Music

There was a staggeringly funny article in this morning's SMH (a surprise really), about how you can use teenagers' musical tastes as a useful diagnostic tool for mental illness or various forms of social dysfunction.

Music style......Associated Behavior
---------------------------------------
Pop................Struggle with sexual identity
Jazz...............Misfits, loners
Rap, Metal.......Unprotected sex, drink-driving
French Rap.......Theft, violence and drug abuse

I especially liked the one about pop. Kylie fans?

Then they found someone who disagreed, and said "The key to understanding any teenager is to treat them with respect by listening to what they have to say, rather than typecasting them according to the type of music they listen to". Which is, of course, sensible, but does also rather take the fun out of it. I'm off to listen to some French Rap, really loud.

The A-word

I went down for coffee this morning at my usual place, the nice cafe downstairs in my building. The nice italian girl (who lives on my floor) was making the coffees, as she has been for a year or so. Very good coffee too. As she handed it to me, she said "there you are, Andrew". Andrew? What does she know? Those of you who know me well will remember that the name has a particular resonance for me. And there are, in fact, a number of people in Sydney who knew me as 'Andrew'. But her?

Dinner. Friend.

I was supposed to go visit my friend Ian tonght for a couple of beers and a wide-ranging discussion about everything, but I'm feeling a little under-the-weather and decided to stay home. An early night. I have a sore throat and a mild cold. And am generally a bit miserable.

I decided that what I really needed was a laksa, and as luck would have it there's a very good little malaysian place near me. I went there looking superbly sporty in my tracksuit pants and fleece (not, I hasten to add, a bogan tuxedo, but close).

I went in, they showed me to a table, I sat down and ordered immediately. "A chicken laksa", I said to the waitress. "Anything else..?" she asked, in a way that seemed to me to suggest that I really should be spending more than $10. I'm normally pretty immune to that sort of thing (or maybe I'm just imagining it - you know how over-sensitive I am in restaurants) but I did want something else.

"Belachan kangkong, if you have it".

She looked at me as though I'd suggested she lie down on a linoleum floor naked while I rolled hard-boiled eggs at her. I said it again slowly and tentatively, "Belachan kangkong". She stood there, mystified. I grabbed the menu from her and pointed, by which time the proprieteress had joined us. I jabbed at the menu with my finger "there.. belachan kangkong.." They looked at each other. "Belachan kangkong", they repeated to each other in surprised tones, and it sounded exactly the way I'd said it first.

And before you start, Malay's not tonal. So let's not do that whole blame-the-victim thing.

Anyway. They brought it all out and it was superb. Then, as I was paying the bill I chatted a little with the proprieteress, a middle-aged cheerful chinese woman.

Her: "Did you enjoy your meal?"
Me: "Yes, very much indeed.. just what I needed"
Her: "You are all alone tonight, where's your friend?"

I've been there maybe five times over the last year, and always alone. Which friend? Or was it a metaphysical question?

I hate myself for this (and you will too)

I was at the gym the other morning, and as always at the gym I wasn't looking very fabulous. Scuzzy shorts and tshirt, I'm not really a gym-bunny. I got on one of the elliptical trainer machines and started off. It asks you what sort of program you want, how long for, your age and your weight. I'm used to all that.

On the machine next to me was a young woman in her mid-30s (to me that's young. Maybe not to you. I have a larger range now). I noticed her out of the corner of my eye. Picking up someone at the gym is the last thing on my mind, I wouldn't even know how to start. I'm not there to impress anyone, I strictly mind my own business. But as I was starting up this elliptical trainer, inputting what sort of routine I wanted, how long I wanted it for, I found myself hesitating when it asked me my age. And I did it. I lied to the machine. And as I did it I knew (there was a sinking feeling deep down in my soul) that I was doing it because of her. Aaaargh...

Portland

There's a great little piece in Crikey today, where Guy Rundle's in Portland. He describes a coffee shop:

"...the clientele it does have are standard issue Pac-Northwest, like a meeting of plaintiffs for a class action against a particularly inept tattooist.."

You can guess, of course, that I love this.

Tuxedo

There was a piece in one of the weekend papers about a shooting in Melbourne one Monday morning, and they described the gunman's attire as being a nice new adidas tracksuit, the one with the stripe on the top and the three stripes on the pants. Or, as the journalist described memorably described it, a "bogan tuxedo".

As luck would have it, I was at Luna Park yesterday (in Melbourne) and as I was lining up to get a coffee, the guy in line in front of me was wearing the exact outfit! I surreptitiously took a photo.

He also had a soul patch!

Kiwi

I heard a New Zealander, a colleague, use the words "less pessimistic" today. I couldn't even begin to write it down the way he said it; you can imagine it for yourselves.