What do you do when you walk into a bar, look at the mass of seething humanity, and think: "I have nothing in common with these people. I'm not even sure we breathe the same air."

What do you do?

You walk out. You flutter butterfly social skills and you make your pretty smiles and you get the fuck out of there as soon as you can and you walk home feeling like shit.

Thing I like about Melbourne, #whatever-I'm-up-to: You can walk through the city on the verge of tears and there's no one to tip you over the edge.

I had an absolute attack of the anti-social tonight. It was all good, I was singing as I went along the streets, heading for the drinks to celebrate the Male (and his associates) being sworn in as a solicitor. I was running late, and the place had changed, and he met me, he was worried, he hadn't been able to get in contact because I'd been online. Not a good start, but I don't think it was a contributing factor.

I just couldn't stay there. It was full of young lawyer types, in their groups, drinking their drinks, chatting their chat, and I was so aware of my inadequacies. I wasn't in their world. I didn't know them at all. I can't do fucking small talk to save my life. I am the Queen Anti-Social Bitch, and I really felt it. And the first chance I got, I ran.

I feel so bad because I left him there, even though he said it was fine. I couldn't be there for/with him. I couldn't fit in.

I don't understand what happened tonight. I don't want to be one of them, just another suit with another cloned life, I don't, not for anything.

But sometimes... Fuck it, sometimes it just seems like it would be so much easier.


I was going to talk about my weekend. It was great. I saw three movies, I slept in, and then my Male got sworn in this morning and I was so damn happy and proud of him. I was going to talk about all that. I was fucking joyous.

But you got this instead. Sorry.

Construct a poem. I did. I find random language-abuse far too much fun.

Napoleon's bronze bust

covenant of my sometime filth
spout from inside
upon pseudo-leather knowledge
in always-crimson eggs
of sanctimonious feet.
they jiggle outside the laughter;
they create ancient crimes of serpents
and gentle language.

(Yes, I pretty much just hit things at random. But look at that poetic instinct coming through! ancient crimes of serpents obviously referring to the Fall of Man in the Garden of Eden. And overall, a harsh criticism of the shallow obsessions of the modern world. An allegorical tour-de-force! Bravo, Miss Evans!)

Bored and in need of seeming witty, I searched through my own archives for "quotes". What I end up with is a real patchwork of my time in college.

The narky: "Unfortunately, no, there are no more echidnas. If you like, I can superglue some toothpicks to your head and you can play pretend."
The stupid: "What does your coffee-maker do?"
The poetic: "The wedgie is in the arse of the beholder."
The disaffected: "If it hasn't been shown to be fraudulent and corrupt, it is carcinogenic."
The manic: "You blinked! Hah! You did it again! Face it, you're just incompetent."
The technical: "There is 37 minutes flight time on a ballistic missile from the USSR to the USA."

And one found in Jen's archives. I said this one:

"These pants have just been an adventure all day!"

Given how much I resist and resent the concept of going to work - of interrupting my life to perform tasks for someone else like a trained monkey - it's bizarre and surreal how energised I feel afterwards, buoyed up by the concept of having worked. I bound up the stairs, giggle in the lift, put on Tea Party louder than it should be and dance in the bathroom.

Then I make myself coffee. Real coffee. Bilgewater be gone. Get thee to a nunnery. I'll get myself utterly addicted to coffee by making enough for two cups in the stovetop thing every day, and then having to drink it all because, well, it's already made. What else am I going to do with it?

But work was... well, boring, actually. As a highlight, a rather charming ruffian came into the store and visited me. I considered evicting him, but didn't think I could take him. He was mean and tough.

In my continuing efforts to prove to Jojo that I have no life, this weekend's highlight is going to be seeing Ned Kelly with the fangirls. If all else fails, we'll have a lot of fun MST3King it.

"And if your hands were metal, that would mean something."

"Six degrees of Kevin Bacon," she said. "And I'm going to give you the most fucking obscure pairing I can think of."

Craig Charles (Lister from Red Dwarf) to Brad Pitt (well-known nancyboy) - 4 degrees.
Craig Charles ==> Christopher Barrie (Lister) in Red Dwarf.
Christopher Barrie ==> Jon Voight in Tomb Raider.
Jon Voigt ==> Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible.
Tom Cruise ==> Brad Pitt in Interview With The Vampire.

"Fine," she grumbled. "This'll stop you. Dieter Brummer to... oh, Alec Guinness."

Fuck!

OK.

Dieter Brummer (munchkin from Home and Away) to Alec Guinness (Jedi Master) - 6 degrees
Dieter Brummer ==> Melissa George in Home and Away
Melissa George ==> James Marsden in Sugar and Spice.
James Marsden ==> Hugh Jackman in X-Men.
Hugh Jackman ==> Meg Ryan in Kate and Leopold.
Meg Ryan ==> Carrie Fisher in When Harry Met Sally.
Carrie Fisher ==> Alec Guinness in Star Wars.

Whew! Just made it!

Anyone do any better? (I was just working off the top of my head there, so consultation with IMDB will be considered Cheating. But go ahead.)

Sultanas are fruit, right?

(Or are they a herb, like bananas?)

My short story class tutor is just delightful. She's wonderful. She's like my own little personal Yoda, full of glee and delight and bits of clever wisdom. Like:

In Russian novels, the protagonist suffers. (How true!)

and:

Diaries are for composing ourselves. (This one struck me so much I went around with it written on my hand for a whole day.)

Plus, she has no eyebrows. Or maybe she does, but her hair is so finely blonde that they can't be seen from my seat at the back of the classroom. It all adds to the image of her as some sort of eldritch creature, a gnome or a brownie, something magical and mystical. She's so full of life and energy, it's impossible to retain any sort of cynical dispassion at all.

She's wonderful. She's inspiring. She's everything creative writing teachers should be.

Sometimes, Henry Rollins has all the musical subtly of a brick to the head.

Dee's insights into Mercantile Chic:

Need to keep abreast of the Newest Trend in workplace fashion? Don't get caught with last week's gizmo. The newest accessory for the fashion-conscious businessman is the miniature cricket bat. (As artfully modelled by the suit-clad, mobile-phone-using gent striding down Flinders Lane at about 1pm this afternoon.)

Also, beware. Briefcases are passe. Little wheeled luggage bits are in, dahlink. You know, those little things that air hostesses have, that follow you around like a small, tasteful R2-D2 unit. (As displayed with synchronous taste by the three young, hip, business chaps headings down Collins Street circa 9am this morning.)

Musings on a Monday:

• I am so, so sorry that I didn't make it to the Jenjen/Marcus celebrations this Saturday. I wasn't feeling 100% anyway, and then the perving on celebrities dragged on late, and I just couldn't face the tram ride, although I was sorely tempted. More than that, really, I couldn't face the idea of the tram ride back. So I stayed in, the lovely Male cooked, and I wished I was there.
  
• Someone tell me I'm not the only person in the world who likes having brown sugar in her bilgewater coffee.
  
• What does it say about the state of modern bank service when the nice, young, male teller addresses me by name (it was on the form), and my first thought is that he's trying to chat me up?
  
• Come to think of it, what does that say about me?
  
• I might never have used tabs and tab leaders on Word, but that does not mean the introduction to them requires two hours of my time. What sort of moron do you think I am?
  
• I don't actually mean to wear skirts this short, I swear, but the skirts themselves have different ideas. Sheesh!

Orlando isn't coming to the Ned Kelly premiere. He's rehearsing for Troy, or something. Piffle. Feeble excuse. I am forlorn. And, y'know, versatile: I can pout at Heath Ledger. Not to forget Naomi Watts. Mainly, it's just the excuse to go forth, meet fangirls, and giggle. I need more excuses to giggle.

Drip-filter coffee: still bilgewater. Come back, stovetop, all is forgiven.

When I left work this afternoon, I felt like I should be singing some sort of empowerment song. Skipping down the street, belting out "I will survive", or some crap like that.

I had Overcome my Fear.

I went to work absolutely terrified. I'd worked myself up into this state over the idea of spruiking. (Though I laughed it off at the blog meetup - and that was great, by the way, with the people and the chat and the laughter and the photographs of the urinals and all, just fantastic.) I was really grumpy, and not at all a happy girl.

When I get terrified, I get methodical. I stalked the store, and made a list. I could talk about this, and that. I made myself notes, like I was the third debating speaker again, and forming rebuttal on the opposition's malformed arguments. I was a lethal third speaker. I was barbed, I was witty, the words just came together in my head, and I wrote them down. I did that now, plotting my pitch like a battle.

Then I went out and did it.

I'm not saying it was perfect. I'm not saying it was even very good. But the boss didn't fire me, and I didn't spontaneously combust, and I had a laugh, and really, it was easy.

Don't know what I was so fucking frightened of, frankly.

So yeah, and then I got paid, and I didn't skip down Bourke Street singing, but I did grin, and stride with a lighter step than usual, and I didn't sneer even once.

Honest, I didn't.

Today was going so well, and then it turned into a Bad Karma Day.

Rally. 5pm. State Library. This is what makes walking past the State Library twice every day a bad, bad thing. Because it means that, a lot of the time, I have to walk past the Sheep being put through their paces, and then I get all cold and angry, all Terminator-glare through my sunglasses.

Mind you, it does mean I get such a look on my face that for the entire rest of the way down Swanston Street, people get out of my way.

Worse than the milling mob there, though, was the horrific Hare-Krishna-mockery of a demonstration going down Bourke Street. Entirely blocking the mall, which, y'know, entirely endeared them to me and all the poor people stuck on the trams that couldn't get through because the flag-waving, brainless-mantra-chanting little bimbos were shuffling along at the speed of sap.

I tried to hang on to my righteous anger. I marched down the street so cold and hard that I could feel my cheekbones in the chill air, all Johnny-Depp. But just outside my building, two sparrows were wrestling with the remains of a squashed Mars Bar, and I just couldn't help grinning.

I'm also out of clean socks. I'm wearing vibrant striped toe-socks with my head-kicking boots.

Blah, blah, fucking blah. (Got you now, you little weirdo.)

This is what I am reduced to. Misquoting obscure BBC productions of politically-incisive Italian plays in an effort to find something suitably witty/blase/erudite/clever/cynical to say.

Ah, society, people, yesss... endless entertainment in my social life.

Ran into Miss Jen Jen this morning, thus shattering all my delusions that I could blithely wander around Melbourne with, say, my underwear on my head confident that I would not meet anyone I knew. Not that I actually had my underwear on my head at the time. Mostly because I've been too apathetic to do washing, and hence don't have enough clean pairs of underwear to be wasting 'em as headgear.

Tonight, I plan on running into all the rest of the Melbourne Bloggers, or at least as many as show up to the meetup. So beware, y'all. Wear padding, or something.

On Saturday, I'm fully booked. Not only am I going to the aforementioned Miss Jen Jen's birthday party, but I'm also making plans to go and be all squee-ish fangirly at the Ned Kelly premiere. Mainly because it's something I've never done before, and I reserve the right to regress to teenagerness any time I feel like it. Particularly any time that might involve a certain Mr Bloom. (Although rumour has it he won't be there. Sigh. Ah well, Heath ain't precisely a horrible consolation prize, you know.)

So now I just have to figure out whether I want him to sign my journal, a poster, my body...

Oh come on, stop complaining. Imagine if this had been a movie with Viggo in it. See, it could be much worse.

After drinking stove-top espresso for a week, one-cup drip filter coffee tastes like bilgewater.

Just keeping y'all up to date.

Today's musical accompaniment will be "Violent Mood Swings" by Stabbing Westward.

Having been too sick on Friday to work, I had my first day today. It's a discount bookshop that I'm working at, so not a 'real' one, and anyway, half my job is spruiking. You know, being the annoying one standing out the front saying: "15% off for another fifteen minutes, that's 15% off everything in the store, come on in..." (There is no punctuation in spruiking other than the comma. You talk in continuous sentences that last twenty minutes.)

I skipped class today, to do this working thing. Then again, class was only computer studies. Work got me out of four boring hours in a computer lab! I love my job!

Of course, I slept in a little, but I was still feeling unwell, and it was lovely and warm in bed, but I had to get up and get dressed and go out into the cold world. I hate my job.

I got there, and was told to look around the store for a while, getting the hang of the layout. I looked at the fiction, I looked at the SF, I looked at the art and decorating and cooking and self-help. I looked at books and books and books. I grinned a lot. I love my job!

Even spruiking didn't look too terrifying. The boss showed me very graphically that you can say anything you like; no one is really listening to you. ("And we're giving away free bow-ties in store...") I've always been a good public speaker. I stepped up to the mic... and one of the five people I know in Melbourne walked past and said: "Dee! Are you going to sing? Can I watch?"

But really, it wasn't too bad. I lost the jitters after five minutes, and then it... well, it just got boring. And I have to do this for half-hour lots at a time. Sigh. I hate my job.

Then, the clincher. Chat with the boss. "Spruiking will be the main job," he says, "but once you're more confident (read: good) at it, it pays double." ($core!) "Once we get the computers in, we'll get you typing too." (It always amazes me how people are impressed by a 70/80wpm typing speed. People need to spend more time trying to be witty in chat rooms. Nothing like it for boosting your typing speed.) "Oh, and what are you studying?"

"Writing and Editing," I tell him.

"Really? Well, y'know, we've always got editing work in the self-publishing side of all this, so we can hook you up with some of that too. Wow, what a bonus."

You're telling me! I love my job!

[Space for gilmae to trump in with his bitch card.]

Meanwhile, I really, really wish I had a scanner, or a webcam. This absolute muppet who keeps fucking up my life in the ANZ back gave me his business card in case I had any queries, and I'd just love to be able to post up a picture of the card and say: "See this guy? See that name? Stay away!! If you value your sanity, steer clear. He's an idiot. He's an absolute munchkin! No, wait, that's insulting munchkins, who I'm sure are on average more intelligent than this guy and probably better dressed as well!"

But I don't have either of those pieces of technology, so forget I said anything.

Spruiking is an interesting word. Spruik, spruik, spruik.

I am...

• so plagued. Sniffle, sniff, hack, cough, mope.
  
• tired, but having a week full of guests does that.
  
• such a fangirl, and now I have the CD to prove it. (It's called "Pretty!" Guess what it has on it.)
  
• blinking with surprise. Wow.
  
• totally needing to RSVP for the meetup.
  
• really unsure that I have anything witty enough to finish this post with. But I felt I needed to say something. I am a slave to Blogger.

Friday Five:

1. Do you like talking on the phone? Why or why not?
No. God no. Fuck no. Anyone who really knows me probably knows this one. I hate phones. With a passion. (Very few people know the fundamental beginning of my phobia, though, and I'd like to keep it that way.) Mainly, though, I don't like the way I can't see the other person, don't really know how they're interacting with me. Fine for business. Fine for talking with really good friends. Everything in between, no way.

2. Who is the last person you talked to on the phone?
My new boss, at my new job in a bookstore in the city. (Like, yo! Job!) Unfortunately, I was calling her to tell her I couldn't come in for training today because I woke up with the plague. You have never heard anyone as apologetic as me.

3. About how many telephones do you have at home?
It's embarrassing. We used to have four. They weren't all plugged in. They couldn't all be plugged in. We only have three sockets and one of those belonged firmly to the computer. So now we only have two. And I still can't hear them ringing in the second bedroom. Weird.

4. Have you encountered anyone who has really bad phone manners? What happened?
What constitutes a bad phone manner? I have a feeling I can be really bad sometimes. Part of aforementioned phobia. Wrong numbers who hang up without apologising or really saying anything shit me. Just a little courtesy please. Won't kill you.

5. Would you rather pick up the phone and call someone or write them an e-mail or a letter? Why or why not?
Email. See question 1. We hates them precious, yess we does. Nasty fat phoneses. (And also, no one interrupts my cleverly thought-out witticisms in email. Hah!)

Boys leave. Girls arrive.

Having rid ourselves of boys whose names begin with J (and day-amn, we had a great time), I settled down to collapse for a week. But no, not allowed. Online acquaintance of the fannish variety messages me and says: "Yo, I'm arriving tomorrow." That was yesterday. But hey, should be fun, and I figure it's all karma. When I do my tour of the UK, I hope my fannish friends will put me up.

So, lightning-quick organisation of rendezvous by St. George (saints have so many uses) and now I get to party on down for the rest of the week. I think the Male is just going to collapse, though.

Fascinations of the day:

• Obvious fake tan. How obvious? Well, she has a tattoo, and obviously the fake tan doesn't go over the tattoo, because there's a little line of not-quite-tan around it. I can't stop staring. She's going to get the wrong idea.
  
• That Irish Accent. Still.
  
• Students still carrying on about the war, and would it really be that bad if I wrestled the microphone off them as I went past and flushed it down the nearest loo?
  
• The State of the Inbox. Not good.

(This is your brain on the box...)

Walking out of Mind Games, talking about role-playing rules and card games, wearing cammo pants and a Rammstein T-shirt, I suddenly realised I was a walking cliche. Even if of the wrong gender.

Mind you, a block further on, we were neck-deep in cheerleader-speak, so I suppose I'm subverting the paradigm enough.

We have guests. Lots of guests. Not as many as we thought we might have at one point, when a drunken Friday-night phone call to a housewarming party spiralled out of control, and it seemed John would be driving down from Canberra with a carload of females to visit us.

The females piked. John flew.

But I can't communicate how great it is. Lounging around talking shit, drinking coffee. Heading out to the goff club to drink, dance, make fun and admire, and watch the Vampire schlock films, demanding more cleavage and fangs (or, if you prefer, tits and teeth). Shopping with two guys apparently determined to bankrupt themselves before the weekend's out. Even if in one store I felt I should be wearing a shirt that said: "I'm not their fag-hag."

The only way it could have been better was if the females had come down with John. But we'll entertain them another time. There's plenty of time, and I'm feeling very sunny about it all.

Today I feel a great outpouring of warm sentiment towards:

• the list of Melbourne bloggers on Doug's blog, which means I can pretend that I did remember everyone's URLs from the last meetup. (Note to self: next time, take pen and paper, and write 'em down before you get drunk.)
  
• the accent of the almost-not-quite Irish guy in my short stories class. In a few of my classes, actually. More than I remember him being in. Maybe he's changing classes. Purely to get closer to me, of course. Uh-oh, bunny rabbit in the microwave time. (Note to self: buy microwave.)
  
• Mallory. Anyone else remember Mallory? She was hosted on viscerate for a while, because she's an amazing writer, and a definite kindred spirit. We caught up on IM yesterday (as we do about once a muck-raking), and I spent most of my short stories class writing a letter to her. And swooning over the Irish guy, obviously.
  
• sultanas. Beautiful, wonderful things. I could eat them by the handful. In fact, I just did. (Note to self: buy more sultanas.)
  
• Henry Lawson, who doesn't seem to be as much of a wanker as I always thought he was. In fact, he's dark, sarcastic, subtle and very, very clever. (The Union Buries Its Dead: brilliant, sharp, pointed.)
  
• Sherlock Holmes, whose cocaine habit is always an excellent conversation starter.

Today I feel a lurking black cloud of antipathy towards:

• Melbourne weather. Damn city. It's doing this on purpose. This "Hohoho, you think it's going to be a cold, nasty day, I'll show you, now it's going to be fine and sunny, just because you've dug your leather jacket out of the bottom of the suitcase" sort of shit has to stop, I tell you.
  
• student politicians leading the sheep masses in an anti-war protest because, like, war's bad, y'know? Books, not bombs. (Note to self: buy a machine gun.)
  
• my Industry Overview class, which not only means I still have to go back to uni today, but meant that I left my boots on, thus rendering my usual human pretzel computer chair contortions nigh on impossible. Not that sitting in the lotus position is very easy in jeans anyway.
  
• Blogger, which ate this post the first time I tried to publish it, leading me to scream, curse it unto the 7th generation, and heap imprecation upon it in a most unladylike fashion.

Therefore, at the end of this post, the overall karma tally is as follows: 6 - 4 = 2. So I'm still ahead of the game.

But then again, it's only 4:30.

Memory lane in HTML - circa November last year:

the Male: when will you know about SAD?
the Male: because i'll have to book flights and arrange leave
titania fae: God knows.
the Male: that's what i thought you'd say
titania fae: aaargle
the Male: it's ok, i don't mind that you're predictable
titania fae: Arrange it. I'll lie to the office, if I have to, and say that I need another week or two for academic reasons.
the Male: if you could do that tomorrow and email me when it's been cleared, i'll sort it all out tomorrow aftrnoon
titania fae: You doubt my ability to get the office to do my bidding? Oh ye of little faith.
the Male: I have absolute faith in the ability of the world to put obstacles between us
titania fae: What, we living in a Russian novel or something?
the Male: i think so
titania fae: OK. I have a post-it note: "To Do: 1) Lie to office. 2) Write thesis."

Just call me the human dictionary.

Editing class today focussed on spelling: variant spellings, frequently misspelled words, homonyms, and other pitfalls of the craft. All the usual suspects - principle/principal, centre/center, embarrass and other tricksy hobbitses. And we got a list of frequently misspelled words to start learning. Lots of nice, interesting words.

L, who is my new friend through the two of us being in numerous classes, and a couple of the only ones just out of uni, looked the list over, and said: "What's abscess?"

"A horrible puss-filled ulcer," I said, more or less without thinking. And then laughed at the face she pulled. "Well, you did ask!"

We continued down the list. What was innocuous? Irascible?

And I got to thinking. There's lots of words I don't know the meaning of. Lots of words that came up throughout my university education, just tossed out there by educated professors we didn't want to look stupid in front of, so we never asked, even though we didn't understand. The words kept coming up, and we got some idea of how to use them, and could toss them out there ourselves and sound thoroughly intelligent (and pretentious), but we never really knew what they meant.

hermeneutics: the study of interpretation of theories, especially with regard to Scripture.

You learn something new every day, with the aid of your trusty OED.

Welcome to Hotel Dee. Please check in at reception.

This is getting silly. Last weekend we had Mick, this one just gone we had one of the Male's friends from Adelaide, and now we're going to have Jojo this one coming.

Anyone else want to come visit? You'd better get in quick; available weekends are limited.

On the other hand, it all gives us excuses to go to La La Land, where the Male continues his liaison with the bartender. The free drink tally is really getting impressive. Soon he's going to have to put out.

The Gangs of New York, hmm?

What's wrong with it: editing's all over the place, the continuity's shite and the story gets chopped about. There's not much flow in it, you can't settled into the story. Maybe the director didn't want you to settle into the comfort zone - and indeed, it would be hard with the unblinking violence meted out - but what he's done is ensure you simply can't engage with the story in any sort of unselfconscious fashion. Constantly uncertain about what he's trying to achieve, and the story he's trying to tell, I ended up not getting that much out of it. There was too much distance between me and the characters.

What 's right with it: underneath it all, it is a good story. Has that Guy Gavriel Kay feeling about it - the melding of the overall picture and the individual details. The performances throughout were very good, though the overall clumsiness of the movie reduced their ability to communicate with the audience.

And then there's the telling factor that we were still thinking about it, still talking about it, many hours after we walked out. That's something not many movies manage in this age of creative deadening.