The massive long goodbye

NYE is a funny beast, isn't it? Usually, like most events that have some sort of quasi-superstitious significance, it is a source of angst for me. Tonight, however, I'll take it or leave it. The past two weeks or so have been one long party, after all, and the new year won't start for me until I get on board the plane bound for Vientiane.

I like to think of my last week in Melbourne as a series of snapshots, although that's mainly because I was drunk for most of it. But very cinematic, after all. I remember a posh lunch, a boozy countryside dinner, several nice speeches about my "infectious" laugh (aka my inappropriately loud witchy cackle), and at least two people divulging personal information they never would have before. There were tears- Connie cried ("There's something in my eye, actually"), and I bawled in front of Schram when he had to get a train and I didn't want to watch his back disappearing for the last time. I skulked in the back yard of melbs.org and talked about music. I resolved things with an old enemy, and made a marriage pact with a childhood friend over a beer in Hell's Kitchen- a fall-back protection against solitude should we hit 35 alone.

On my last morning in Melbourne, a week ago now, I woke up and felt like dying. I thought the last Saturday's hangover was bad, but omigod, this here was the real deal. And I had to pack up all my crap and somehow get it back to Canberra. My To-Do list seemed massive, insurmountable. I fell asleep in the laundrette, dragged myself to the supermarket, bought last minute gifts, shovelled things in bags, wrapped the Xmas presents, cursing myself for my foolishness all the way. Never mix drinks, Sarrie. We've been through this.

The night before was spent with Jess and Ben and Libby and Mark, the four marrieds with the most depraved senses of humour ever. When I swayed on home, bumping into Akiko-chan on the way, I thought about how happy I was to have spent my last week with the types of people who were more than willing to help me numb the sadness with alcohol and laughter and dirty jokes. I thought about how grateful I was to be so fancy-free and unattached and young.

Then I threw up.

Now, a week later back in Canberra, and it all seems like a dream, although the drinking has hardly abated. Not in the Pryor household: the olds have gone to Sydney, and already my sisters and I have got stuck into the gin and all the champagne leftover from Christmas.

It was a good Christmas- traditional and familiar. We spent the following days at the beach, and I got sunburn. We came back to Canberra with salty hair and sand in our pockets, and me with a massive bruise on my leg- Philippa and I capsized Caroline in her kayak. At least it wasn't my head.

It's 38 degrees today, and I'm kicking back with a G&T, trying to decide how to spend the evening. And for the first time, it doesn't really matter.

Me: the vulture

Tee hee. Brooke left a comment on that whopping weekend post alluding to a certain vulture, aka me, usually when I'm drunk.

Anyway, see that photo of the vulture? That's me, drunk and about to pounce. Not a pretty sight, is it?

True Love Never Dies

To think I almost didn't go to this show! To think I almost didn't think Stephen Malkmus would deliver!
Everything I expected and more. He never ages, he never stops being hilarious. Tall and handsome and eccentric and clad in pretty much the same clothes as the last time I saw him. He's the same SM I fell for in high school (1995, circa Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain, to be precise), when I pledged my love to tall skinny rock stars (and tall, skinny rock star types) forever.
Life seems so simple when I go to rock shows. On Saturday, I watched Joanna the Jicks bass player and thought, well, maybe I could just learn to play bass and be a Hot Band Girl. Maybe I could get a tattoo on my shoulder and have cool hair and tour with Stephen Malkmus (or somesuch), and life would just simplify itself.
Maybe real life is too hard right now. You know?

Stupid

Oh Sarrie. Stupid is the word. You feel stupid this morning, don’t you? Stupid and hungover. Just promise me this: remember this feeling next time you get drunk and decide, somewhere along the way, that something is a red hot goer when it clearly isn’t. Just think a little next time, okay?

This is my last weekend in Melbourne, and I had planned to rise early, head into the city and do some Christmas shopping. Just walk around and feel it, you know? Instead, I stumbled into bed at around 5am (stupid!), woke late and went to the gym. What, is that so crazy? Maybe so, but I’ll tell you this: if you can drag your lazy arse out of bed and transcend the vommy feeling, the gym is about the best way I know of feeling normal once again. That and all the other things I did today- drank coffee, read the papers, dissected the previous night’s events in minute detail, voiced the findings to a close friend, took a nap, sat around reliving the worst moments, etc etc. Some people might say that I achieved more today than the average person on a morning-after-type Saturday. To them I say get fucked: I had plans, you know, and nothing got done!

Anyway, two things. First, all those ridiculous horror stories about teeth turned out to be just that: ridiculous. Apart from a mouth full of blood for several hours, which, unbeknownst to me, trickled amusingly down my chin completely unchecked because my whole face was too numb to feel it, I was a-ok. Mind you, I did take a bit of a tumble in the bathroom the next morning. “Down she goes!” I thought as I hit the floor, fully conscious. I put that down to a lack of food, and the Panadine Forte the dentist prescribed for the pain. What can I say? C’est fort!

The other thing is time. And how I’m desperately trying to hold onto my last days here, and have something distilled to take away with me. It’s futile, of course. Time is just trickling through my fingers and I can’t do anything to slow it down. I’m someone who has always tried to use every hour of my day productively. But I also spend so much time examining and analysing my every thought, feeling or action that sometimes I worry that I’m forgetting to have fun.

My point is that Laos will be a whole other ball game. Time is a completely different concept there. It’s cyclical, and not a commodity. I won’t be able to measure my days, hours, achievements, all-round progress, in quite the obsessive way I do now. Usually, the thought of this fills my heart with fear, but lately, the notion is sort of appealing. I do worry, though, that I will come back the sort of person that usually enrages me.

I went to a French school when I was a child and a teenager. I, along with my oldest friends Cristy and Rhyl and a bunch of other people whom I haven’t seen in years (but whose faces, frozen in childhood, I can still remember), grew up bilingual, and probably never gave it much thought. We took most of our classes in French, but nothing seems that weird when you’re a kid. In my late teens, when I spent some time in France, I learnt to appreciate my language skill more. In particular, I was always proud of my accent, which was 100% Parisien. Mais bien sur: we were taught mostly by young French men who were doing their Foreign Service instead of Military Service, which was still compulsory in France back then. As a result, when I was actually in France, I was always told that my accent contained barely a trace of Aussie.

But then I spent 2000-2001 studying in Montreal, and somewhere along the way acquired a thick streak of Quebecois in my accent. It came, most likely, from my obsession with accents in general, and my constant attempts to emulate the peasanty Quebec twang.

I didn’t realise it had stuck until last night, when I was in a flower shop, chatting to the French guy who was helping me pick out roses. He asked me if I was from Quebec. Mortifying.

My point is that, while I might come back from Laos a more relaxed, well-rounded individual, with more realistic expectations of myself and what I can achieve in a day, I hope to God I don’t acquire along the way a nasty streak of nihilism that will take me years of conscious effort to shake off! Like the weird, Montreal vowels, it could haunt me- an indelible stamp of who I am and where I’ve been!!

You see? Worrying, all the time. And I’ll tell you another thing that worries me: I will never, ever be able to listen to Tori Amos in quite the same way again. The girl next door plays it whenever she has sex (quite often). But poor Tori, I know she’s got a pair of lungs on her, but she is powerless to drown out the moaning.

Right, I’m off. I bought tickets to see Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks positively months ago, and the night has arrived. Of course, I could not have known, when purchasing said tickets, that I would end up having to go all haunted and mortified from the night before. But I’m putting on a brave face: I’ve changed into a particularly “Melbourne” outfit and put on some makeup. Ironic, because I love Stephen Malkmus precisely because he takes me back to my early uni days, when I wore sneakers and a backpack and listened to Pavement on my walkman. An indie-rock nerd!

Deep down I’m still the same.

Teeth, and why they're apparently not necessary

I wanted to mention the Sydney riots, how much I hate Alan Jones and just how goddamn embarrassing the whole thing is for Australia, but I'm far too preoccupied.

This afternoon, I am getting all four of my wisdom teeth out...in the chair. The dentist has assured me that this is the way to go for my particular situation. My teeth are not impacted and don't look like they'll cause any trouble (so he says). Why, then, do I have to have them out at all? Why does the human body continue to produce these problematic teeth? They get stuck, impacted, infected and all kinds of other gross things, all because our jaws are too short to fit them in. It's just so inefficient, you know?
I don't wanna go!
I am curious, however. At least four or five people have assured me that the procedure was relatively painless, they were eating within hours and back at work the next day. Others have (kindly) regaled me with horror stories of profuse bleeding and hidous swelling.
Which will I be?
Anyway, I think what I'm most worried about is that I'll do something embarrassing while sedated in the chair. Or maybe I'll just fall asleep.
Tune in tomorrow (provided I have the strength to type, that is).

"Practical, convenient, and a bit of a laugh"

Pristy a posted a link to this article about Laos from the Washington Post today, which I read with great interest. Funny, the more I read or hear about Laos, the less idea I have of what to expect. It's as though the image of the country in my head is growing fainter and fainter with each definitive, reliable and vivid tidbit of information I get. I think it's better this way. I want to be shocked, I want to have no expectations.

Anyway, on Tuesday night, I had dinner with some friends and we ended up playing Trivial Pursuit. When I say "ended up", what I mean is that a game of Trivial Pursuit was always going to eventuate, I had already expressed my misgivings, but the game went ahead anyway, and I decided to just to try and have fun.
The thing about games is this: people might pretend they're fun, and entertaining and stimulating, or just, you know, good for a larf. But look deep within yourself, and what do you see? That's right: fear, loathing, resentment, that rampant competitive streak you like to pretend you don't have most of the time. They're all the same: cards, Monopoly, Pictionary especially. God I hate that game. Also charades, and...dear god I am shuddering just typing this...dress-up parties.
But I think Trivial Pursuit is especially bad because it makes people feel dumb, not smart. Maybe you're good at sports, but who wrote the Godfather Trilogy? Maybe you're a pop-culture whiz, but who won the soccer World Cup in 1986? Whatever. Having your lack of knowledge exposed to others is basically just a catalyst for all kinds of defensive and anti-competitive behaviour. I truly do think it's games like Trivial Bloody Pursuit that bring out the worst in people.
Needless to say, the Tuesday night game, played with 3 sisters, 2 boyfriends, and me, died in the arse.
Pictionary is the worst, by far. I remember years ago, on a drunken beach holiday, we played Pictionary. My friend Tiff was trying to draw the word "nerve" and she ended up getting so frustrated that she threw down her pen and yelled "Nerve!" Game over. Brooke said this was typical Aries behaviour, but I felt Tiff's pain, and it's not because I'm an Aries as well. It's because Pictionary is a stupid game.

It's a worry, actually, because many people have told me that there will be times in Laos where I will be extremely bored, so "make sure you pack a few board games, eh?" Which is exactly why, earlier in the week, I posted a large box of books, care of me, to the Vientiane College. There is no way I will be forced into playing Monopoly.
I packed an interesting selection, by the way: a mix of books I've been meaning to read all year but didn't get the time because of uni (Faulkner's As I Lay Dying, Katherine Graham's autobiography, Bonfire of the Vanities by Tom Wolfe) and books I've been meaning to read my whole life because I think I should (Crime and Punishment, Anna Karenina, etc). Plus some old French books I studied at uni, and think I should re-read because I'll be in a French speaking environment again, and am hoping that part of my brain will wake up from a long sleep.

Anyway, enough of this. I have sore legs today, and I think it was from lifting all my boxes down the stairs yesterday. Whatever, weak. Then I went to the gym this morning, and rode on the bike. I hardly ever ride on the bike, because I already have my own bicycle, which I ride damn near everywhere. But my poor bike (purchased from Big W for $250 in 1999) is now in the back of a truck en route to Canberra. Plus, I hate watching the TV screens at the gym. But this morning, Channel V gave me a fine selection of music vids. (Shamefully, my favourite was a live rendition of "Lady Marmalade" by Christina/Mya/Pink/Lil Kim.)

But I digress. I was going to talk about love (in the abstract, of course), and why I've recently realised that it doesn't have to be so complicated, at least not all the time. One of my favourite couples in the world are my friends Connie and Vince (not their real names). They are in their 40s, she is English, he is Aussie, and they live in the countryside just outside of Greater Melbourne. They met in a tattoo parlour in London about 11 years ago, and have been married for the last six. They never wanted kids, but I think that's just because they enjoy each other's company so much that they didn't want to have their attention diverted elsewhere.

I had dinner with them a couple of weeks ago on Brunswick St, and they regaled me with stories of alcohol-fuelled rows they used to have in the early days of their relationship in London, and how hilarious it all was. It's funny because Connie, a former professional dancer, comes across as extremely proper (her tattoo, a discreet yellow and red sun, is well hidden on her shoulder, under her top).
Anyway, while Connie was in the bathroom, Vince started telling me about the time he asked her to move in with him in London, back in the '90s. They were lying in his bed late on night, having smoked a joint and had a shag.
"Do you wanna move in with me?" he asked.
"Why would I want to do that?" she responded, coyly.
"Well, think about it," he said. "It would be practical, convenient, and a bit of a larf."
Connie was outraged, and flew out of bed immediately. "How dare you!" she shrieked, pulling on her knickers.
"What?" he said, bewildered.
She finished dressing and stormed out of the flat. Minutes later, there was a sharp rap on the door. Vince opened it to find Connie there, holding out her hand, all businesslike. "And I need 20 quid for a cab," she said.
Just as Vince was telling me this bit, Connie emerged from the bathroom. She knew immediately what we were talking about, and drew herself up haughtily. "Practical, convenient, and a bit of laugh!" she huffed, stomping her foot at the memory.
Anyway, she did move in, and they lived happily ever after.

I had a conversation about this recently with my friend Amy. Although she is ten years older than me, Amy and I have a lot in common. Mainly our shared love of clothes. But also because we're both single and can't work out why.
We do everything we're supposed to. We both have lots of friends from different "milieux", we both socialise frequently. I am by no means a recluse, and nor is she. Plus, neither of us is, like, hideously ugly or anything. So what gives?
I've realised that it's one area of my life over which I have zero control. Amy agrees.
Anyway, I was telling Amy about Connie and Vince. And Amy sighed with contentment and said "I can't wait to meet the love of my life."
Just like that. Not "omigod what is wrong with me why can't I meet a man I'm gonna be alone forever etc etc etc". But a clear statement of certainty. It will happen. Maybe it will take a while, but he's out there somewhere.
Made me wonder why the hell I waste so much time worrying about it.
Granted, I worry about it a lot less than I used to. After all, I currently have the advantage of being able to move cities, or, in fact, continents, without the added worry of, you know, another person holding me back.

Right, I'm off to the pub. Oh, just a standard Melbourne hotel pub, since you ask. That's one thing I have really learnt to love about Melbourne, and will thus really miss when I go away. When I first got here, I could never understand the appeal of these dilapidated corner hotels dotted around the inner suburbs. They stink of beer and cigarettes, and always have sport on the telly. They seemed, at the time to me, to exist only so that people can get drunk and stumble home as easily as possible. There are at least 7 within walking distance of my house, for example.
Then I discovered the wonder of the $3 pot, and, dear god, the Chicken Parma. So bad it's good, you know?

Boxed in, boxed up

I took yesterday off work and packed up my room. I've worked out it's cheaper for me to buy space in a truck that is doing a round trip, and will take up to two weeks to reach Canberra. Tomorrow is the latest they can fit me in before January.
Thus I found myself shovelling all my worldly goods into boxes, watching my little haven- my oasis of calm in an otherwise batshit crazy household- diminish. I've sold some of my furniture, sorted out my uni notes, tossed a whole pile of fashion mags, culled my wardrobe.
I know I should be excited to be packing up. My house is a disaster, after all, my current job was only ever supposed to be temporary, there are no good journo jobs in Melbourne, I don't have a boyfriend to make me feel guilty for leaving. But damn it's a sad thing, leaving life as I know it behind. All my books, my absurdly large CD collection, my Melbourne clothes, (manifestly inappropriate for a tropical Asian climate), my piles of newspaper clippings and photos. So much stuff- boxes and boxes of it.
I took a break and met Elizabeth and her boyfriend Billy, both over from London, in the city. We sat in Desgraves Lane, and watched the crowds, and I remembered how much I love Melbourne, and how I am still always struck by the symmetry and chaos of it. We went shopping, E tried on an absurdly expensive (but entirely desirable) cardigan, and I felt sad.

I imagine that I am going to a place where none of this will matter. I imagine that soon I will no longer care about which bands are touring, who won the Booker, finding the perfect pair of winter boots or what Kate Moss is wearing/feeling/snorting. I won't be obsessed with daily news, I keep thinking. I won't check out Gawker every week, or Crikey, or Go Fug Yourself. Celebrities and music and books and clothes will be distant relics of a past life. I will become a different person- calmer and more spiritual. A Zen Goddess.

All bullshit, of course. I'm set in my ways. I'll be working at a newspaper, after all, plus there's a gym at the Australia Club in Vientiane. And what's the internet for, anyway?

Last night's shift at the Fitzroy Legal Service was remarkably quiet- balmy weather usually means more people on the streets getting into trouble, but not last night. We shut the doors early and had some pizza delivered. I did have one client, though, a young man who had been involved in a car prang, and is stuck with a massive insurance bill from the other party. He told me he believes he wasn't in the wrong, and deep down he knows he should fight the claim in court. But what he really wants is to become a registered nurse and go and work in remote communities in central Australia. I told him about Laos, and about a certain nurse I know who has been doing the same thing, and is now working in rural Laos. His eyes shined with excitement, and he forgot his money worries.

I kept on packing when I got home at 9pm, and stopped around midnight. Today I'm tired, and my back is sore, which is slightly humiliating. I mentioned before that my house is a disaster, but these days I can't help seeing the amusing side of it all, from an objective standpoint. I frequently stop and ask myself how the hell I came to be living here. That's right: I answered Schram's ad in October last year, and he persuaded me, when I was in a position to be persuaded, to move in. I did and it was the best decision I ever made, although it took me some time to realise that.
But I need to remember that there was once a reason, even though I'm about to leave...

Meanwhile, Brooke wants to know why I haven't talked about her and her happiness, however precarious it may be at the moment.
All in good time, my lovelies. Perhaps I'll dedicate a whole post tomorrow to that tantalising theme- the theme of lurve.
Stay tuned.

Rock-ervil River

Last night I went and saw Okkervil River play at Ding Dong Lounge. I went with the Melbs.org boys- namely Patrick, my fellow J-school alumni, and his housies Ben and Andrew. Ben plays bass with the band Deloris, who were supporting O-River. Throughout the set, we stood right at the front, and gazed at him steadfastly and, we thought, encouragingly. Didn't he look nice in his checked shirt and skinny jeans? We were forgetting, perhaps, that this would make Ben uncomfortable. Pat kept daring me between to yell out "Ben's my favourite!" (because he is), but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I thought the rest of the band would find this disrespectful. And besides, as Ben himself pointed out after, there are 2 Bens in Deloris at the moment.

Anyway, Okkervil were damn fine, totally ace. I just dig that type of show so much. What is it called- literary rock? You know, with actual, well-thought-out poetic lyrics. Must immediately buy the album.
I'm exhausted this morning. My feet are killing me, although that's mostly my fault for wearing inappropriate shoes. Pretty gold flats from Witchery just don't cut it on the bar-room floor, particularly not when they're falling apart, and you've been wearing them since you left the house at 8.30am. Right? So no more whining about the sore feet, Sarrie.
I don't go to nearly as many shows as I used to, and if it weren't for my music soulmates in Melbourne like Pat, or my friend Annie, I would hardly go at all. I used to go to shows alone all them time- the life of a musichead outside of college is frequently solitary. But I'm over it- it's just not as much fun, standing alone with just a beer for company.

Before the show, we stopped by the Napier hotel for goodbye drinks with my friend Miki, another fellow J-crew member. She's doing what all 'serious aspiring' journalists are supposed to be doing, and moving to the country to do a cadetship. It's a new start, and she'll do exceptionally well, I know it.
Dammit, it's what I would be doing were it not for Laos and Ausaid. Anyway, Miki is a tad concerned because of something someone said when she was offered the job. "A bit dogmatic", I think it was. We've surmised that this must be due to the fact that she's vegetarian and, I dunno, she did Aboriginal Studies at Uni or something. Pretty radical for these country folk, apparently.
I'm sure she'll do fine.
My friend Nelly showed up briefly as well. I was going to write about her before, mainly because of an amusing tidbit that I wanted to get down before I forgot. Nelly is Italian, and thus exceptionally attuned to matters of ethnic interest and/or sensitivity. She is also currently angling for a job at a major paper (you know the one), and got it in her head to do an investigative story whereby she covered herself in a burqa for a day and went, you know, undercover. Her plan was to go to Chapel St or Chadstone and gauge the reactions from fellow shoppers or sales assistants. Probably a bit passe but, well, it's that kind of paper really.
Anyway, Nelly and I went out to Coburg a few weekends ago to purchase such a garment. It shouldn't have been difficult- there were many stores advertising the very best quality "Islamic Womenswear" and the like. Nelly had selected the shop she wanted to buy from and was busy trying to come up with a suitable, plausible, sensitive explanation for why someone like her could be purchasing an all-covering Muslim garment ("I'm in a play. It's for my niece. No, wait, I've converted to Islam.") I had almost persuaded her that in fact, the sales assistant probably wouldn't give the slightest shit as to the reason, when we arrived at the shop and found it closed- for Ramadan! For some reason, I thought this was hysterical at the time.
The story never got written, because another paper got to it first. I cant help feeling a bit relieved for her sake.
Anyway, I have to go back to work. It's pouring with rain today, and a bit chilly. But of course, because yesterday it was 35 degrees, and this is Melbourne after all. I had planned to go to Zomp over lunch to find some appropriate footwear for my upcoming work in Laos (any excuse for new shoes, really), but I didn't bring my brolly. Stupid- the rain was forecast, and the forecast is almost always right.
I'm spending the weekend packing, what a bore. But I think the Okkervil album will provide a most appropriate soundtrack.