Top Model

I was glancing through the TV listings for the weekend (I'm with my kids, I need television. Color and movement distracts them). The blurb for 'America's Next Top Model' says, in its entirety:

A contortionist teaches the models how to strike extreme poses, which they later use in a circus-themed photo shoot. Back at the house, gossip leaves one girl in tears.

Bingo!

You know I always love it when people stumble upon this blog because of some random search in google. Some of my favorites have been...

- Chunky and muscly
- crisis how to kill the last monster
- my lovely older lady
- very refined place to live
- deborah hutton ruined
- dry cleaner wonthaggi

And of course I get lots of hits when anyone googles 'lawyer by day, bacardi by night', and you'd be amazed at how often people do google that. Or maybe not. I was.

Today, someone found this by googling 'i hate myself mid life crisis'. I wonder if it made it worse?

House of Meetings

I finally got around to reading a couple of the novels that have piled up on my bookshelf. I buy them because I think I'm a reader, but then, in the cold hard light of day I realise that there are many other things I prefer doing with my spare time - piano, sleeping, daydreaming, reading magazines... I like the idea of books, and I really like that feeling of having read something. I love talking about books. This last one particular, it makes me feel cultured and sexy. Which, as many of you know, I'm not.

I read "Salmon farming in the Yemen", which was much lighter than I had expected. And all the better for it. I identified strongly with the emotionally-repressed protagonist (he's like me, but a bit fishy) and I especially loved some of the language that was used to describe the riverbanks in scotland. His wife was hilarious.

Then I waded through "House of Meetings". There are some things I really love about Martin Amis. Give us some examples, I can hear you cry. Ok.. This one from "Night Train", not a great book, but it has this bit about our heroine:

"I was a bad drunk too, the worst, like seven terrible dwarves rolled into one and wedged into a leather jacket and tight black jeans: shouty, rowdy, sloppy, sleazy, nasty, weepy, and horny."

And in "The Information", there's a passage where he talks about domestic servants, maids, who've arrived as though in crates from Vientianne and Bogota, with names like Ming and Atrocia. Atrocia??!!?? I liked it so much I almost persuaded my best friend to name his daughter that.

But the other thing I really remember about The Information was that towards the end I just couldn't care less what happened, I'd lost interest. I didn't care about the characters and the story was... well, I don't know. Have you read The Information? What did happen in the last chapter? I read it, but I couldn't tell. The language is fizzing all over the page, as it does, and it all seems terribly significant but you can't actually figure out what's happening. I still have no idea. And I don't care much.

I got to within about 20 pages of the end of 'House of Meetings' and realised that I'd lost interest. And I'm quite strict when it gets like that. I just put it down.

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...