Hubris.co.nz

I’ve thought about writing a lot over the past week as my latest Osama missive, but I haven’t, but luckily now I am full of bile and rage today. Okay, you know how angry the new ‘Lisa’ ALAC ad makes me, with its very clear implication that it is Lisa’s fault that she is assaulted in an alleyway, because she was drinking? It’s something that Julie at The Handmirror has been fighting against too. It was bad enough that when ALAC finally responded, it was a really badly cut & paste job (neither of us actually ‘called’), but today I received a letter in response to my official complaint to the Advertising Standards Authority.

The Complainant said that sexual assault (even if it is only inferred) has no place in an advertisment where there is no warning as to content.

Duplicate Complainants raised similar issues (Um, wtf? That is NOTHING to do with my complaint)

The relevant provisions were Basic Principle 4 and Rules 5, 7, and 11 of the Code of Ethics. (Actually, I complained under Principle 3: No advertisement should be misleading or deceptive or likely to mislead or deceive the consumer – as well as 4: All advertisements should be prepared with a due sense of social responsibility to consumers and to society.)

The Chairman acknowledged the Complainant’s concerns. However, in his opinion, the advertisment was simply a hard hitting but valid portrayal of self abuse (my emphasis) using alcohol that resulted in a situation in which a woman was left extremely vulnerable. In addition there was no actual sexual violence or exploitation perpetrated on screen therefore, in this instance, the Chairman was satisfied that the advertisment did not meet the threshold necessary to effect a breath of the Code of Ethics.

The Chairman ruled there were no grounds for the complaint to proceed

Perhaps if the chairman had actually READ MY FUCKING LETTER it would have made more sense. One of my favourite parts of this whole thing is where the covering letter finishes “Do not contact me if you have any further queries”. Very, very, very helpful.

I know there are some people who don’t get my rage about this, so let me put it in personal terms that perhaps might make more sense. When I was 14, I was assaulted in the bathroom of a night club toilet. Should I have been in that bar? No. Was it therefore my fault? No. Did I deserve it? No. It’s the last two Nos that have taken me more than ten years to accept. I was assaulted because some fuckhead decided that he would push me up against the wall and shove his tongue down my throat because he felt like I was cockblocking him with my friend. I was assaulted because he thought he was God’s gift to women, or as he so charmingly put it “I’m so horny right now I’d fuck anyone”. I wasn’t asking for it, but because I was somewhere that I shouldn’t have been, I blamed myself for so long. It meant I didn’t feel okay talking about it, it meant that when similar things happened to me in later years to a lesser degree I figured that I must have done something wrong, that it was my fault, that it was what I deserved. I didn’t. And the fact that this ALAC ad pushes that idea further, that ‘Lisa’ was out drinking and being bad and therefore brought this on herself makes me feel really sick. I have far too many friends who’ve had similar experiences, both sober and drunk, where they’re left thinking that it was something that they did that brought it on themselves for me to just sit back and let this campaign go on. I have fought for a long time to regain my sense of self, so I’m damn well going to fight for other women to never have to feel like this, and I’m going to continue to fight.

So apparently, unless you want to lie away for a significant part of the night listening to your stomach making noises similar to that of Homer’s when he took many a cannonball to the stomach in ‘Homerpalooza’ (one of my all-time favourite episodes), it’s not a good idea to swig most of the bottle of cherry-vanilla robotussin over the course of a day when it says “may have a laxative effect” on the label. Why didn’t my parents teach me this when I was growing up? But I had to have that much cough syrup. I had to leave a lecture on accountability in the public sector twice because I was coughing so much, and the second time I coughed so much that I puked. Fun times. That’s when I ran away to beg a chemist for the strongest thing she had. Now I have to find a new chemist to go to cos my bottle is pretty much empty and I only bought it yesterday and I wouldn’t want her to think I had a problem. Of course the good thing now is that since I missed most of the talk, I can’t possibly be held accountable for my actions. This means I can go to the Dub Pistols’ myspace page and listen to see if it’s their version of ‘Rapture’ that I heard and liked, right? Wrong. I’m not that much of a badass.

What are some other things that I wanted to write about? I had my first Creative Wednesday this week, but I was so sick that I decided to let myself sleep in until whenever I woke up, which was 1pm, and then I just sat on the couch coughing until Brad went and bought me vodka and fresh OJ. Before I got stuck in to making myself feel better though, I paid a visit to the new Ezibuy shop to get a shirt for the lovely Hadyn and stunning Martha to screenprint for our Bowling League. My other achievement as a project on Wednesday was in finally getting that all sorted out, via many mailings to our mailing list. As I said about my shirt to the list today: “It’s pink! And lowcut! So people will recognise me! All my sentences are going to end in exclamation marks today! I am high on cherry-vanilla robotussin!”. Heh.

But today I am not wearing a lowcut top because I also bought leggings which are so much less of a pain than tights, so I’m wearing my short pinstriped dress and boots instead. Hurrah! And my nails are bright bright green, which I’ve decided will be my new trademark thing. Hurrah nu rave! Heh. Oh my stars, why am I being so vapid? I really must add more bad influence websites to my list of things to give up for Matariki, since that’s coming up soon. Also my main Matariki resolution is to wake up with someone this year and not want them to run away ASAP. That’s what grown-ups do.

And on that note about grown-ups, the divine (and crazy for walking 100km) Kimberley asked me five questions, as part of a fad which all the cool kids are doing, so here they are with my answers.

How many nicknames do you have? What’s the story behind each one?

I don’t really have that many nicknames, apart from a thousand variations on Jo (Jo Burger, Jo Blo, Jo Jo Jo etc). Before I left high school, I tried to keep Jo in reserve only for my friends, so people I didn’t like had to call me Joanna, or my father if I was shitty with him, and so on and so forth, but then when I started working and leaving phone messages everywhere, it was easier to call myself Jo than Joanna because I don’t talk very clearly. I will still write Joanna if I’m doing anything where I can’t sign off “xojo”. When I went online in 1997, I called myself Astrid, so I had nicknames based on that – Strid, Striddy, and so on. Also in order to seperate me from the other one (no capital letters) I became known as Jo Hubris to match my domain. To me these days Jo Hubris is the fierce, brave and outgoing side of me, my super hero identity to Joanna McLeod’s Clark Kent, if you will. I am Jo Hubris when drunk, Joanna when sober. There’s also a Canadian who calls me Trouble but I’m not entirely sure why.

What is the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do in your life? How did you feel afterwards?

Everything when it happens feels like the hardest thing EVAH (moving to Japan, moving to Auckland, that horrible drawn-out fucked up relationship and subsequent horrible drawn-out fucked up break up), but now I will say having Depression is the hardest thing ever, because once you’ve got to a place where you don’t want to be alive anymore having to claw your way back from that to not just a place where you’re surviving but where you’re actually thriving, well, I think that makes me pretty fucking awesome. And I say this as Jo Hubris, not Joanna, of course.

Have you ever forgotten to put on underpants?

How could you forget something like that? I’ve had to wear shortshorts instead of underpants at primary school when I ran out of clean ones, and once I left my skirt behind at a guy’s house when I ran away in the middle of the night (I had pants as well) cos I couldn’t find it in the dark and had to go back the next day to get it, but I’ve never forgotten to wear underpants, no. If it’s terribly terribly late in the laundry cycle, I might not be able to put on thunderpants though, despite having ten pairs…

Where/ with whom was the last kiss you had?
My last kiss would have been after the Great Blend in my bed, with the ginga who turned out to be an asshole (damn my weakness for English accents!). I don’t know if we’d actually kissed at Mighty Mighty, or in Cuba Mall or in the taxi before then or not. It was the hottest day of the year, we were sweaty (despite the late night swim) and bloody noisy. And I had the Killers on repeat because I couldn’t find any of my records (they were in the lounge).

I think that was my last kiss anyway. I do drink an awful lot.

What thing about yourself do you like the most?
I like that I am such a giving and accepting person. I can validate that statement too with things that others have said about me too. In fact, I spend a lot of time discussing it with my counsellor when I’ll be all “oh I am so selfish, I am so caught up in myself, I let my friend down this one time” and she’ll be all “so you let them down once and that means all the good things you do are wiped out?” and I’ll be all listing things and she’ll be like “hello, duh” and I’ll be like oh this is why I pay you, for that validation. Heh. No but seriously, I’m pretty confident that if you are someone I care about, I will accept anything about you, and I will do whatever I can to be there for you in whatever capacity you need me to be. And that’s awesome. Wahoo!

EDIT: Questions from the fiesty Miss Heather:

1. If you had the chance to wake up with a completely new personality, what would you be careful not to change?
I would make sure that my openness was still there – the way that I will accept people for who they are, the way I try to be completely honest with the way that I’m feeling, and my willingness to take on board new ideas.

2. Desperate for a shag, or frigid?

Seriously? Does this question even need to be asked? Did you not read the part above where I slept with a ginga? So to most people, I would be desperate. To a couple of poor lads who were around at the wrong times though, I suppose I may have appeared frigid.

3. On girls: greying, or dyed? Worst option for dyed? On boys: balding, or wig? Comb-over? Facial hair?

Greying or dyed is fine, but I’m not a fan of platinum blonde on most people. Balding is okay, but is best when shorn real short. I like to rub heads with short haircuts. Never a combover, generally never facial hair. A little stubble’s okay, unless you’re making out with it.

4. What do you think are the seven cardinal sins of blogging? Obviously this doesn’t apply to you, since you’re not a blogger.

Writing “Here’s a link and it’s funny”, and thinking that counts as content.
Apostrophe catastrophes.
Holding political views that are different than mine. Puppy-eaters.
Worshiping anyone that I don’t like.
Not writing about me as often as possible.
Refering to Hubris as a blog.
Constantly doing memes. Like we care.

5. What would the cover stories be on the first ever issue of your own magazine?

Ooooh, I adore this question, although I would have prefered you to say “will”, not wood.

Cover stories:
- The definitive guide to cocktails in Wellington
- How my website got me laid, paid and on display: an autobiography.
- Do get me started: a how-to for new media startups.

So if you want me to ask you five questions to answer, and you want them to be all probing and hip, comment or email me.

I don’t think I have any plans for this weekend. Someone make some for me?

xojo

Smart readers would know that the large gaps in updates are probably due to an increase in bad feelings for me, specifically Rising Anxiousness. This has resulted in some unpleasantness, as it tends to, but I’m hoping that more exercise, having Xmas sorted out now and having two weeks off will help the anxiousness to settle down. And if it doesn’t, well, government job = free intial counselling. WahoO!

So where we left off was with me heading out to the Matterho for Kart’s birthday, which luckily quickly moved up to Mighty Mighty, which wasn’t very busy cos it was a Wednesday after all so we could move a couple of tables together easily.

Ash with porcelain skin poses with porcelain dog

Kartini models a shirt from Helen’s shop, Modern Love

Haha. Awesome photo placement.

I talked about Japan with a couple of people who’d also lived in Tokyo – one working as a hostess – and also started crying on Kartini’s shoulder about “why don’t people like me? What more do I have to do? I never get invitations to anything – you only invited me tonight because I emailed you to see if you wanted to go to lunch. I feel like I’m in seventh grade again blah blah blah blah” because I am really awesome. I was really stoked about that. Especially when I did it again on the balcony at San Frindigo later that night onto Ash’s shoulder this time.

But apart from that, it was a really good time. It was pretty much just us there, so we were all out on the balcony because they’re all filthy smokers (in fact, there’s now a Molly Ringwald badge covering the fucking cigarette burn on my bag), and some random munter showed up looking for whores, confused by the Bathhouse sign out the front (like people used to do occasionally when Anji and Karen lived in the Moonlight Lounge. Except that dude, this guy seemed to be looking for female companionship, so what kind of idiot would go to a place called the San Francisco bathhouse?). I suggested that maybe he should go down to Oasis Massage on Ghuznee St (how do I know where the nearest brothel is? I just keep my eyes open I guess), but he kept hanging around, trying to give us his drink (“it’s a double!” like that was some strange way for liquor to be served) and being sleazy. I think eventually Kristen went to speak to a bouncer about him and he got thrown out. Speaking of dodgy:

I have no idea who that guy is, or what’s going on. I don’t remember taking this picture

Look! Friends! People who like me! And I just need to remember that more often, even if they don’t come to my parties all the time

On Thursday I was feeling a little fragile, and puked up my Revive coffee before we went for our team lunch at Logan Brown, so I chose to take the taxi up with a couple of the late people rather than walk up with the Comms team, so I was at the other end of the table with our director and the head of HR. I tried to keep my head down and just enjoy my gazpacho, asparagus, turkey confit and chocolate velvet, but I found myself babbling more about how nice it was to work for an agency of good if I hadn’t been drinking on a hangover. And I should point out that the tax payer only paid $15 of our lunches, just in case you were worried. And then I tried to Xmas shop but only found things I wanted to buy for myself like art at Popup. Oh, but I did get Lisa a bobble-head Jesus to put in her car to keep us safe when we drive up to the BDO. Mmm sacreligious.

On Friday we had our Comms team planning day all day. It was interesting doing our group working profiles, and mapping out what we want to do with our website and so on, but I was in a terrible grump of a mood due to not getting to eat breakfast and then not breaking for coffee until 11.45. Still, it’s nice to work somewhere that does actually have a clear comms strategy, and part of it felt a bit West Wingy, and also we all know what we’re doing now. And 3/4 of us are exceptionally extroverted, and I am more practical and analytical than the others. Hurrah. Which means that the best ways to “link” with me are as follows:

That night I saw BartBart for the first time in a million years, and also Lisa. We watched the Tommy Lee/Pamela Anderson video on my laptop which Bart was holding on his lap, and of course it’s all shot from POV, so ha ha, Bart got fucked by Tommy Lee. Good times.

On Saturday, I had my work party at the Hataitai bowling club. It turns out I’m not as sucky at bowling as I thought I might be, so joining is definitely on the cards. I felt not terribly comfy at the party though – I was just talking to the Comms team mostly who all had their partners/husbands there, and so I snuck out right after dinner. Besides, later that night Lisa Karen and I went to A Low Hum to see Ghostplane. The doors of Frindigo were still shut when we got there, so we went to Midnight Espresso and Lisa inspired me to have a coke spider, so I bounced off the walls for a while. It truly is an awesome drink. Signer who played before Ghostplane were interesting sometimes, especially in the really poundy songs (they have Dino from HDU/the current incarnation of Dimmer on drums, hence the power), but sometimes they were too clicks and beepy. And you know I feel a bit funny about Aspen. I hadn’t seen Ghostplane play since I’ve become friends with Ash, so that was very cool. But after that we decided that we were old and tired and went home.

On Sunday I tidied the house and went up to Ngaio to get Mum and Neil’s Xmas tree stand, and then I got a tree and went to the Warehouse for decorations, and ended up with this result:

My tree by day – spot all the newspaper-wrapped but beribboned presents. That’s my way of saving the environment

With the lights on. And yes, I did buy the baubles especially to match that sari

On Monday (wow, this is starting to get really boring) I asked for a reassessment at the gym, figuring it would be good to get it in now in case things get a bit kaput over my holiday. I was exactly the same weight, but my body fat percentage had gone down a tiny bit, as had my resting heart rate, which was encouraging. HOWEVER! Four weeks ago, I had perfect blood pressure, but as she was taking it again I said “i bet it’s higher now” because I’ve been feeling so fucking stressed out. It was so high that she took it again to see if it was right. Five more points and she’d tell me to go to a doctor. Holy crap! I’ve always had good blood pressure. I was like “I only came to the gym once last week, and it’s Xmas organising and stuff – I think if I do some radsville cardio today I’ll be a lot better”. But now I can still feel it in my chest, carrying around that ball of stress that doesn’t want to go away. It’s not choice. The anxiousness seems to be rising – hence the crying. I’m hoping the holiday will do me some good. It should do. Hopefully it can make my self-esteem fuck the fuck up a bit too.

Another thing that has added to the cry factor this week is remembering how this time last year we were spending time at the hospital with Oma, and then how on the 22nd, well, you know. Mum rang me to say thanks for the orchids I had sent to her on Friday, and I cried at my desk with a glass of champagne in my hands while my workmates yacked it up in the kitchen. But I pulled myself together by the time that Martha came to pick me up in her sexyass new Mini Cooper. I want one too! We went to Noel Leeming for cellphone goodness for her and DVD recorder joy for me. Well, it’s more joyous now that I found an all region crack for it on the interweb, but I also read bad reviews of it. Stink.

Yesterday there was shopping insanity at Woolworths, but I have everything in stock now except for fresh cream for the many coursed Xmas Dinner Karen and I mapped out on Thursday before a pretty fucking mediocre dinner at Scopa which has so gone off my recommendation list. Everyone in the family (yes, all five of us) has received explicit instructions in regards to wine to be matched with each course, and what kind of cheeses they are to bring, and so on and so forth. Match that with the fact that I only bought two Xmas presents not from the interweb – and one of those has now gone to Anji to give to Neil in a present reshuffle, and I’m like, totally in control. My to-do list is meanwhile detailed down to the “fill CD player with good music” “Make ice” “chill bubbly” instructions. Mostly I just have to tidy, vacuum and decorate the table. Until then I will watch DVDs with Lisa and enjoy Sebastian’s company. And also enjoy how fucking clean the bathroom and kitchen floors are. Ahhh exterme mopping, how calming you are. Sort of.

We flew out of Wellington on Anzac Day, 1991. I think it was a Thursday, and I know that the weather was crappy. Because it was a holiday more people were able to come to see us off. KateB was there, with her mother. My sisters, maybe Oma and my aunt, and my mother’s ‘friend’ from polytech. I hadn’t been on an airplane since we’d moved back from Germany, apart from a jaunt to Nelson to see Alexis, so I was concentrating on being excited about that instead of all the other crap that had been going on for the past while.

It’d been a somewhat difficult couple of months. Mum didn’t want to move back to Japan, and she made sure that everyone knew that. One night we went out to dinner at Flanagan’s (now Sandwiches) and she and Neil fought so extensively that all I could do was sit there and cry while my sisters tried to comfort me by talking about how we could build igloos out of the potato ‘bricks’ that the menu had promised. I was saying in my head then “it’s alright for you, you get to stay”. I wished like fuck that I was in sixth form, or my first year of university instead of being ten. I wished that I was allowed to go to boarding school instead, even though I realised that boarding school probably wouldn’t be the fun and games that Enid Blyton’s Saint Clare’s books made it out to be. But it couldn’t be worse than Raroa, the school I’d never bothered to get heavily invested in because I knew all along that I’d be leaving.

And since I was leaving, I fought with Kate more than usual, blowing up at her during a lunchtime game of The Game of Life, running off to the bathroom to cry while my friends took turns trying to comfort me. When lunchtime was over and we were sitting in a circle on the mat, one of the boys asked Mrs. Petez, my sworn enemy, why I was crying, and she started on some spiel about how everyone needed to be more sensitive. I choked at what I saw as being her total and utter hypocracy, and so I got up and ran out of the room again. I sobbed hysterically in the bathroom for a while, as you do when your world is like, totally ending, and then tiny little Frances showed up and took me on a walk around the field where the cold Wellington air blew on my hot feverish cheeks in a way that I found to be very dramatic, and I was certain that a character in a Judy Blume novel would feel the same way. When I returned to class I was asked to go and see another teacher – one that I actually liked – to talk about it, and so I sat in a spinny chair in a library resource room and tried to explain how Mrs. Petez hated me and how Kate was like, totally insensitive, or whatever it was that was making me so angry. Of course Kate and I made up and I stayed at her house the day that the movers came to pack up our boxes. My mother made sure to leave my sisters almost nothing, as her way of saying “I am angry that you are not coming too”.

Of course, leaving had its benefits too. I wasn’t supposed to be allowed to get my ears pierced until I was 12, but one day we were in Hataitai for some reason, buying flowerpot bread from a bakery that I think is now the Bellagio Cafe, and Mum said it would be a good idea for me to get my ears pierced then, so that they wouldn’t be too sore on the plane. I got little pink sparklers, of course, and studiously cleaned and rotated the posts, but even so a lot of my hair got caught up on them and my ear swelled up later in the hotel in Japan. Leaving also meant shopping sprees, and being allowed to buy not only Tiger Eyes but also Forever, Mum evidently having chosen to forget our discussion about the grammatical mistakes in that book about how they came when they were already there, and her incredibly awkward explanation about “whitey fluids”. Our flight to Auckland was all about hot stuffed crossaints since we were in business class, and I peered through the curtains at the plebs in economy with their packets of cheese and crackers and decided then and there that I never wanted to be one of them. Then we got a shuttle from our travelodge hotel into Newmarket and Mum spent up large on me. I watched The Simpsons (it may have been their first ever Halloween special) that night and talked to Karen and Anji on the phone – they already seemed so far away.

The Koru Lounge seemed really strange to me – I couldn’t understand why people would need the showers there, but the idea of free food was awesome. The plane was fitted out with a camera out the front, and onscreen maps about the distance to Tokyo. We were in business class again, so there was free champagne or orange juice while we were waiting to take off. I got to go up and see the cockpit later, and there were constant deliveries of peanuts and playing cards. It was pretty much my idea of heaven. I played around with the different radio stations and watched Home Alone and Fried Green Tomatoes. The three-course lunch had Tiramisu for dessert and to this day I often think it’s a Japanese thing, and for dinner there was John Dory in a champagne sauce. I’m not sure why these things are etched so firmly into my memory, but they are. I think the hard thing about being ten is that you’re still a kid, but you’re not really a child – especially not when you’ve had to leave your sisters behind. The flight attendents couldn’t just give me some stickers and a colouring book. Well, maybe they could have. I probably had a stuffed toy with me, although I’m not sure which one. Maybe Chi Chi the monkey.

It was of course nighttime when we got there after the eight plus hour flight, so I couldn’t see what Tokyo looked like. The Narita runway was picked out in green lights and it looked spooky. Our plane landed right after a flight from the Philipines, so customs was jammed. I’m not sure if Neil didn’t know then that our red diplomatic passports could have sped us through the line, or if he just didn’t want to be ostentatious about it, so we had to wait an eternity to get through. According to Mum’s diary, (and yes, I read it when I was twelve. I’m not proud), I was really good the whole time, even though I was probably about dead on my feet. I think a well-timed sugar hit from leftover airplane lollies might have helped. The bus to Shinjuku from the airport took another two hours. I may have dozed a little, but my eyes were just too big gobbling up all the signs in a language I couldn’t read, and Mum and Neil would have pointed out landmarks that they knew from the first time they were there.

The Keio Plaza hotel is two towers joined together at the base. The lobby was huge, and featured the biggest ’80s style chandalier I’d ever seen, all square-like and sparkling. I stared at it while we checked in, Neil probably fumbling to remember his Japanese while everyone from the front desk staff down to the bell boys in their green pillbox hats probably knew enough English to see us right anyway. The tallest tower is 47 floors, the other, in which we were staying on the 28th floor was 34. Always before whenever I’d stayed in hotels, I’d been in at least an interconnecting room with my parents. This time I was in a big room with two double beds all by myself. Over the next two weeks I would come to relish that space, and feel Very Very Grown-Up in there, but that night, despite knowing that my parents were just down the hall and only a phone call away, I was terrified.

It’s Friday, I’m in love at home
Last Friday night, I didn’t go out. Yes, I know. I was pretty sure that the world was going to implode too. But the one boy left at work who goes out drinking had some mysterious function on (he refused to tell me what it was, apart from a gay pride parade, but I don’t believe him. I am instead suspecting that he’s been drafted in to sell Amway), and I didn’t want to have to make contact with the ex-cows, because eww, boys have cooties (or BIRD FLU) and all that. However, my being lame at homeness provided me with the opportunity to do the supermarket shopping, tidy the house in preperation for vacuuming the next day and spend some quality time with Bart, so that was nice.

Big in Japan, alright / pay, then I’ll sleep by your on my side
It was quite exciting to get up on Saturday morning and start preparing for a Country Club whilst not being hungover. Yeah that’s right, I said morning. And I also said not hungover. You can faint now. But yes, I managed to be so organised that I even had time to go and have coffee with Karen during my errand-running to pick up Singstar Original, ’80s and Rock and bottles of Asahi and Kirin and sexy big cans of Sapporo from Regional Wines and Spirits. Can I just put out a huge big pile’o love for Regional’s website, which is so damn handy when it comes to planning Country Clubs since they list all their stuff by region? Even if the guy at the checkout did pick up my beer bottles and examine them to say “oh, this one’s made in Thailand, this one’s made in Australia…” while I put my hands over my ears and went “LA LA LA LA LA”. Apparently he also did exactly the same thing to Mike when he and Kart were stocking up.

I dressed up as a slutty schoolgirl (gee, that was hard), and went to pick up Lisa and Beverly, and then Karen who was dressed as a ninja, and then Anji and Delwin who were Harajuku girls. We started out Country Club in the dining room, where I handed out specially purchased pieces of paper and pens and instructed people to write Haiku and give Tentacle Porn a go while Karen and I threaded up sticks of yakitori (LITERALLY barbecued chicken, but we also made vege skewers) in the kitchen. What exactly is tentacle porn, you ask? Well I will answer by sucking Lisa’s “bandwidth” (heh) to repost images of her artwork. I hope she doesn’t mind. She shouldn’t, because you can’t even see her hands in these pictures:

.

Then we ran out of chairs, as more and more people arrived, so I moved everyone through to the lounge to watch My Neighbor Totoro. I think people were perhaps a little too drunk at that stage to appreciate the simple beauty of the movie, and the absolute radness of the Nekobasu. Philly-steins (Hells yeah, cheese steak and beer. This is my special shout-out to Brad, although I don’t think he reads Hubris, so I can cut’n paste it into an email for him.)! But they were of course, drunk enough for karaoke, and oh how we all rocked that microphone mightily. Well, Katy mostly fell asleep. But others rocked it long and hard. Lisa as the last person to leave left just after 5am. In the time inbetween, glass was broken, many things spilled, so many wacky snacks were consumed, I punched Bart in the face after he took off his glasses and asked me to, and he showed Lisa his Chuck Norris tentacle. I’m shocked. SHOCKED. It was a fucking kickass country club, that’s for sure.

In the cold light of morning afternoon while everyone’s yawning cleaning you’re high tired

The next day I ran away to hide at my parents’ place instead of cleaning up, under the guise of feeding Pixie and doing laundry. I discovered that they had Live8 on their DVD hard drive, so I went through the whole thing, going “fucking wow” at many of the performances (Pink Floyd, Bjork, ummm some others) and scratching my head at many others. And I wondered why the hell they didn’t set out to collect money along with names, because surely they could have raised some amount, even as a side project. Yeah I know i’m nearly a year late to this party. Shoosh.

I’d been just about to cry when I left the house because I was tired, and hungover, and I couldn’t find my glasses. In the grand search for the glasses, however, Bart finally unearthed my long-missed camera cables, so I’m proud to present a selection from the past couple’o months, although you might be best to go look at them directly in Flickr:

Random people who were also at Kai in the City when we were there with Sarah’s Hens’ Party

The Chocolate Mooooooooooooooooooooooooooosse from Canadia at the Country Club

Karen, Bart’s friends and Bart at his Mexican party. As it says in the notes in my flickr account, one of the girls is wearing a note that says “in case of fire, I put out”, which I think is awesome

Russ and Smoo, looking somewhat worse for wear

Spent the afternoon whole day in bed, trying to figure out what it was you said
Queen’s Birthday Monday was dedicated to listening to Tommy which I had pinched from my parents’ overflowing record cabinet, and devouring The Method Actors, which is a book about a fucked up bunch of people living in Tokyo, and it makes me want to box up all my possessions and stick them in storage, and go live the high life over there, teaching English or hostessing or some such nonsense. Just as well I’m not a skinny blonde or I would actually be seriously considering it. I don’t know how I clicked over from hating Japan and all it stood for in my life to craving it. Perhaps it’s because in the book people meet at Hatchiko, and go to Almond Corner in Roppongi, and they draw maps that go past the 109 building, and Tokyu Hands, and Seibu Loft, and oh oh oh I haven’t finished the book yet, but I’m hoping that they will at some stage need to visit the New Zealand embassy so I can see it again through the author’s eyes.

Working nine to five nine twentyish to five thirtyish, what a way to make a living
I have now seen a cow-orker naked. Unfortunately, it wasn’t any of the ones that I want(ed) to see with their clothes off though. Stupid Peti suggesting another woman from work should join my gym. I hate people who talk to me at the gym. I’m there to escape, to replace the noise in my head with the Arcade Fire, or Shihad, or the Walkmen or Britney Spears or whatever else spins up on my ‘Work it out’ playlist, not make chit chat. Yeah that’s right, I said stupid Peti, and I’m glad that she’s leaving. You hear me, Rebbecca? Heh. Boo-urns to the last person on my floor that I have regular conversations with leaving. Sigh. But like, good for her and stuff.

Something’s cooking, I’m at the griddle electric wok
Tonight for family night, I will be making Papas Garbanzo for Bart and Smoo and Lisa. And then we’re going to play Pictionary, cos that’s what families do. Assuming that I do actually have Pictionary. I’m not sure if the board is in the box. Or indeed if I even have the box anymore. And Twister might not work in these jeans. Or even these genes.

One week and two days until my birthday. Woo!

Last Friday was, if you recall, the Prom. Of course, you should all have known that from coming along, but if you did, then you’re people that I don’t know who didn’t introduce yourselves. Wankers.

But nevermind that. Let’s talk about going to Spotlight at lunchtime with Kateb for netting to promify our dresses, and how I was going to get black but the call of the pink was just too strong:

Then let’s talk about how the skies opened around 4pm and I had holes in my shoes, and my car was parked a long way away and luckily I’d given Kate the spare key to it cos I got to it late, and then we had to schlep over to Newtown to decorate the hall and I was soaking wet and freezing cold and reaaaaaally not in a good mood. Plus decorating was tiring and hard, and we were running late and Brad’s friend who was helping us kept on talking and talking and oh oh oh, just the drama of it all. But when we were done, the place looked fucking rad:

Kate came over to my place to get ready, and since I knew I needed to snap out of my grump, I went to “spend a couple of minutes by myself” (read: rub one out), before showering and sorting out my hair. Of course, we ended up looking fabulous, as the above photo will prove. We spent a while having some drinks and trying to convince Bart and Del to come with us, before abandonning that idea and jumping in a taxi. The hall was pretty empty at first, so I was very worried for Brad’s sake, and I was trying to count and do maths and things, but eventually it filled up, helped along by the arrival of these two, Katy and her flatmate:

We sat and drank coruba & coke for a while, cos it was donated, and then Brad started playing ‘Get into the groove’ which is one of my favouritist songs to dance to evah, and since my friends weren’t feeling it, I went and jumped into a group of strangers including this girl Holly:

They were very very rad people and were very complimentary of my outfit, so I decided that I was ON FIRE that night, and that everybody would be my friend. When Katy and I were slowdancing the first slowdance, I spied two boys standing at the side so we grabbed them instead and they didn’t appear to mind at all. Later I fell in love with one of Brad’s tutors (although I suspect I didn’t realise who he was at the time) when he whirled me around the dancefloor and told me to stop leading. How powerful and manly! Oh how I was swooning.

At one stage, I went outside to find Kate, and found her talking to a 15 year old kid who’d wandered up to boast about how he was on his 20th beer. When he turned around and said to the Asian girl behind him “I don’t like Asians!” I decided that was enough, and it was time for him to move on, so I went and found Brad, who grabbed a very tall friend of his and politely asked the young lad if he had a ticket. He moved on then. Apparently he was also kicked in the balls by a friend of the Asian girl. Excellent.

It was just such a fucking fantastic time. I danced and danced and danced, and although I didn’t win Prom Queen, I certainly felt like it, and so I successfully vanquished all my demons from dances at ASIJ 12 years ago. Oh yes, that’s right, all my demons. I’m totally a demon-free zone now. Honest. Here’s some more photos from the prom – if you want to see them larger, go to my flickr account page, obviously. And the best part of all is that Brad made a whole grand.

When Kate and I got home, we found Mark and Bart sitting out on the front steps drinking, so we stayed and talked to them for a long time, and I did the most awesome fall-flat-on-my-face fall ever. Radical.

The next morning, strangely enough, I felt like I’d been hit by a bus, but I dutifully rolled out of bed, showered and headed off to pick up Anji and Karen, via a ten minute wait at Macdonald’s for them to serve me up a burger instead of the ick that is the Macdonald’s breakfast. Not that their burgers are much better, of course, but this was an emergency. I got Anji to drive to Waikanae, because I still felt drunk. We went to Swell Cafe for Mum’s birthday brunch, which you might remember from the news stories about its quarter mill bronze statue being stolen. Or you might not. I don’t care either way. Ha! It was really nice there, but oh boy I was feeling ill. Then we went to Oma’s house to sort out more stuff and pick up more furniture and I puked some more and sat on an outdoor step and cried. I was very very happy to get home and unload the buffet and bookshelves.

After a nap, I went to the supermarket and made awesome sandwiches of streaky bacon, camenbert, hummus and rocket. Hurray! And I tried gingerly to drink some beer, but then switched to red wine. Around 11pm, I headed off to Nial’s house for Blair’s goodbye party. Luckily it was a very mellow night, just lots of sitting around in the very cute garden. I didn’t know people at first, but I was overly tired so I was in very giggly very saying lots of stupid things mode, so it was alright. The boy who I’d originally thought was gay talked loudly at me about how gay he was, and about how he used to make his ex girlfriend wear a Hayden Christensen mask when he flipped her over, and I felt ever so slightly embarrassed but mostly I just laughed at the things I was thinking in my head (*).I did tell the hot Canadian right as he was leaving that I fancied him rotton, and he laughed at me. Well, it wasn’t quite a “ha HA, like you could ever have a chance” kind of laugh, or even a laugh of pity, it was just a laugh and a “I’m sure you’ll get your pash this year”. And yes, I told him right when he was leaving, because I am laaaaaaaaaame like that, but at least I told him. So that’s all very well and good, and I don’t feel bad about it. And it’s good that he’s gone, because while he was a very easy crush to have, I just have far too much going on in my head right now(*). Oh, and of course he’s also a stupid maple syrup-eating surrender monkey.

Having been up until 5.30 texting, Sunday was a day for lying on the couch groaning and watching season two of the OC. I think much of the week was like that, actually. Hmm. On Wednesday I saw Capote, which wasn’t the feel-good hit of the summer. Then I decided I needed to stop feeling angsty about the number of people in my house (it’s strange getting used to having two boys and one girlfriend who is still trying to find a flat around, after living with only Anji for six months, but there’s no need for me to have a bug up my ass just because oh the pain, they’re sitting on my couches watching tv when I want to lie down and watch the Gilmore Girls in quiet), so I cooked a flat dinner for them and Brad. I was going to make a pear cake too, cos our tree is loaded down with pears right now, but when I got home, Del was already making one. Great minds and all that.

On Friday after work my workmate Sarah and I escaped down to Monsoon Poon for some very good conversation and some wine. She’s getting married in less than a month, and so she keeps asking me questions about things like invitations or social graces, or accomodation and stuff, which is fine, cos I’m happy to help, but it’s making me plan my own wedding something crazy, and hello, I’m not gettign married for another five years (that’s assuming Brad’s still single then). We were joined by the boys a while later, and then by Rene who is an ex collegue. Eventually KateB showed up to and by that stage I’d consumed quite a lot of wine. Sarah left and we had a platter of food which probably wasn’t nearly enough in proportion to the amount of wine we were drinking, and we went to Ponderosa where I watched Kate pee and she did the same to me. Not like, cos we were doing it in public or anything, just that we assumed that there would be stalls but it was one big room and so we decided to have a significant bonding experience instead. I was thinking that the bathroom looked mighty familiar and then I realised yesterday that it’s tiled like the one in Veronica Mars in which she does all her business. Ha HA ‘business’, do you like what I did there? (Yes, wow, that is a poo you should be proud of).

Somehow we managed to convince Dylan to come to a uni party with us (I did mention that the last time I went to a party at Jess’s there were both nipples shown AND a person in a panda costume), and we headed up to Kelburn via the supermarket for more wine. We probably didn’t need the wine. I had a good time at the party talking to Arthur and Brad who are at drama school together, and the fabulous Jess, and also Robbie, who as it turns out isn’t Lemon Cohen at all, and most awesome of all was that there was no one else from Salient there. Then Kate was a little worse for wear, so we decided it would probably be a good idea to get her home(*). When I saw Jess yesterday in Aro, she laughed at me for being like “omg, leave my friend alone! She’s been my best friend since we were 5, don’t hurt her!” cos people had placed flowers on her head. They laugh because after delivering that speech, I delivered Kate an all-mighty slap. Sorry babe.

Yesterday morning was consequently not much fun either, but I rallied by around 4pm when Anji and I went up to Mum and Neil’s for a BBQ. Boy it was hot, so very hot. I like BBQs. Then I went and picked up Karen and we headed over to Aro Park for the Bitchcraft carnival. I bought pretty earrings and we went and got fish’n chips and settled down on the grass to watch the Dukes of Leisure play. They looked like this:

I’m aware that you probably can’t see that much, but I’m hoping that it’s just that I have a crap monitor. If you can’t make it out, that’s a tree with a string of dead dolls hanging behind them. Anyways, the Dukes were very cool. They’re kind of sonic soundscapey like HDU or Jakob, and since I was lying on my back looking up at the stars, it was perfect. The Bitchcraft fair looked awesome when all the stalls turned on their little lamps. I felt like I was in an alternative Stars Hollow, and that is a rad thing to feel.Then I went home to dance the panda dance for Brad. I contemplated going to the Bitchcraft afterparty, but it was on the other side of town and my hands were still tingly with hangover. One of these days, I’m going to cut down on the amount I drink. For serious.

Yesterday being Good Friday and all, Karen came over for breakfast, and we had chocolate hot cross buns as well as the traditional ones, but they were hot and burnt my fingers when I took them out of the oven so I dumped them face down on the serving plate which means that the crosses were upside down, which means that we are all Satanists. Who knew? Y’know, ignoring for now the “Joanna tied someone to a wall and tried to stab them with a pair of scissors in a Satanic ritual” rumour of 8th grade and all (Quick: comment inspiration! What’s the best rumour you ever heard about yourself?). Then we went into town to see Whispers of the Heart, which was excellent, despite the very cheesy name. It wasn’t as fantastical as Totoro or Spirtied Away, but its depiction of Tokyo was so real I could smell it. I’ve felt the repressive heat, heard the crickets chirping, marvelled at how many little neighbourhoods there are and the strange mix of very urban city and large vegetable fields. I wonder if it seemed strange to anyone who hasn’t been there,but if you have been to Tokyo, you’d feel it too.

Later that night I went to Karen’s house to drink vodka mixed with a dash of vanilla sugar syrup, lime and soda. We filled a waterbottle with the mixture and took it to Breaking News, so I felt very fifteen. I saw old workmates there, and asked them what the truth was behind my ex boss’s (removed) post in his blog about deposing the girl who thought she was my boss, but unfortunately apparently it was just a joke. Boo. Still, the movie was good, although I’d been reluctant to go because I always forget that I do actually like Hong Kong action flicks just as much as Karen. Plus afterwards we saw Nial and Blair (you remember, Katy’s friends*) and they were on their way to 24 Hour Party People at Indigo as well so we walked with them. Now, if you’ve been paying attention you might have fathomed that I was wearing contact lenses because I didn’t have a bag with me, and I’ve never worn them before at a dancing type gig. I felt really strange, totally hyper-aware, like I was a spy waiting for someone to assassinate me or something (Or, if you wanted to be REALLY geeky, that I’d been a Potential and I’d just been activated). I could see the expressions on other people’s faces right now, and I imagined that everything they were doing was all about me. It also meant that I was going crazy spotting hot boys, including the singer in my favouritest NZ band ever, except that, dude, get the fuck rid of your facial hair. If I was slightly insane and living in the Hutt and Prone to Using random Capital letters, I might Go so Far as to Declare a Jihad on Facial hair. And as a brief side note on a facial hair tangent, why the fuck have none of you told me that my eyebrows are just about to touch my eyelashes? I’ve always said I’d never pluck them, but really, I’m going to have to start. Someone volunteer to do it for me? Back to the gig. We only stayed a couple of hours, because while some fo the music was great some of it was kinda meh, but We both had a good time, and that’s what’s important.

Today after I’d been woken up for long cuddles with my sweetiepeetiepoodlepie and had been fed breakfast and had showered all my stinkyness away I set off to corporatertise my wardrobe. This of course meant a trip up to Petone to go to The Carpenter’s Daughter, which I STILL drove right past and had to double back in order to find. I tried on a huge pile of clothes but eventually ended up with three garments – a silver basically sleeveless top that I’d wanted the last time I was there but couldn’t justify spending $115 on, but $50 was okay, a wrap-around cardigan type thing in a glittery peachy/goldy/pinky kinda paisley print (that sounds not nice, but it is) and A BLAZER. Yay fucking hooray! I’ve been after a blazer forever. This is a cordoroy/velvet black one (yes, more black clothes, sorry, New Year’s Resolutions) that’s embossed stripes, and it has a double zip up the front instead of buttons and flared sleeves. Plus it fits me like a dream and oh I am so happy with it. The lady only rang up $165 on the cash register cos we’d been discussing their bonus club thingie of which only the blazer counted towards since the other two items were on sale, but I was good and pointed out that she’d undercharged me by $100. Go me.

Then I headed back into the city to go and hunt down Lindsay Lohan movies (Brad’s coming over tomorrow night), and to meet up with Annabel’s friend Dave-from-England. He was very nice and bought me a pint and I will be making sure to take him to some gigs of the indie rock persuasion in the coming months. When I got home Anji was over for dinner, and I ate too much of my easter egg and got a tummy ache, but now I am drinking PIRATE BEER EXTRA STRONG which I bought during a supermarket run to replenish my parents’ wine racks, and at 8.5% and a 500ml can, it’s a hefty three standard drinks. I think it must be time to return to Angel 5. OMG it’s SO GOOD. Puppets! And lore! And Spike isn’t TOO annoying. Hurray!

Also, if you’ll allow me the use of one more “omg”, omg, I am like, such a geek. Nevermind.

You know what? Fuck you. I fucking survived. Ten years later, here I am, and I know how to deal with you too. You’re gone. I can live my life and you’re not a part of it. I haven’t had a flashback in nearly two years.

Fuck. This entry was supposed to be about triumph, and how I am better than you, and how I have beaten you, and yet when I go to put those words down I start freaking out – and right now it’s controlled, and it’s also to do with brain chemicals and things like that, but I wonder how much of my brain chemistry I can trace back to you. You or what you’ve come to stand for, I don’t know. Are you the reason that I tried for so long to seperate my mind and body? Or was that self fufilling prophecy? Did I act that way because of you, or because I thought that was the way that I was supposed to act?

Last night I carved the word “Brave” into my arm with a serrated wine knife. It didn’t bleed, and it’ll be gone in a couple of days, so I was thinking about getting it tattooed instead. Sometimes I think I need something to encourage me, to remind me that it’s okay, that I can still breathe, that I can still cope, that I am still alive. But I think I’ll donate that money to Rape Crisis instead.

Do you know one of the things that makes me the most angry? I bet you don’t even remember me. I was fourteen when you had me pushed up against that wall. You thought I was sixteen? You were thirty two, if I remember correctly. You fucking asshole.

You owe me an apology. You owe my friends apologies, for when I sat in their kitchens and lounges and motel rooms and screamed and screamed and screamed and they had no idea what the hell was wrong with me.

I still don’t know what’s wrong with me either – if you were the cause, or just the symbol, or if I don’t remember everything or if I’ve made it all up in my mind. I talked to my therapist about it – she wanted to know why I thought it might make my life easier to know one way or another. She also suggested that if I’m not remembering it, then there’s a reason, and that maybe I should just let it be. I wonder what she really thought – if she agreed with my self diagnosis that I’m just a fucking drama queen. When I’d made up my mind that I should talk to her about it – which was fucking hard given that I’d only ever told Dylan and Amy and I don’t even remember telling Amy, and I hadn’t meant to, and then there was a website, but you don’t talk about things on websites, you just write, which is what I’m doing here, and I’m not talking.

Drinks at Karen’s with Brad and Shirley, and then we’re off to Atomic at Indigo via the 90s party at Blink’s but when we got there it was all about the sign on the door saying it was canceled, so we stopped to hide booze by the Bakehouse. Brad apparently went back to get another beer later, all class. Once the band had finished (Electrocrack is the new Emperor’s New Clothes), the music was great.

If New Zealand had Craigslist I would post something saying “Dear girl with the NIN tattoos and the dice necklace – you grabbed my pearls and told me you loved them and then when I suggested you punch your friend you told me you loved me and then when it seemed like you almost took my hand in the bathroom, and then did take it later but only to ask for cigarettes, well, I don’t know if you’re that way inclined, or if you are if you’d be that way inclined towards me or not, but I’d just really like to hold hands and kiss you”. Girlcrushes are confusing. Girlie-Giggling Crushes, on the other hand, are fun, even if your friends do tell you to stop giggling just cos you’ve seen the boy you have a crush on, and yell at you to talk to him even though you know he’s not interested, but hey, a hug’s good enough. And then when Heather calls you at 11am, you’re like “arrgh, I love you Heather but I’ve got to go back to sleep to dream about the boy and skipping through fields of daisies”.

Which is actually a lie, because while we’re jumbling this narrative around, I actually dreamt about Kristen, who was working behind the bar and who was (fair enoughly too) very tired. I dreamt I got up at school and yelled at everyone that she was singlehandedly the best person at the school and reeled off a list of her achievements and then cried. Much more wholesome than the other day when I dreamt I decided out of the blue to hire a male prostitute, who was gay but was doing straight for the money. I don’t know why I bothered though, because he blamed me for his inability to stick it in (probably not helped by the fact that I was inexplicitly still wearing my panties – hehe I said panties) but eventually he came across my face and mouth and left. And I paid $130 for that? Wow, even in my dreams I get ripped off.

And on that note before I return to my night story, I might throw down my New Year’s Resolutions:

So is anyone else out there ridiculously lonely? I suppose it’s partly my fault for not really leaving the house this weekend, but I wanted to. I wanted someone to call me up and take me on an adventure, to drag me laughing through the streets, to dance with me, make me laugh, make me cry, make me feel something other than the usual “there is a piece of me that’s missing” nonsense. But alas, it was not to be.

I found myself saying in an MSN conversation that I am starved for physical contact, that I am like a baby in a Romanian orphanage. I probably stole that analogy from a Coupland book. I did just finish reading Eleanor Rigby after all. I am totally afraid of getting old alone, but then again I am totally afraid of being 24 alone. And 25. And 26. Etc. Today I watched Lost in Translation with K and every shot of Tokyo made me teary eyed. I still feel like I have something over the people in the film though (although I guess at least Scarlett Johanson gets to look at her boobies every day) because I could vaguely understand most of the Japanese in the movie. When I first moved to Tokyo, we lived for two weeks on the 28th floor of the Keio Plaza in Shinjuku (where the hotel in the movie was), so even though I was ten then, everything was very vivid. It’s amazing how well Tokyo is captured in that movie. I sometimes wish I could tell people about what it was like growing up there, besides the usual “I was bullied at the horrible American school” (speaking of which, they keep writing to my parents for donations, the other night after a few drinks I almost started a letter back to them asking for the money I spent on counselling), like the smell, and the noise, and the time trhat I saw a man pushing a handcart covered in little glass bells for sale and there was wind for the first time that year and it was the last day of sixth grade and every single one of the bells was ringing. I can’t do it justice, but I think Sofia Coppola did.

I can’t remember the other things that I wanted to write about. Maybe it was a plea for some company, conversation, contact. A hand on my back between my shoulder blades, a hand on each of my hips steering me in another direction, which brings me back to Tokyo again, 5150 and the guy is 35, so twice the age that he thinks I am, and he thinks Beth shouldn’t be smoking and that I shouldn’t be hanging out with her, and that’s ten fucking years ago.