest techni-colour dream coat from Planet Surf. The two young ladies to my right on Saturday night appeared to have no qualms openly discussing this in reference to not only myself, but the two ladies to my left, and by the end of the night, we'd proved them oh so deliciously wrong. I was even surprised by the effort my neighbours made by singing along to whatever they possibly could, and that made me almost forgive them for irritating me with their filthy long greasemops.

But I digress.

As one of my mates so eloquently described the evening, "I almost wanted them to be shit so I wouldn't feel so sad."
The setlist was befitting a band celebrating over a decade of existence, in addition to farewelling their vocalist. It was a perfect blend of old and new. Clint Boge notably had several new tattoos blemishing his gorgeous torso; a neck piece saying 'Diezel' (which I can only assume is the name of one his children. The man is of god-like status, but WHY would he punish a poor child like that? It's worse than Atlas), and a slightly more impressive sleeve (we'll be seeing him drafted to Collingwood once the tour wraps up). There were several moments between songs in which Clint disappeared side-of-stage. It was time spent hydrating himself whilst the band played some lovely intermission, but whilst the crowd cheered, I couldn't help but feel chilled as I was seeing what the band would inevitably become in his absence.

I'll confess now- I looked at their setlist as everything was being set-up, and was therefore forewarned of the encore. This consisted of a beautiful, yet somewhat hokey acoustic rendition of 'Gone', which brought a slight salty dampness to my eyes. The band wisely chose not to play 'The End' as per their setlist sheet- there isn't one bad song from Imago, but all the same, it's not one of their strongest. Instead, Kurt, Ben, Clint and Glenn rounded out the night with one of my favourites from Begins Here; Always. All of a sudden the six years I'd known this band and the five other gigs I'd seen them play at felt ridiculously fleeting. Whatever tensions had eroded the foundations between Clint and his soon-to-be-former bandmates, they were set to lose something iconic. I couldn't help but feel despondent at seeing such an excellent onstage dynamic, but all the while knowing that offstage tensions would be running on a knife's edge.

Overall, it was an evening well worth the arguably criminal prices Saloon often charge for entry. Although the band insists that they'll soldier on without Clint...I couldn't help but feel as if it was the last hurrah for one of Australia's finest bands.

A blast from the past.

To that thing upstairs of close kin that happens to share a bathroom with me,

Although admittedly I surrendered my rights to most of the house a while ago, I do make an effort around here. I pride myself on managing to keep things tidy. One of these things that I happen to have a penchant for keeping clean is the bathroom. You know of it- that room that frequently bears your clothing on its cold floors? No, I'm not talking about your bedroom. Come on- that room opposite your bedroom? Shift your big fat head out the door and aim your gaze straight across the landing. See it now? Tiled floor, shower, sink? That's called a BATHROOM- not a landfill site.

Quite frankly, I'm getting a little bit sick of cleaning up your hair gadgetry once you deem it necessary to have finished with them- which, judging by their continuing presence on the sink, is never. At worst, it's multiple things that are left out on the bench, and, amazingly enough, your nephew doesn't straighten his hair. Yet.

I'm reduced to using only one set of shampoo and conditioner (thanks, John Frieda, for making a million sets of blonde and brunette shampoo and only one set for red hair), and somehow there's at least half a dozen more bottles around that once were found in the shower. If you're getting into the habit of using a different shampoo depending upon your mood- or, hell, one for every day of the week- then please, let me know.

Oh- I almost forgot- do you MAIME the toothpaste tube in order to get the required amount onto your brush? Judging by the amount of seepage around the lid, I'm starting to wonder just how you do manage to waste so much. Whatever. MY TOOTHPASTE. FIX IT, GROT.

Finally, for now, little imp, please- PLEASE stop reducing the sink area to a wading pool. Who the hell spends a minimum of ten minutes in the shower, and then gets out to WASH THEIR HAIR IN THE SINK?! Stop it right now, or else your pet parrot well end up with another nice name in addition to Phyllis.

Oh, and by the way- I killed a spider with your hair straightener. You really should have seen it- one snap between the irons and- BAM!- no more spider. Its remains are still lying around somewhere (I think you'll find out soon enough). Enjoy.

Love
Emm