This One Time, At Band Camp...

Last weekend I lost my music festival virginity. My friend Tom turned 30 and celebrated by inviting mates to spend the long weekend with him at the Port Fairy Folk Festival.

I have previously steered well clear of music festivals, as they involve camping, and camping fills me with pure dread. There are two kinds of families: those who go camping regularly and find it enriches their lives, and those who go camping this one time and their mattresses deflate and a prowler steals their stuff and it rains and the tent smells like cat wee because the cat weed on it (which no one realises until the rain releases the stench of feline urine) and everything sucks. Or perhaps - there are two kinds of families: those who go camping, and those who go to see 'The King and I.' Twice. Maybe you can guess which was mine.

So, camping = scary. And festival camping in a rural dustbowl full of dreadlocked djembe players while listening to John Butler sing songs about pine trees = no way. I was perfectly happy to hear music in pubs and spend holidays sleeping on actual beds, kthxbye.

That is until now. See, Tom is the first of my friends to crack three-oh. And he and his ladylove, Snooze, are certified awesome. So I decided to be brave.

I snagged a ride down with Curtis and Sasha, who recently became the first in my 'peer group' (such as it is) to get married. To my immense relief they expressed a similar anxiety about camping, with Curtis even declaring that 'we haven't spent tens of thousands of years evolving as a race to be stuck in a tent in the middle of nowhere.'

It was a long drive. We got stuck in horrible traffic coming through Geelong. 'I've got it in for Geelong,' said Curtis darkly. 'They should just pull it down and start again,' agreed Sash.

It was dark by the time we arrived. Tom and Snooze had staked out a patch upon which about 20 of our friends-and-relations had already constructed tents. Curtis and Sasha had a trunkful of elite camping equipment, and a total lack of any clue as to its assemblage. Just as I was standing there thinking, fuck, we are going to be here all night sobbing into the instruction manual, Tom rolled up his sleeves and quietly stated, 'I'm going to get my head lamp.'

I stared at him. Head lamp? Saywha'now? To explain: We all know one another through (wince) student theatre. Tom is an actor and former choirboy who sometimes wears an 'Importance of Being Earnest' cast t-shirt and who I first met shortly after seeing him perform 'The Jet Song.' Drama club people aren't meant to know stage left from stage right, let alone possess wearable light-sources and casually construct large tents in the pitch black after several beers! Yet here was Tom, striding about manfully and delivering instructions such as 'grab onto that toggle' and 'align the flies'. Good lord! He was ably assisted by another friend, CC:

CC: Be careful of that pole, Curtis, if you pull too hard it might...
Curtis: *holding two pieces* Er... break in half?

The next day everyone got out their festival guides and beetled off to various events. Well, when I say everyone I obviously mean everyone except one particular person who spent much of the day cataloguing and replacing the various things she forgot in the psychotic panic that characterised her packing attempts. You'll be glad to know that if you ever arrive in Port Fairy without, say, a towel, toothpaste, socks, sunglasses or a belt, they are easily bought, although you might have to endure the scorn of nosy old ladies in the shops who say loud things like 'Can you believe that girl came all the way here without any of those things?' And you might also only find one belt in the charity shop that fits and it might be a really cheesy one clearly originally bought from Supre for 14.95 by an 11 year old girl and have the letters NYC emblazoned on the buckle, and also it might be crap and keep coming undone the whole weekend but you're two embarrassed to take it back in case the old ladies talk about you again. Apparently that's what happened to one particular person.

Perhaps the most unpleasant part of camping experience is the issue of one's toilette. The Port Fairy ablution experience involved venturing into 'Mouse's' portable facilities.


You will notice this hygiene-based company has thoughtfully chosen to name themselves after a rodent.


I followed the example of my friend Mags, who declared she was not going to shower in anything represented by a nappy-wearing mouse, especially one unbuttoning a flap in it's diaper 'as if it really needs to poo in a hurry.'

Luckily, fellow TomFest 2007 attendees Virge and Sophie had use of an actual house, a human-sized one made out of wood and brick with plumbing, and were good enough not only to open it up for an official birthday party one night, but also to allow those of us traumatised by the Mousey trucks to have a real shower. Thus I showered once in three days. Skanky yes, but at least I kept my dignity.

At this same official party we gave Tom a group present of an hawsome fancy camera. I think he liked it, he kept making squealing noises.

Many festival goers looked like my Mum's friends - smiley middle aged social workers and teachers in zip up fleecy vests. This led to an amusing moment when Curtis declared he was sick of baby boomers and I, who grew up lovingly ensconced in the arms of a thriving inner-city baby boomer groove, sprang to their defence. A few moments later we walked into the Fesitval bar tent where a conga-line of inebriated older ladies were swaying and screaming 'Swe-e-e-et Caroline' at the top of their lungs. 'See what I'm talking about?' shouted Curtis.

There was also a huge contingent of underage poppets, or 'spankettes'. This lot were frankly disturbing as they seemed to be running around loud and boozed and totally unsupervised. I realise this makes me sound like a complete grumpy old woman, but it was actually kind of worrying. My friend Fishy's mum is a counsellor at a nearby high school and has spent the last week or so trying to repair the damage. Mothers, don't let your babies grow up to be unsupervised and drunk on a beach at Port Fairy!

Pete developed a taste for the gourmet sausages on sale, and was often heard wondering aloud if it was wrong to eat a kransky with the lot for breakfast. (Verdict: if it's wrong, then dammit I don't want to be right!)


Ah, the God Botherers. I hated them! They had a large ugly bus with retarded slogans (see above) plastered all over it, and their massively loud P.A. could be heard blasting ALL DAY AND NIGHT with woeful God-rock. I really hate these kind of nutjobs because they give regular Christians a bad name. Among the many creepy and unsubtle tactics designed to convert folk was the use of shitful puppets singing rock and pop songs that had been re-worded in the lamest way imaginable.


If anyone can prove that seeing a felt cow-puppet mime a version of 'Sweet Home Alabama' which has been re-worded 'Sweet Home... In Heaven!' (genius!) caused anyone to convert I will personally perform a liturgical dance at Mass next week. Another gold lyricism was 'GOD! LOVES EVERY DAY PEOPLE!' (As Pete pointed out, don't they realise the original song was written by the one man who has perhaps consumed more drugs that any other person on earth?)

Musical stylings that were very much to my liking: Habib Koite and Bamada, who completely went off. I also give the Jelly thumbs up to Jordie Lane, Lisa Miller, and the extraordinary Liz Stringer, whose music gives me goosebumps. Mags, Rosie and I spent our final morning enraptured at the feet of Eric Bibb. The man is a miracle and I have ordered his cds instead of ripping them off Limewire, which is a big deal, believe me.

There were other people that were obviously talented but not really my thing. One such act had been going less than a minute when Pete, sitting to my right, started to wriggle like a 6 year old.

Pete: I reckon I've only got another five minutes of this left in me.
*the woman performing lets out a high-pitched 'yiiiiiiip!' noise*
Pete: Well, that just shaved two minutes off.

By all accounts Luka Bloom (who, the Redhead pointed out, looked freakishly like Greg Kinnear) was very enjoyable. I'm ashamed to say that while he was performing I was sitting drunkenly in a tent with Curtis, Sasha, Mags and Rosie, trying to eat cheese and biscuits without getting them on my thermorest. This led to a now-infamous incident that involved us going to hear Lior, and finding ourselves completely surrounded by children no older than 16, many of whom were drunk, most of who were cuddling their emo boyfriend/girlfriend, and all of whom were convinced that every word uttered from Lior's lips was like, the Holy Gospel on how to live life and like, go on an amazing journey, man. As if this wasn't hideous enough, Lior himself achieved new heights of pretension even for an god of acoustic rock when he petulantly asked the crowd, 'This next song is like really special to me. Do you think you could be QUIET while I play it?'

According to other people, at this point I took a dislike to a girl in front of me who (a pox on this disgusting jingoistic teenage trend!) had an Australian flag painted on her face. And I apparently decided to kick her. Now that I type it out it sounds utterly mental but at the time it seemed quite reasonable. My memory is very blurry, but apparently this led to an horrific juvenile group 'kick the spankette' activity which eventually backfired when they all turned on us and started to say (quite reasonable) things like, 'if you're not here for the music, maybe you should leave?' 'Oh my God, they're bullying us!' shrieked Rosie. So we legged it. And then I spat on one of them. Or at least that's what Mag's reckons, but she's also an actress and they are prone to exaggeration.

All in all, it was a very cool long weekend. The camping wasn't even scary, but this was possibly because I ended up sleeping in Tom and Snooze's Party Tent, which is roughly the size of the Taj Mahal.* And I only got lost and cried once - bonus! The music was great, but even better was the company. How often to you get to go on holiday with 20 of your friends?

The Jelly Verdict
Tom and I have known each other for some years now, but I think it's fair to say it took us a while to become real friends. Speaking for myself, it was well worth the effort, which has revealed one of the softest hearts I know. It dawned on me recently that, in the words of the great** Bruce Springsteen, 'maybe we ain't that young anymore.' People are coupling up, and by the time I turn 30, a lot of my friends will already have babies. And that, of course, will change things forever. I am very grateful that Tom and Snooze encouraged everyone to attend TomFest2007. At least we'll always have Port Fairy - the group holiday where we we sat around in folding chairs, listened to music, drank beer, I may or may not have spat at some teenagers, and Tom wore a headlamp.




*I did have my own tent (courtesy Fluffy - whose current post you must ALL go and read because it's amazing) but as there was plenty of room in the Taj, I figured I didn't need it. However, any time I have mentioned this to people, they have immediately wondered if I might have, um, 'cramped' Tom and Snooze's 'style'? Yikes! Of course this is didn't even occur to me! I'm not a pervy girl, I swear! Tom's sister was sleeping there too! But oh God, did I deprive them of some kind of 30th birthday conjugal right? *is naive*

** Bruce Springsteen's greatness may or may not be debatable, although the level of wankerdom exhibited by me in quoting him this way is probably not.

Where The Bloody Hell Are You?

The other day I had a call from this Adam who was worried because apparently this Adam told him I was in hospital. Swhat? Oh god, I'm such a crap blogger that I made my friends invent a more exciting reason for my absence here. No hospital! I'm not going back to one of those places until they can assure me I'll be seen by Doctor Who. Preferably wearing his reading glasses.

*drifts*

HEY! Back. Right.

No, not dead, just kinda tied up.

I've been trying to update for ages about all the craziness of the last few months but I'm so obsessive that I've never been happy with any of my attempts. So if you'll please forgive me, I'm just going to throw quality to the wind and try and bang out a rough update, in the hope that it will clear the log jam and enable me to resume posting about normal stuff again, like how much I wish I was a member of the Dixie Chicks, and how worried I am about Renee Zellweger's worsening facial deformities, and etc. Because at this rate I will still be frozen when the Oscars roll around. Tragedy! That must not happen.

Firstly, in November I had to move out of my house. Yes! The one with the perfect wives. Bah. Sadness. I guess I had naively believed that we would live in our little house together for at least another year. But, things change, real estate agents are TOTAL cunts, and so forth. The whole bureaucratic and logistical process was very tedious and gives me a nosebleed just thinking about it, so I won't go into it all here. I handled it badly (the Jelly continuum: denial - avoidance - mad panic - collapse) but thank god I had the Wives, my parents, the Boy Wonder and other nice friends to help. Shoutout to Kynan who helped Dad move like every piece of furniture I've ever owned across Melbourne.

The best part was seeing how incredibly happy Canoe was to move into her own place with her boyfriend, Shorty. The two of them got together not long after I moved into the Wifehouse and they were very casual and smooth and lowkey and then one day I just kind of looked around and was all, 'Hang on a cotton pickin' minute!' And it was funny, because we spent so much time watching love on tv, and listening to love on our ipods, and reading about love in books, that I almost didn't realise love was actually living with us.

Canoe and Shorty's love arrived entirely without fanfare. It slunk into the house late at night with Shorty when he finished his long shifts and lingered long after he left in the dark for yet another early one the next morning. It moved into our lounge room and sat around quietly, not drawing attention to itself, just chilling out in the background while we watched Neighbours and ordered Indian and washed the red wine glasses. It was pretty goddamn awesome to see, especially on days when I was all, 'LOVE'S A FUCKING MYTH' (ie. most).

Furthermore, can I add that Shorty's eye-rolling patience in response to, say, a roomful of girls SCREAMING HYSTERICALLY AT THE TOP OF THEIR LUNGS every time David Tennant puts on his specs is something to behold. I will never forget his reaction to Grey's Anatomy Season 2 finale (DENNNNYYY!!), which was so thoughtful and sensitive that I wanted to arrest him on the spot and charge him with Crimes Of Extreme Niceness. And how can you not love a guy who once described me thus:

'You're a great girl. I mean, you're fucken CRAZY. But you're, you know. Great.'

Anyway, there I was, rather abruptly homeless. I seem to remember exams and teaching rounds were involved at this time but to be honest the whole period is just a hideous blur. I swallowed my pride and asked my parents if I might be able to move back in with them until something better came up. My mother's response was what every prodigal daughter always dreams of hearing: 'But... but we turned your room into a study!' (With in-built desks!) In fairness to them, I am the most god-awful sort of a child to have to deal with and they are nothing but endlessly supportive of me, even though they should have hidden me inside a woven carpet at about age 2 and 'accidentally' sold me at a garage sale. In a random example of exactly how kind my father is, he has bought me flowers on two occasions when he's known I've been having a bad day. (He also gave mum a Valentines day card). *cries* In the end it was better for us all that I found temporary digs elsewhere. And when I say elsewhere, I mean, 'In the tiny wee room right out the back of my freind SJB's house.'

Now, SJB is one of the loveliest people I know, even though he goes to work every day in a grown-up suit and toils for a corporate behemoth which specialises in taking candy away from hungry one-legged infants and throwing tiny fluffy kittens into combine harvesters and other such capitalist crimes. He is also one of the tallest people I know, and Canoe suggested that when we walk around together it might look like a good-looking young professional man has taken up guardianship of a delinquent teenage girl via the Big Brother Big Sister program or similar.

His extraordinary loveliness led to him offering me and several armfuls of my crap a place to call temporary home, not to mention unlimited access to his extensive music theatre cd collection, which is widely recognised as being the best in the southern hemisphere. And with almost no notice whatsoever, and without a word of complaint. Equally welcoming was his housemate, who we'll just call Fucking Hot As, who barely knew me but was very tolerant when it came to things like discovering me passed out fully clothed on the couch at 7am after a night spent watching the Veronica Mars episodes that he had saved from the mysterious 'torrents' to the televison's secret pulsating brain (no, I have NO IDEA AT ALL how that scary technology works, but it definitely gives me the happies).

A small aside - the first season of Veronica Mars was life-alteringly good and sent me tumbling into a full-on obsessive crush on the show's charmingly fucked up jackass, Logan Echolls. I haven't been so besotted with a fictional character since the dark and embarrassing days of Year 8's Fox Mulder worship. To quote Snaz - 'Logan is like some beautiful, terrible disease that I never want to be cured of.' Or, as Ennis would say:









BUT I DIGRESS.

So delighted was I to have a place to be that I absolutely didn't mind a bit that the room was really small and had a clothes dryer in it. Referred to by SJB as 'The Dogbox' and by me as 'My Little Laundry', it was perfect.

Now, when I moved in, I had fanciful notions of SJB and I spending evenings by the air conditioner, listening to the revival of The Pajama Game, while I lesson-planned and he sharpened the knives he was going to use on the kittens at work the next day. There are very few people to that I can talk geeky music theatre speak with, so this was going to be a VERY GOOD OPPORTUNITY. OR SO I THOUGHT. Well, you ask, what happened? He went and got himself a damn boyfriend, that's what. Honestly, what is it with these happy couples? They are fucking everywhere! Just when you think you have yourself your Own Personal Live-In Gay, he hooks up with some sweet guy who lives on the other side of town and wants to spend all his time with him and not you. Fie!

Me: Isn't there a 'Will and Grace' episode like this?
He: Actually I think EVERY 'Will and Grace' episode was like this.

*channels Debra Messing*
*gets over it*

Luckily, Sweet Boyfriend Guy is absolutely worthy and very patient during the occasions I manage to hijack the conversation and drive it determinedly into the territory of musical theatre.

Anyways. The end result was that on the very rare occasions when I would hear his key in the lock I would go bounding down the hallway and fling myself around his ankles like a toddler being collected from daycare. My bounciness has earned me the nickname 'Puppy'. Which is just fine. Especially as I was living in 'The Dogbox.' (At least it wasn't Kitten.)

Um, then Christmas happened at one point. You know you're a grown up when Christmas's approach fills you with uncontrollable dread. As usual I spent Christmas Eve morning sobbing hysterically in my parents arms declaring that the universe was shitful before dutifully taking my place in the Carols by Candlelight queue. Hey, remember how it rained, all Christmas Eve? And remember how Carols by Candlelight is outside? HAR THAT WAS LIK SOM UCH FUN. The show was mercifully better than last year's fiasco and the kids were great fun, although they did require four trips to the toilet in the first 40 minutes (me: No, no, not again! Jelly wants to listen to the songs now, okay? child's older sibling: if ya don't take her, she's gunna wee on your lap. me: *grabs kid, runs*) Highlight of the day - about an hour before the show started the woman in front of me on the lawn gave her toddler a shove and declared, 'I've 'ad a gutful of you already!' Merry Christmas, Melbourne!

Tangent - this is an awesome christmas post.

Also, all kinds of random confusing stuff was happening in my life, and people I know kept dying, or getting sick, or injured, or having friends die or get sick, or splitting up with their partners and stuff. Fucking stop it, please, God, my friends are mostly non-evil folk who don't deserve that shit.

Anyway, you may note that I said my stay at SJB's was only temporary, because soon I was actually on my way to my NEXT exciting temporary home - with Fluffy! Yes! ZOMG! More blogger's living together! (Plz note, I wasn't kicked out of SJB's, it was only ever planned as a brief stay! I'm not that dreadful!) The Tiny Man has generously vacated his room for me, and I sleep some nights on racing car sheets, while the retro elephant on the poster at the foot of the bed reminds me, 'Clean your teeth before bed and after meals.'

Now, to do proper justice to this extraordinary woman and the generosity and patience she has shown me would take time, energy and intelligence, three things I never seem to have in abundance. What I will do is ask this - is there anything more impressive than someone who a) buys her potplants off ebay b) can read Mr Men books in a variety of accents including French, Scottish and British North Country and c) on a Sunday morning, can fix a mirror using a saw and powertools without even changing out of her nightie? I didn't think so. She also sometimes calls me 'princess' when I stagger out of my room in the morning, even though I look like Charlize Theron in 'Monster.' SHE COOL.

Fluff and I are now preparing for our next move, which is hopefully into a new permanent place, not too far away, SOON. We are ploughing through the hideous mire of the rental market and after being dealt a particularly deadly blow the other day we are thinking up new and exciting ways to kill all real estate agents. (team of elite ninjas? 'accidental' escaped jaguar mauling? old fashioned stabbing?) It will be move number 3 for me since November, I am ready to be settled.

Anyways this really doesn't even scratch the surface of how weird the last 6 months have been, but maybe it updates things a bit.

The Jelly Verdict
I have been living a kind of crazed gypsy nomad half-life and the cracks are beginning to show. I just want my books, my desk and my winter clothes back with me. Please send good vibrations this way if you can spare them. And if you see a real estate agent, kindly throw them in the nearest combine harvester.

PS:

Anatomy of a Family Wedding

The Day Before The Wedding
I stand semi-naked in an inconveniently small changing room in a clothes shop in Brunswick, attempting to convince my mother that the lacy pink dress she keeps poking in my direction is not what I am going to wear at my cousin's wedding. ''Cos I don't like it,' I whine from behind the curtain, sounding like a thirteen year old complaining about buying her school uniform. 'I just don't want to wear it!' The look on my mother's face tells me she is yet again wondering how she has raised a daughter who so dislikes being a girl.

Outside the cubicle, I can hear the murmurings of my younger brother, The Boy Wonder, who has been dragged along on this shopping expedition like the true metrosexual/SNAG/shemale hybrid he is, as he flirts shamelessly with the little poppet behind the register. My mother enlists him on her team: 'Try and get her to wear it, will you? She just closes off her mind to anything new at all!'

We go back and forth like this for a while, until a few compromises are agreed upon. The Boy Wonder springs into action, dashing around the shop enjoying the continuing admiration of the staff as he commands, 'We need this in a medium!' and similar. Mum keeps throwing open the flimsy curtain around me with great abandon, and when I say, 'Shit, close it will you!' She yanks it back even harder which usually exposes me from the other side. Who designs those freaking things anyway? And it's the second time lately I've been stuck in one, as...

*flashback*

A Few Weeks Before The Wedding
Snaz and Canoe, my beloved wives and FORMER BLOGGERS *glares* *prays for resumption* drag me into the lingerie department of a major shopping chain. Snaz has finally got me to agree to buy some new bras, my previous ones having been repeatedly declared not up to standard. While I giggle and wander round the store saying useful things like, 'Har har, look at those enormous cups, fill them with water and quench the thirst of an entire African nation', she marches determinedly between the racks, pulling things down with an experienced flair.

Canoe waits patiently outside while Snaz steers me into the change rooms and helps me grapple with piles of satin and webbing and what seems like lever-and-pulley systems - bosomry is a complicated business. Snaz approves of the strapless bra. I am unconvinced. I have never worn a strapless bra, I complain. Surely the mnang-mnangs will not remain under control without the extra support of straps? 'No, no. this is a really good bra. I promise. Try it! Jump up and down! Bounce to your hearts content! Like a bouncy castle! See? You're fine!' I am. I am also, it turns out, a size smaller, but several cup sizes larger, than I have been wearing for most of my adult years. WTF, people? Double-d, for fucks, all I can think it that when you sit in row DD at the theatre you are right down the front because they have taken the orchestra out. (God knows that that metaphor should be taken to mean, aside from the fact that I am an incredibly tragic theatre nerd.)

BUT I DIGRESS.

Back To The Day Before The Wedding
We find a dress. Everyone likes it. And I can wear the strapless bra with it. We find some shoes. None of us really like them, but we're running outta time here, and normal people prepare for these things in advance, so we're lucky I'm not heading off in a burlap sack with a bit of Christmas wrapping as a sash. Alrighty then. Family wedding ahoy - let's go!

The Day Of The Wedding
This wedding trip means extensive travel. With all four family members. In a small car. Together. For hours. Good times, good times.

Nine Hours Before The Wedding
My mother and I have an argument about my hair.
Dad reminds us how expensive the hotel we will be staying in is.
We pass a truck labeled 'Frigmobile,' and the Boy Wonder and I crack up.
I announce that I'm hungry.
Dad: Did you have breakfast?
Me: ...
The Boy Wonder: Foolio.

Eight and a Half Hours Before The Wedding
Me: *looks at map* Oh my god, there's a place in Victoria called Lurg.

Eight and a Quarter Hours Before The Wedding
Me: And right near it, there's a place called Lurg Upper.
The Boy Wonder: *composes country song* Don't leave me in Lurg, Lareena/Don't leave me in Lurg, Lucille/You broke my heart, down by the marina/All because I tried to cop a feel.
Me: Nice work
TBW: I do my best.

Eight And a Half Hours Before the Wedding
Mum points out a place that does reenactments of Ned Kelly's last stand.
Dad reminds us how expensive the hotel we will be staying in is.

Eight Hours Before the Wedding
Signs for the town Yarrawonga inspire Dad to start his own resounding chorus of an actual Australia song that rhymes the name with, 'linger longer.' What a family.

Seven and a Half Hours Before
Signs to food up ahead.
Me: Sweet.
Dad: It's probably a grotty old roadside caravan.
*we drive past a grotty old roadside caravan selling hotdogs on sticks and chiko rolls*
Mum/Dad/TBW: *laughs*
Jelly's Stomach: *growls*

Seven Hours Before
There's also a plce on the map called, 'Howlong.' Now, that's just being silly.
We haven't spent this much time together as a family alone, in what feels like (and probably is) years. I have to admit, it is kind of fun.

Six and a Half Hours Before
TBW: I don't wanna sound like a little kid or anything, but - are we there yet?

Six Hours Before
Signs for Drage Airworld. Th Boy Wonder and I both express a desire to visit. We love planes. Sad, but true.

Five Hours Before
I stare glumly out the window. Seriously, have you seen how fucking dry and yellow and miserable our countryside is looking right now? It is not a pretty sight. We are not far off being completely fried to death.

Four Hours Before
We arrive. We bathe, dress and beautify. Mum and I have an argument about my hair. Dad reminds us all to make full use of the free shampoos, hairdryers, irons and television, because do we remember? The hotel, it is really expensive.

HEY ITS TOTALLY THE WEDDING NOW WOW!
The ceremony is beautiful. My cousin looks thrilled, very grown-up, handsome. His wife is gracious, graceful, a total fox. I nearly cry *wipes manly tear*

One Minute After The Wedding
And now is the time at the wedding when we drink.

Two Minutes After The Wedding
We survey the crowd. I seem to be the only girl present who has not made a bold foray into the world of the fake tan and blonde highlights. In my rockabilly dress and red shoes and big sunglasses and dark hair, I feel vaguely out of place.
TBW: Heh. You look kind of like early-era Winona Ryder has accidentally wandered into a Hilary Duff movie.
Me: Thanks a lot, pal. *glares*
TBW: Especially as you're so scowly.

15 Minutes After The Wedding
My LadyCousin wanders over. 'I've noticed there's an awful lot of tit on display here today,' she remarks. 'I think I even saw some nip.'

20 Minutes After The Wedding
Groomsman Cousin rubs his temples and remarks dejectedly he got stuck with the 'dud bridesmaid.'
TBW: It's not all bad. She's certainly got the twins out on display.
GC: Well, she has to emphasise her only good feature.

An Hour After The Wedding
Woo hoo! Weddings rock. Let's party! Where's my champagne? Oops, it's photo time! Try to remember to take sunnies off, smile at the nice people, hide your beer behind that bearded guy, what's his name, oh yeah, Dad. Hey, when does the dancing start, peoples, lets get this show on the road! Also, I'm hungry. Also, go Wolverines! *falls over*

An Hour And Ten Minutes After The Wedding
My brother and I lure my little kid cousins into misbehaving. We sneak back to the hotel and watch tv until the proper reception starts. We reflect on the curiously comforting nature of Simpsons re-runs. Itchy and Scratchy land! Bort nametags! Yee-ha! Hey, was I allowed to bring this champagne with me? Ah, no matter *drinks*

An Hour And Fifteen Minutes After The Wedding
*raids the snack bar*

An Hour And A Half After The Wedding
Dad tracks us down and orders us all back to the party. I nervously shove the snack bar wrappers under the bed.

Two Hours After
PARTAY TIME PEOPLE.
*eats*
*drinks*

Two and a Half Hours After
Speeches. Oh, God, it's all really emotional. Somehow, when very blokey men start going on in a heartfelt manner about how much everyone means to them, it is all so much more intense that when it is emo inner-city folk. Because they only say it when they really mean it. By the time step-children are thanking step-parents for raising them like their own kids, and parents are reflecting on kids they brought to Australia from overseas to give them a better life, I am slightly undone. Lady Cousin is also crying. As are all the bridesmaids. And Dad.

Three Hours After
My Aunt and Uncle carve up the damn dance floor. My uncle dances better than any farmer in the country, and possibly the world. He is as light and nimble on his feet as Gene Kelly. The Boy Wonder and I hit the dance floor too. So do Mum and Dad. And Lady Cousin, Groomsman Cousin, and everyone else. This. Goes. Off. The family that dances together stays together, I say.

Three and a Quarter Hours After
Some random song called 'Thank God I'm A Country Boy' comes on, and massive groups of men charge the dance floor and start dancing together in circles with their arms around each other. The bromance on display here, folks, is unparalleled. It's all so energised and full on that it's like we're suddenly in the barn-raising scene from 'Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.' The Boy Wonder attempts to leave the dance floor, only to be caught in an endless series of interlocking male arms, in the 'Swing your partner round and round!' manner, from which he remains unable to escape for several minutes. I can just make out his alarmed expression within the sea of madly bobbing heads. I'm not exactly sure what I'm witnessing, but as a form of culturally sanctioned male bonding/creative expression, IT IS FASCINATING.

Fours Hours After
One of the chief instigators of the aforementioned bromance attempts to breakdance and I nearly trip over his efforts at the turtle-style back spin. Perhaps I'll sit this one out.

Five Hours After
Cake. More declarations of love. The happy couple are affectionate and loving and beautiful the whole time. Meanwhile, not a person present has looked at me twice or even attempted to flirt with me. Clearly I am hideous to all of humankind and no one will ever love or marry me. *drinks* I grab a piece of cake and remember that old story that, if you sleep with it under your pillow you will dream of the person you are going to marry.

Five And A Half Hours After
Hit by uncontrollable wave of tiredness. Time to go back to the hotel and try not to be sick on anything expensive.

Five and Three Quarter Hours After
I throw up on my shoes and dress while doubled over in the car park. The Boy Wonder stands 50 metres away, killing himself with laughter.

Five and Seven Eighths Hours After
I shower fully clothed.

6 Hours After
*sleeps*

The Morning After The Wedding
I am woken very, very, very, very early - possibly as early as 10am - by the little cousins, who come galivanting into the room, desperate for me to play with them. 'Jelly, why is your hair all sticky-uppy like that? Hah, Jelly your eyes look all funny and puffy. Uh... Jelly, why is your dress on the floor in the shower?'

And Five Minutes After That
Dad comes running into the room, anxiously reminding me not to sleep through the breakfast buffet. There's a lot of food out there and we need to make the most of it because, in case I have forgotten, this hotel is really fucking expensive.

The Jelly Verdict
It is not hard to make an argument for the irrelevance of marriage these days. Plenty of the happiest couples I know are unmarried, plenty of others might never be allowed by our government to get married, and plenty of married people I know have relationships that are total crap. On the other hand, going to a good wedding is like being in a Broadway show - everyone has cool costumes and a few lines to say, then the band plays, someone sings a song, you swing your partner round and round, the softies in the audience cry.

And as for the wedding cake, who did I dream of? As I packed my bags, copped it from Dad about the snack bar purchases (oops) and we readied ourselves for the long journey home, I found my piece of cake. Half Squashed. Under the bed, with the wrappers from the snack bar. I forgot to put it under my pillow.

Well, fuck. Who believes in those stupid superstitions anyway.
















PS- Hello.

I'll Delete This In A Few Hours

Oh, dear God in heaven. In the words of Jim Carrey (pre-Cable Guy and ensuing downward slide), 'Somebody stop me.' What the hell kind of Friday night did I just endure? Or perhaps, what the hell version of myself did I just inflict on Melbourne? Ladies and gentleman of the jury, I present to you one well-meaning but seriously overtired, overwrought individual who somehow decided the best way to cope with the absurdity that is life, and spend the beginning of a busy weekend, was to get in an utter skinfull, and then talk a remarkable amount of shite to anyone within earshot. I'm no stranger to the boozy evening but the hysterical hyperdrive I was just propelled into was something else. Most of it was fun, but the last two hours were pretty manic. I arrived home*, ears ringing, hands shaking, stomach dancing an Irish jig. I blame stress. Also, too much time without adult company. Children: lovely, but consistently child-like. Hello Grown Ups of Australia. If we spoke last night and I seemed like a fruity oaty bar, I'M REALLY SORRY. It's because the witch put a spell on me, and now Darren will be suspicious until Samantha sorts it out!

I know there's nothing more tedious than someone writing a 'OMFG I AM WAS LIKE, SOOOOO DRUNK!' blog post, so I'll spare you most of the details. But I think it's best summed up by saying that the evening began very respectably with Book Club (Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, thanks for asking, and we totally deconstructed that fucker!) and ended with me holding the toilet in a sweet sweet embrace, and that somewhere in the middle my bestest girlfriends CUT MY WAIST-LENGTH HAIR OFF, leaving me with a cropped bob. And a detachable (set to 'detached' mode) long ponytail which I brandished in the face of nearly every unfortunate soul who came near me all night. It's ok, I asked them to do it. The haircut. I also asked the whisky to be my friend. Was it? Yes, if a 'friend' is someone who kicks you seven times in the brain region and then makes you a ranting ranter girl from Rantsville. We're winning the cricket. Go pineapples! I'm dizzy. Oh, hold me.

The Jelly Verdict
Please can you talk very very very very quietly. Shhh. Shhhhhhhhh.


*Hello, I'm living in a friend's laundry! Yes, wacky tales coming soon.**

**Maybe sometime when study is not.***

***Did you know that peanuts are a key ingredient in dynamite?****

**** NO TALKING WITH VOICES.*****

***** I love you.

It Takes One Solid Weekend Of Training To Get That Badge

I was standing with my friend Curtis on the tram stop near the corner of Collins and Spencer St, engaged in a cheery discussion about the hypocrisy of the Australian government and the inevitable demise of civilisation as we know it. We paused in our upbeat chat long enough to note that we were opposite the new Krispy Kreme donut city shop. The shop looked busy - there was a queue at the counter, despite the fact that it was after 8pm. Both of us agreed that we didnt really 'get' the whole Krispy Kreme phenomenon. Yes, they're tasty, but, you know, they're still only donuts. Why do people go berzerk for them?

Conversation wandered back onto other topics. Suddenly a siren whooped and two police cars came racing down the street towards us, lights flashing, the works. They pulled up outside Krispy Kreme. Curtis and I were like, whoa, maybe a donut fan has gone mental! Riots in the store as punters fight over the single remaining glazed chocolate item! The cops hopped out of the two cars and headed inside. A few minutes later I was like, What happened, are the cops still in there? We checked - and discovered that no, the cops weren't inside now, they seemed to be standing in a little clump around their cars. They certainly didn't look like they were working hard to break up a hostage situation, or even a food fight.

Curtis: Haha, how funny would it be if the cops have actually just turned up to get some donuts?
Me: Yeah, hahah, you know, cops love their donuts, gobble gobble! Like Chief Wiggum!

And it was at this point that a store employee wearing some kind of wacky get-up - possibly a Krispy Kreme sandwich board-type arrangement - scurried out of the store and handed a large cardboard box to the cops.

Curtis: Oh, no way.
Me: They can't possibly be--

The cops rested the box on the hood of one of the cars, opened it and...

Curtis: They are!

Yes, they were. They were eating them. Cops! Eating donuts! On the job! LIKE CHIEF WIGGUM! And they'd driven up with sirens a-blarin' and lights a-flashin', and everything! Curtis and I stood shocked. Complete strangers started to join us.

Businessman: Did those cops just turn up at Krispy Kreme to score donuts--
Us: Yep.
Irish Accent: And now they're all standing around eating them?
Us: Yep.
Businessman: Good God.
Irish Accent: *baffled* You mean... Just -- car -- arrive-- cops-- now -- donut -- eating?
Us: You are correct, sir.

After a bit more head-shaking and muttering from those of us watching along the lines of 'Am I dreaming?' 'I can't believe that just happened' and 'Why don't you go and catch some fucking rapists, you knobs,' the transport arrived and I left, but not before Curtis and I, without a camera or phone to record the incident, resolved I must blog it.

The Jelly Verdict
And so I do, in order that the story not be lost and forgotten forever in the sands of time. The tale must be told. Mine own eyes did not deceive. Your taxes at work. WIGGUM LIVEZ.

Scareapalooza

I have always wanted to celebrate a 'real' Halloween. It's such a cool concept - dress up, revel in the mysterious vibes, frolic around the neighbourhood, receive junk food, consume junk food. Unfortunately, it is not a holiday with an established tradition in Australia.

Despite this, throughout my childhood my friends and I maintained the faith, and did our best to trick-or-treat year after year.

And year after year, the experience was kind of depressing.

Firstly, it was always freezing, and there really isn't as much warmth in a lycra catsuit as you might think. Secondly, thanks to the endless scaremongering regarding razor blades in apples and poisoned lollies (was there any basis at ALL for those urban myths?) combined with the unfortunate spate of high profile child kidnappings that plagued Melbourne during the early 90s, our parents were terribly anxious that trick-or-treating would see us meet a grisly end. So we were only allowed to trick-or-treat at the houses of people we knew, and this, of course, meant forever turning up at the houses of local Lefty academics, artists and social workers who would inevitably react with: "*suspicious look* Isn't this an AMERICAN celebration?" or "Never heard of it. Can you share one Malt-o-Milk between the 6 of you?" or "Chocolate is bad. Here, have some carob!"

It was kind of crushing, especially given that television, books and movies from overseas had given us such high hopes.

I had another crack at trick-or-treating when I was about 13. My girlfriends and I hit up a rich suburb where a much older boy, on whom we all had massive crushes, lived. We found his address in the phone book, disguised ouselves sufficently, worked the rest of his street with some success and eventually rode the sugar high to his front door, where we were nearly savaged by his severely pissed-off dog. Would have served us right if we had been bitten, creepy little band of stalkers that we were. Yikes. The boy looked confused and slightly afraid of us - I can't remember if we got decent lollies from him or not. I do remember that the guy in the preceeding house had shut the door in our faces ("Trick-or--" *SLAM*), and the one in the next house along freaked us out by exclaiming earnestly, "I love the Mexican Day of the Dead! I've got some shrunken heads, do you want to see them?" Again, not exactly what Peanuts, episodes of Roseanne or (in my case) 'Meet Me In St Louis' has led us to expect.

Last year, I was still overseas in October. I was in the States, the UK and Europe for the Halloween lead up, and witnessed the shops busting out their special decorations and the papers featuring spreads on costumes and decorations. Finally, I thought, here was my chance to experience a real Halloween! Yes! Rock! Orright! Except-- not. Sadly, due to a scheduling conflict I spent the night of October 31st sleeping on the floor at England's Stansted Airport, wrapped in some newspaper to keep warm. Memorable - for all the wrong reasons.

The good news is, this weekend I will actually be attending a Halloween party. Belated, yes - but still. Sweet! What to wear? (I've totally planned well in advance, as you can see.) I was thinking about going as Wednesday Addams, but I'm getting my overly long, oboe-playing virgin-esque hair cut before the bash (finally!) and that was half the reason for the choice. My younger brother, the Boy Wonder, is coming too and we had thoughts of a duet. I have a snobbish reluctance to 'hire' a costume. The Fish Family tradition has always been to make one, or adapt an existing outfit. But having failed to get our shit together we might have stoop to the rubes level and sub-contract to a professional. Suggestions are welcomed.

While sourcing ideas I found this site, which (as well as actually good ones) has costume suggestions like:

Ceiling Fan: Write "Go Ceilings!" on the front of your shirt. And don't forget to cheer!
Blinghis Khan: Dress like Genghis Khan (armor, mandarin mustache, etc.), then add "bling," fur trim, etc.
Cardiac Arrest: She dresses up as a big red heart (cut out of cardboard or cloth) and wears handcuffs. He dresses like a cop.
Peace and Quiet: One person dresses like a hippie (jeans, flowered shirt, peace signs, beads, headband, etc.). The other person dresses up like a mime (striped shirt, black pants, suspenders, white facemakeup, etc.). [heh. I quite like that one.]

Also here's some photos of dogs in costumes because I can't help myself when I see them. (Thanks to Snaz for links)














"I could really fucking use some Force rite now kthxbye"

Your further reading for today - Stateside author and blogger Maureen Johson has her own Halloween stalker story - and it's a ripper. Ruth has also blogged some Halloweeny goodness - extra points for the 'Worst Witch' reference. (By the way, if you need to feel inadequate, consider that Ruth has only just turned 21. Freaky genius.)

The Jelly Verdict
I know many people consider Halloween to be just crass US cultural imperialism. I could muster some well-argued rebuttals - for a start, the origins are Irish - but what it really boils down to is this: I simply can't disapprove of a holiday that encourages the wearing of zany costumes in public. I'm sure you'll find some affection for this campy supernatural event in your own heart if you dig deep - it's probably buried under your Christmas spirit or beneath the horseradishy smell left over from Pesach.



Support the underdog. Celebrate Halloween.

Black And White And Dead All Over

The other day I was preparing an activity for the children I am presently working with, an activity that happened to include a focus on African animals. Not content with merely photocopying some lame-oh pictures of mangy lions or giraffes from a book, I decided to trawl photosharing site Flickr for cool shots with which to impress the five and six year olds in my care.

And I found great stuff (although I must say to the non-professional photographers on Flickr who cover their images with spaceballs when they’re not even that good or original - prtentious much?). Amongst the various shots of happy leaping wildebeast and contently snoozing leopards, I happened upon a really fabulous if slightly confronting picture of a zebra carcass. Yes, it sounds disgusting, but I’m a bit creepy and wrong so I thought it was kinda awesome. I decided to print it out, along with all the other photos – NOT because I wanted to use it at school, but because I thought I’d keep it for the hell of it (since, you know, my bedroom isn’t full of enough of this sort of random crap already).

Anyway, cut to the next day. I’m enjoying the immense satisfaction of ker-thunking the staple gun against the wall as I stick all the photos of the animals up. Ker-thunk. Ha. Ker-thunk. Ker-thunk. Suddenly I hear a little voice say with a loud quaver:

'Miss! Oh Miss! Oh no Miss, someone brought a really sad picture into the classroom!'

And I turn in horror to see Davey, the youngest, smallest and cutest kid in the class, standing on the other side of the room, gaping in horror at something he’s holding in his hands. Could it be…? Surely not…?! Where did he get - But I thought I'd left it at home-?! Auuugggh! Time seems to slow as I run towards the anxious Davey, who by now is beginning to wave what he's holding around in the air, meaning that the eyes of 25 tiny innocent beings are about to be confronted





with





this!






Noooooooooooooooooo!

I make a dramatic dive for Davey like I'm Keanu in 'The Matrix', and snatch the photo out of his hands. The children stare at me, stunned. My supervisor plainly doesn’t know whether to laugh or fail me. Davey looks mildly traumatised. ‘Miss Jellyfish?' he asks, 'W-what was that a photo of?’

Um.

‘Yes,’ asks my supervisor with an amused smile, shaking her head at the latest crazy episode in my always-eventful tenure under her instruction, ‘What exactly was that a photo of, Miss Jellyfish?’

Yes, ask the faces of the tiny impressionable beings whose growth and development I am charged with helping to oversee, WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT FREAKY-ASS PHOTO WE JUST HALF-SAW BEING WAVED AROUND?

And I can’t entirely remember what I said, but you’ll all be glad to know that my answer made mention of ‘The Lion King’ and may or may not have actually included the phrase, ‘The Circle of Life’.

The Jelly Verdict
Disney can provide the soundtrack for most of life's difficult moments.

Or perhaps:

All evidence of a zebra death fetish is best kept at home.

All My City Is Belong To Party People

The Sunday edition of local Melbourne paper The Age has always been fairly lightweight. I certainly don't read it in anticipation of a hard-hitting journalistic expose. But I've always enjoyed a leisurely weekend flip through the supplements, especially the arts and entertainment section. So I noticed with interest that this part of the paper has (yet again) been given a new format - it's now called the 'M' magazine. 'M', so the caption tells me proudly, stands for 'More about you!' Cool - More about me! More about my town! More about me and my places and my stuff over a Sunday coffee, how lovely!

And there are so many things to simply adore about the last 2 weeks of 'M' magazine. Like the 'Teens on the Turf' cover story:


which is all about 'why spring racing is the new prom' (was there an old prom? I thought proms were American and we called it 'the school formal' or 'the social' but hey, I only work in schools, what do I know) and featured terrific information about adolescents called 'Kyrsten' and 'Amelia' who go to the horseraces in black strappy diamante heels and pearls and how they, like, looove the races because 'it's all about the excitement of dressing up and getting your hair done. There are aren't that many opportunities to get all glamourous and that's what it's all about'.

Then there's the following week's:

about (OMG, SCOOP) finding designer fashion items in chain stores.

But I think my absolute favorite part, which luckily I managed to find sandwiched in between all the pages of advertising, is this regular column:


You may remember Pete Glutbuster has had words to say about her before. I knew Mik's section would be something special when I saw that the first interview was with a young lady



whose description read:


And I wasn't let down.


Oh, see that? This poppet like, totally has a sense of humour about herself. Let's give her a second chance.


Wow. That answer was brimming with sharp wit and specific detail. Next penetrating question, please, Mik!


NEWS FLASH. Long held rumour confirmed when model-turned-aspiring actress confirms public suspicion that she ACTUALLY ONLY HAS A HALF A BRAIN IN HER HEAD. I knew it! How the hell does she function? Is she allowed to drive? Does she need help using the toilet?


Wonderful. Watch out Cate Blanchett etc. Keep grilling, Mik!


Love. Angel. Music. Baby. Urge. To. Vomit. Rising.

But wait. She said, her passions could 'get her into trouble!' Maybe she's going to make a shocking admission regarding her activities in the toilets at Candy Bar or similar.

And I’m so glad she doesn’t have one of those boring, predictable passions, like most people do, you know? Like creating ground-breaking art or making exciting new music or saving the child soldiers in Uganda or protecting the threatened Indo-Chinese tiger species.


Oh, come here. I'll give you a hug. Just take care that the white hot light of revulsion emanating from my heart doesn’t pierce your smoothly spray-tanned epidermis.

And wait, there's more. Here's last week's offering!


‘Hiyeeeee!’

On your marks, Mik, GO!


Really? Skinny jeans, that's actually what she wears while lying about watching Grey's Anatomy or The Amazing Race? Question Two and she already sounds like an incurable try-hard. (also please note, possible cause number 4 as listed here.)


Great choice of words, Mik. It sounds like a book from the 'Issues' section of the school library, 'My Mummy And Daddy Are Special.' You'll find it in between 'My Sister is Deaf' and 'Zack has asthma'.

Anyway.


Ho, fabulous! StephMc! The soap-turned-pop starlet of 'The Staph Steph Show'! The lass whose struggles with the concept of an album’s 'secret track' were so memorably captured over at Sternzine (if you haven't read that, please do)! The girl who, when asked by a UK fan on this Neighbours video post which charitable causes she was passionate about, could only stammer awkwardly that she was 'an ambassador for McDonalds' (yes, she actually did. It's right near the start, but I highly recommend the whole video for anyone in need of a laugh). The same girl who, when showing the 'Staph Show' cameras around the Neighbours set, helpfully informed her viewing audience, ‘And this is the torunda!’* And she’s her BESTIE! Since Year Seven! Tell us more!


NOTE: to the list of pop songs that may give you goosebumps (Good Vibrations, Thriller, Bohemian Rhapsody, Whiter Shade of Pale etc) please add 'You Should Have Lied' by StephMc. Lyric sample: ' If a tree falls inside of a forest and nobody hears it/It wont affect anybody 'cause no one will miss it.' I don't know about you, by my stomach's tingling. (Or lurching. It can be hard to tell.)

Right Mik, let's wind this up with a few final inquiries.


Ah, but in saying so, she's implying that she might, and that's a new and exciting way to name drop - her 5th so far (I've spared you a few). And I love that clarification- 'He's not just gorgeous - he's quirky.' Deep. But can we fit another name drop in?


YES WE CAN!!


Since I don't know her personally (although obviously having read this I feel very close to her), I'm going to give pastel here the benefit of the doubt and say, maybe this last answer is actually a joke. Am I being too generous? Could she seriously think that a man who looks like he'd enjoy nothing more than an evening of sweaty fumbling with some underage ladies and a video camera is someone worth getting it on with?

Oh Mik, you useless boobhag. Your party people and their inane chatter make me feel ill. And congratulations, 'M' editor Michelle Griffin, you've produced something so vapid that it actually makes reading the paper's other supplement, Sunday Life (which last week featured a half-naked girl on the front to illustrate that it was 'The Health Issue') feel like an intellectual challenge.

The Jelly Verdict
Maybe I'm wrong to complain. What the hell do I know about the throbbing beat of this city and it's partyfolk? I'm a slobby, unstylish musical theatre enthusiast with hair that is presently so unfashionably long that Snaz informed me I look like a virgin oboe player on her way to band camp. And why should I judge those who smugly wear one-offs from Parisian flea markets or S&B skinny jeans when I recently took advantage of the city's prematurely warm weather and walked to my parents house in my pyjamas?

It just shits me, I guess, that after multiple reads of the magazine that's supposedly 'More About Me' I can't find myself, or anything that even slightly relates to my life, inside it anywhere. I hope the rest of Melbourne is as excited as I am about what this weekend's edition may feature.




*Here’s a gloriously bitchy in-joke for ‘Neighbours’ fans (or hataz). In this official ‘Neighbours’ website video, StephMc's co-stars Dan and Caitlin conduct a similar tour of the set to the one Steph gave on her reality series ‘The Steph Show’. When they get to the 'rotunda', Caitlin says with a roll of her eyes, 'And here's the "TORUNDA",' and they both snigger. Oh StephMc, when even Dan ‘The Bulbous-Headed Idol-Singing Virgin' O' Connor is sniggering at you, I'd say your credibility is wearing dangerously thin.

Public Service Announcement

It's been a very busy week here, and because I'm obsessive and pernickety no post I've half-heartedly bashed out has 'made the grade' for teh publishing. Instead, I am here to instruct people MOST FIRMLY that if they're in Melbourne this evening they should be heading to Is Not Magazine's latest event, the Grand Masquerade Fanatsy Ball. (To whoever [whomever? Jesus, when will I learn to write like a grown up, don't answer that etc] used the Phantom of the Opera quote there - *high five* - even if that show does make me want to rip off my toes and use them to block my ears) It's going to be a lovely warm night* and only a total loser would sit at home and watch the Midsomer Murders or something eqully shite, so set the box to record Veronica Mars, grab a mask and get out there for a boogie.

*UPDATE: okay, apparently it's getting colder. I'm not Lavinia Nixon, don't rely on me to understand the every whim of this damn city's weather. Take a fucking jacket and go anyway.