Morgan, as we see him.

Morgan as he sees himself.

Barry as we see him.

Barry as he sees himself.

And finally here’s a self-portrait:

Me, as you would see me.

Me, as I see myself.

I went to Cassette Night at Seizan Karaoke Bar - another of Perth’s retro electro nights that seem to be promoted solely by Myspace (fucking n00bs). But anyhow it was totally neato buddy. The theme was tropical and you were supposed to wear short shorts, and they had a ‘pants check’ at the door so you could arrive in pants and then take them off to enter the bar. Due to the fact that all my hot pants were in the wash I didn’t take part in the tropicalness, but I saw a load of people who did, including a guy with a fake moustache and ‘pool boy’ written on his singlet. Sweet. I think Cassette Night is on every week or so, so I might have to go there always.

Tonight I’m a-going to the Open Mouth poetry night at Velvet Lounge, which I hear is okayish. (Not that I have any poems to read. Someone write one for me?) I have been out pretty much every night since I got here, which means Perth is just rock city for me and I’m super glad about it. Sydney was about as dull as it gets, on account of I didn’t know anybody there so I just worked and sat around watching Arrested Development. Now I have a nice little groove worked out for myself and I’m a-makin’ the most of it. Said it before and I’ll say it again: where you are doesn’t matter nearly so much as who’s there with you.

Something I said just then reminded me about something T just said on her site (GBE, at right with a heart next to it standing for how I want to marry her): that although she may write like a belching random knobjockey, she’s actually a very couth and quiet girl who wouldn’t put you within the vicinity of her gastric emanations unless you were a dearest and oldest friend. Point is, I may write like a bit of tool but generally IRL I’m not the sort to indulge in having any kind of personality. I would not burp at anyone either, in other words. I’m really quite bland, introverted and dull as dishwater and I’d feel terrible if you got the wrong impression. I just thought I’d say something, since I’ve come to the conclusion that being that way doesn’t bother me in the least.

Now: time to go iron my hot pants!

ATARASHI NO APARTO!

I’ve got a new apartment baby / and it protects me from the lonely, whistling streets. Compared to my Enmore one, it is huge and bright and clean. There are glow-in-the-dark stickers on the bedroom ceiling and a clandestine box-shaped compartment you could probably grow some pot in if you were so inclined. Now all I need is to get my stuff there somehow, and locate a fridge.

When it comes time for a housewarming, you are so very very invited.

KIREI NA ONNA TV!*

Another nice thing about Perth. I live for the news, yo.

*I made a bilingual joke!

I have a fantastic idea. Instead of using expensive and unreliable roadside bombs, terrorists could implant guinea pigs with spiky bits of metal and set them free. Then, when someone runs over the guinea pig in their car, they’ll get a flat tyre.

See? It’s a little furry-spiky ball of destruction, and God help anyone who just decides to stamp on it with their feet. The infidels won’t be able to resist squishing the cute little creature, and they won’t know what’s coming when they do! Entire armies will be immobilised! Vehicles will be ruined! The toughest and meanest soldiers will be rendered lame because they won’t be able to resist jumping up and down on the cute little guinea pigs!

I figure we sell ‘em by the dozen. With little exercise wheels for them to train on and tiny army helmets just for fun:

Order yours today! Buy 500 and we’ll thrown in a high-explosive terrapin!

Morgan is putting together a band. The lineup is: Morgan on bass. Barry on drums. Me on crooning and analogue synths. The concept is: Morgan writes a lot of dodgy songs and we play them in a very dodgy and extremely loud prog-rock kinda way. My job is basically to snarl out whatever is written on the lyric sheet, make wacky synth noises for five minutes, roll around on the floor for a bit, then repeat. All feeling and no theory. I want to call it the Mega Masturbation Experience, but I don’t think the guys will like that.

After rehearsal we went to Kat’s place and had a Supercool Board Game Night. Eleanor F. Chaos and I KICKED ARSE at Pictionary, which is the best game on the planet and truly divides the men from the boys. I think I have a bit of a crush on Eleanor, and if you’ve ever met her you’ll know just what I’m on about. Sex appeal, but in a fun way. Anyhow, Kat and Pabs won at Cluedo (Revered Green in the Billiard Room with the dagger) and Eleanor won the Mad Magazine Game (like Monopoly but the idea is to lose all your money as fast as possible). Then we all had a cup of tea and Kat told me about how she’s going on a three month ethnobotanical sailing trip to, er, Singapore or something. On a junk. ‘Twas a fine evening.

1) I got my place. Canning Highway near the Leopold, baby. I even have a decent kitchen!

2) My stuff is coming tomorrow morning.

3) Full first season of Firefly on DVD. Best. show. ever.

First, an update: I looked at 2 units. One in Shenton Park which had a cockroach in it but was okay, although nobody I know lives in Shenton Park, and the other one just across from the Leopold Hotel in Bicton, which is pretty close to where everyone I know lives. I put down an ‘option fee’ on the Bicton one, which I think means they will take my money and make me fill out a big form, then give the flat to someone else. It needs a small fridge anyhow, and I don’t have one of those.

Last week: So I was standing on the corner when I saw KC walking by. She was the hotness from the conference but whenever I had talked to her only stupid stuff came out of my mouth. She said she was looking for somewhere to have tea. I said I was waiting for my lift. The correct answer in this case would have been “my lift is forty-five minutes late and I am also hungry, why don’t we have tea together?” but it wasn’t much of a loss not saying it, since God knows what I would have ended up saying at dinner.

Forty-five more minutes later my dad showed up. He had shaved his beard off for some reason and was looking a bit like Gollum in a beanie. I threw my pack into the back seat of his rustbucket Toyota minitruck (c1980) and climbed in the front. We took off for Ringwood East.

So the situation is, he and his wife are getting divorced. His wife is making nasty calls to his girlfriend and my younger brother is up on assault charges after kicking a transit guard in the nuts at Ringwood station. Swell times. The truck we are driving in hasn’t had a heater in it for at least ten years. I get to thinking that my dad is a pretty hard-done-by kinda guy.

We get back to his wife’s place and she lets him come in through the back door while she hides in the lounge room. I chat with my sisters and their boyfriends.

Then later on, when dad goes off to sleep in his campout in the shed, his soon-to-be ex-wife (his anti-fiancee?) aka my Evil Stepmother tells me she wants to ‘have a talk’. I… what’s the word? ‘Steel myself’? for the dreaded event.

These are her main points: a) she is sorry for behaving like a psychotic piece of work (as outlined earlier) b) she did that because he bought me a plane ticket from WA with her money and told her I bought it myself so she wouldn’t be mad (how cunty is that?) c) it isn’t him leaving her - she’s finally managed to make him leave (now that he’s found someone else to move in with) d) she’s wanted a divorce ever since he __________ (well, perhaps this is the limit of online diary discretion - suffice it to say I’m not going to forget those accusations EVER).

So fuck me, that was an interesting evening. My wicked stepmother, despite her massive mental issues, isn’t nearly as evil as I thought. I don’t know if I believe what she says about my dad, but it could be true. My little sister seems to believe it and she’s pretty smart.

The next morning she went with me on the train - she was going to her all-day yoga class and I was going to meet Ross at the Fed Square Book Fair.

My wrap-up is this: Maybe we’re not the kind of people we wanted to be. Maybe when it comes time for us to have children of our own, we won’t be the perfect parents we wish we could be. That’s the thing about ideals - you don’t necessarily achieve them. But at least we can do some good in trying. And yes we can do better than our parents. Sadly, it won’t be hard.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckity cuntbuckets. There. Seems to work okay when I’m not in the airport.

Here are my favourite photos. I didn’t get any of my nana’s funeral because the removalists didn’t pick up my stuff, meaning I had to miss my free uni flight. (I am well pissed off about that - Backloads.com.au: they are scum.) So instead of photos from nana’s funeral you can have a blank space where I wait for removalists:

Okay, here are the actual photos:

My computer box - apparently it’s good for English people and Rubics Cube players but not pirates. Ripped off, I say.

Here is a V-Line train out of Spencer St Station, now known as Southern Cross Station.

The West Gate Bridge. I <3 this photo - it’s so very Melbourne.

The room where I did my talk. It went well, I think. I have resolved to write only papers that have sex appeal, but so far it isn’t working.

The dingy hotel backpackers’ lounge.

The noisy hotel backpackers’ room.

A supercool arcade machine called ‘Ad Lib of Wind’. I think you play it by farting.* Those Japanese…

At my family’s place. The shit that went on with these people needs a whole other post - suffice it to say it was a lot more fun and interesting than I had expected.

Me, in a mirror at Ross’s family’s place in Essendon.

I took a 2-leg trip back, wanting to use at least some of the uni’s airline ticket and get a free Quantas sandwich. This was at Sydney airport, where a lunatic wandered back and forth in front of the windows laughing to himself and carrying a little telescope. He was such a stereotypical lunatic I expected men with white coats and big nets to come running after him.

*This is not even remotely true. It’s a purikura machine with a fan on the front.

Howdy folks. I’m hanging out in departure lounge 21 at the Qantas terminal in Melbourne, ready to fly out in 20 min. First to Sydney, then to Perth w/ the help of Tibor Fischer’s The Thought Gang. The week went well - conference, family stuff, seeing the city, plus there were a few surprises which I’ll tell you all about tomorrow. Because, like, you’re so keen to find out about everything that happens to me.

No, seriously, it’s interesting. And there will be photos. Thousands of crap, blurry pseudo-artistic photos.

You better ing believe it.

Going to Melbourne this week then Perth the next. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to stay in the Sweet Land of No Daylight Savings (ie WA) but it depends on whether I can convince the powers-that-be that I’m working efficiently. Hopefully until the end of the year. Which means: going outdoors during daylight (exercise! vitamin D!), buying a cat and renting a place big enough to swing it in and then selling the cat because I think swinging animals around is cruel (except dinosaurs, which have no feelings), and just generally party time. It also means having something genuine to weblog about. Yay!

Anyhoo, all of the stuff, including tEh b0x of r0cK, is going into boxes in the morning so my weblogging ability will be greatly diminished. I will leave you with the above riddle. The answer is: (highlight to see)

I LOVE ANYTHING THAT LOOKS LIKE PIE, MOTHERFUCKER!