So after a disappointing Friday night that involved too much liquor by myself, I was feeling slightly seedy when my parents came to pick me up at 12.30pm the next day, although I did feel good having watched the tape of America’s Next Top Model and learning that the girl I wanted to win had won. In Petone, I tried on a huge pile of clothing at The Carpenter’s Daughter, and ended up with a grey stripey skirt that’s in a knit fabric and it’s knee length and has a really good fit around the top of it, and also a black open knit cardie that will go great with the top that I have yet to wear because it needs a kind of shrug with it. And I will wear it to my party, dammit! And I will have a party! Possibly the week after next. But I need to establish if Karen is having a birthday party then. Uh oh, I just remembered that I dreamt that I was back in hospital with a woman saying “absolutely the worst thing you can do with those cysts is touch them. It’s going to grow back again”. But no! I WILL HAVE A MOTHERFUCKING PARTY! AND YOU WILL COME ALONG! AND I WILL DRESS UP! OH YES I WILL.
We had lunch at Flax in Petone, and I thought my roast veges and pumpkin bread and halumi was really good at the time, but it was a bit too garlicy and it stayed with me and made me feel really sick eventually, so i had a nap on the couch when I got home. Then I found out that my old workmate that I was supposed to be going out with was too tired from her daughter’s slumber party, so I was gutted all over again. But then I remembered that I’d borrowed all three seasons of Black Books from my parents, after talking about it with Miss Ratpony in between making highly inappropriate and poorly executed animated gifs, and so I invited her over to watch it. She made me dance a jig for her, but there’s no pain that beautiful crazy Bernard can’t fix. Will someone please buy me a bookshop? I do believe that owning Black Books would be very compatible with my prefered lifestyle. And while I am speaking of Miss Ratpony, can I please point you here to where she talks about the songs she loves? It’s pieces like that which make me go “oh yeah, that’s why I want to be a music writer, so that I can learn to capture the feeling of a song and its related memory that strongly”.
On Sunday Anji put purpleish streaks in my hair, except that there was enough dye that she did most of my head. And it’s browny purple, nothing too exciting. But it looks good. I lazed around for a while until I realised that I was supposed to be going to Grizzly Man that afternoon with Brad, and so I got ready and he picked me up and we drove there. Hurray for an exciting narrative! Anyways, the Paramount was mostly full, and we got crappyass squished in seats, which nearly had me screaming in pain, but the documentary was cool. If you’re not familiar with it, it’s about Timothy Threadwell, who spent thirteen summers filming grizzly bears up in Alaska, until him and his girlfriend were killed and eaten. He was a total fucking nutbar, his monologues to the camera were just fruitloopy, it was great. One of helicopter pilots interviewed about him said “i think the bears mostly left him alone because they thought he was mentally retarded”. Someone else said “I think half the time he thought the grizzlies were actually just people in bear costumes”. Brad and I almost wet ourselves at that image. The baby foxes were very cute, but the way Threadwell kept going “I love you, thank you for being my friend, I love you so much” was a little creepy – not least of all because perhaps I talk to Sebastian like that – a lot.
Later that evening, after The Gilmore Girls and NZ Idol, and a delicious curry and several cocktails based around feijoa stuff and then leftover coconut cream, I blowdried my hair to volumey perfection, and glossed up my lips, smoked my eyes and pushed up the twins. It was time to go out. My taxi driver asked me to tell him an interesting fact, so I attempted to dazzle him by telling him that male bears sometimes eat the cubs to stop mummy bears from lactating, so that they can continue to get their fuck on. I don’t think he was particularly interested, but since he’d asked, I kept on talking.
Katy was late for her own birthday drinks, so I had a cocktail. For those of you playing along at home, it was a Librette, which meant it was apple and passionfruity. I also had a Bees Kiss (rum and honey and cream), and a Singapore Sling (Gin. Grenadine. Cherries. I wish I could tie them in a knot with my tongue. That would make my life complete.), and a Passionfruit Pavlova (42 Below Passionfruit Vodka, passionfruit, cream, soda. It did indeed taste pavlovaish), a Shaolin Apple (cinnamon vodka, apple juice, drambuie) and probably something else as well. I also had a beer, since Blair was buying, and getting people who aren’t drinking cocktails to buy you cocktails is rude. Well, according to me it is, anyway. Good times were had by all. I was certainly quite giggly, when I wasn’t being left sitting by myself because they were all filthy smokers. Most of the people there worked in movie theatres and were movie geeks, which makes a nice change from hanging out with music geeks. Most of them were all Filmfestivaled out. Incidently, have I mentioned that Grizzly Man is the only festival film I’ve seen? I suspect part of this is because a) you have to pay for film festival tickets and b) fuck I hate being uncomfortably seated for hours. You people who are skinny (or at least normal sized) – do your knees not suffer too? Anyways. I love Goodluck’s service and drinks and yeah, it was about 1.30am when Katy decided to go home and crash, and I contemplated staying but instead went and got takeaways with her and taxied home with them to drop coins in the gutter and write poetry(*).
If I have “drinks” on August 5th, will you come along?