Archive for August, 2004

We Respect Them as Athletes

Friday, August 27th, 2004

Anyone who still seriously believes that tired old adage that women enjoy visual stimulation less than men should come over to our house and watch the Olympics while the men’s diving is on.

Run Like the Particularly Half-Arsed Wind

Friday, August 27th, 2004

Dear Comic Book Superheroines,

Last night I got a brief glimpse of what it might be like to be one of you. I had to rescue my car from being locked in a public garage all night. I checked the clock on my phone at 9:57 and realised two things: a) I had exactly three minutes to complete my mission and b) I was still quite a distance from my destination. So I ran. This might not sound like much to you, with your superior genetic design, but let me tell you, I was not designed with speed or agility in mind.

And so it came to be that I was belting down a road in Southbank, clad in mid-calf black leather boots, stockings, suspender belt and the regulation Bosoms Ahoy (I was also wearing a skirt and top, and carrying a handbag, a copy of All Change Please signed by my clever pet Bronwyn, and a very non-superheroine black cardie, but work with me here).

I’ve always thought you lot tend to dress rather impractically, what with all the zapping and powing and the like that you do. Now I am even more convinced of that fact. I mean, seriously. I know it wouldn’t have helped that I run like a drunken, semi-retarded emu at the best of times, but my clothing choice certainly didn’t help. It’s not even like my boots were of the spike-heeled variety you lot seem to favour, either. My foundation garments were much sturdier than yours tend to be (not that I had much choice; all my bras are industrial-strength fuck-off bras), and I was showing a lot less skin than the average superheroine too.

So why do you keep up with these tired sartorial cliches? Is practicality really that unentertaining? Are you worried about losing your legion of male fans? You really needn’t be: even with all my I-dress-like-someone-who-stands-up-and-smiles-at-old-ladies-all-day style, I still manage to maintain my legion of male admirers. Admittedly it’s a pretty small legion and few of the admirers are heterosexual, but still, I’ve got it. Plus, I have the satisfaction of knowing they Respect Me as a Person (ahh, the lonely refrain of the girl whose friends are more attractive), and also of knowing that I won’t share the humourous-yet-gruesome fate of Jhonen Vasquez’s ridiculously over-endowed spoof superheroine (whose name I can’t recall and can’t look up because I’m writing this at work, naughty naughty. But you know the one.).

So, my heroic but impractically-clad sprint led me to have some understanding of what it’s like to be you, collective and vaguely alluded to superheroines (plus I managed to save my car), but I can’t really say it’s given me any sympathy for you, as such. Probably mostly because, at the end of the day, you get to beat up on anyone you like, and I don’t.

Yours in hotpants,

Aimee

Mmm, Cultural

Friday, August 13th, 2004

For the first time in a while, I’ll actually have something resembling an active social life this weekend. Not only that, but one that caters to several different interests, as well. Tonight I’m heading out to the Night Cat to dance (lurch?) the night away with my visiting sis plus a few of the usual suspects. Tomorrow night I’m going to a debate about poetry form (I’ve had trouble finding people to go with me; I can’t for the life of me imagine why), then heading over to the particular manky pub mentioned in the previous entry to catch the Sailors and the Onyas. I feel the gig will complement the debate well, given the poetry inherent in many of the Sailors’ lyrics. Particularly “Swashbuckling Faggots”.

Last night I had this truly bizarre dream where shape-shifting zombies were taking over the world and hunting me down. I had to rely on an old ex-boyfriend to protect me, even though in the dream his new hobby was collecting photos of decapitated women with blue dots drawn on their chins. I thought his presence as a saviour was odd when I woke up, since given the choice between him and flesh-eating, swordfish-turning-into zombies, I’d pick the zombies every time.
I have now learned my lesson: it is a bad idea to read Dorothy Porter’s poetry before going to sleep. Not that there’s shape-shifting zombies in The Monkey’s Mask (and it’s such a good book that, unlike so many other things, it doesn’t even need them), but I do feel it asserted its influence in the recurring motif of dead women with decomposing faces. Which was thoroughly delightful, really.

Hooray for Prodigal Sisters

Tuesday, August 10th, 2004

My sister Anna is visiting. From England. For the first time in two years.

Despite (or perhaps because of?) Honours committments and working five days a week at the moment (I am very much looking forward to the vacant positions at work being filled, so as I may go back to earning less money but having time to study, scratch myself, etc), we’ve been having a blast.

I picked her up from the airport the Friday before last, after she’d tried to pretend a friend was coming over and I told her I couldn’t pick the “friend” up because I was working. Realising there was no was she could keep the secret and get a lift, she let me in on the secret, and there was much excitement and begging off work on my part.

I took her to St Kilda because she wanted to go to the beach and it was the easiest and closest place. After a pleasant wander along the foreshore, during which I tried to convince her of the delights of the Espy and she looked rather dubious (“But it’s meant to be manky!”), we wandered up to Acland St for coffee and cake. In the time it took to determine which shop we would go into, we saw several homeless people, a guy sitting at an outside table who had either pissed himself or spilt his bottle of wine all over his lap and the pavement around him, and I got hit up for money by strangers twice.
“Welcome back to Melbourne!” I said to Anna, spreading my arms expansively and nearly clotheslining a guy who was trying to get past me.

Saturday I took her down to see the rest of the family. Mum had had the surprise ruined when one of Anna’s friends rang up asking to speak to her (whoops), but we caught our other sister, Elise, completely by surprise, thanks partly to the help of her husband. Family reunion shenanigans ensued, and I managed to avoid getting vomited on by my infant niece, which is always a plus.

Anna’s visit is slowly drawing to a close, which I’m not looking forward to. We’re doing something social this Friday night, unsure as to what just yet. Next Tuesday will be a sisterly bonding session, where I will take Anna to my waxer after having assured her it “hardly hurts at all!” We’ll see how the sisterly bond is going after that experience, I suppose.