Nick Cave would have been more assertive (Jennifer)

Since exams finished, I have had a glorious month sans uni in which to ponder some of life’s great questions, like who would win Australia’s Next Top Model, whether Metric’s new album Fantasies is better than their last*, and if I’d miss something crucial should I choose to skip chapter eleven of Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Grey.  

(Seriously, excellent book until said instalment, i.e. a gajillion pages of Wilde showcasing his own knowledge of precious stones and ancient Greek mythology.  I was like, okay, I get it, Dorian’s a hedonist who engages in wilful tapestry-flinging, he loves decadence and has a weird passion for embroidery, obviously never knew the strain of a GFC, move on.  Thankfully, we were back to murder and crack dens in the following chapter.) 

 

Hiatus highlights:

i.                 Going north to get warm.  I like Melbourne, and I like winter, but for a while there things were getting a bit too Fargo.  At which point I promptly left for sunnier climes, and thrust my white body on the sand.  Victory! 

ii.                Kickin’ it old school at Manchester Lane.  Champagne + Oliver Clark and the Miles High Jazz Orchestra = a good old-fashioned romp.  We danced and danced.  Incidentally, saw Lawrence Leung there.  Briefly fell in love with his facial hair and jazz hands.  Coolest cat in town. 

iii.              Hibernation.  Endless pots of tea and toast, socks, and The First Tuesday Book Club.  Oh baby.  How will I ever go back to uni?

 

 

Hiatus lowlights:

i.                 Having to pay car insurance and registration.  Also known as pecuniary rape.  Thank you, AAMI, for allowing six-monthly instalments to be paid.  This allowed me to put $6 of petrol in the tank so that I could get to the post office to pay the bill.  Amen. 

ii.                Michael Jackson’s funeral.  Um, enough.  Just because he wrote Thriller, doesn’t mean he didn’t touch children.  Has paedophilia become the new Eva Cassidy?  I mean, Christ, let’s canonise Gary Glitter when he kicks the bucket, too. 

iii.              Anti-climaxes.  So Scarlett and I got a gig at a local pub.  High fived.  Practiced.  Organised a set (which included an acoustic cover of Interpol’s Slow Hands – oh, the innovation!).  Turned up.  Bar staff were like, what’s up.  We were like, yo, we have gig.  They were like, dude, go for it.  Informed us that the tosser overseeing gigs was ‘in a bad mood’ and refused to leave his office.  I’m actually not kidding.  We set up, played our set to an assortment of bemused friends and patrons (including an intellectually disabled woman who shouted ‘Happy birthday!’ at us throughout the first few songs.  I swear this is true).  And NEITHER OF US IS ASSERTIVE ENOUGH TO ASK FOR OUR MONEY so at the end of our hour slot, we packed up our gear and left unpaid.  Nick Cave would have been more assertive. 

 

So now second semester is upon us, and I am one eighth of the way through my degree.  Comfortably settled in the pigpen of university life, but with plenty of time left to move to Fitzroy and live out Monkey Grip or whatever.  I’ve bought my new books; was disheartened by sheer mass of Globalisation notes.  I’ve gone round two with the stupid timetabling system.  (Alloc8 is smart, but I had vodka on my side.)  Bring it on, bitch. 

 

 

* Jury’s out.  For the past month Emily Haines and her merry band of Ontario’ites have accompanied me in the car, before my exams, on the plane—we’ve even been jogging together.  Live it Out was bombastic, Fantasies is Haines on happy gas.  Is one better than the other?  Is George Negus better than Andrew Denton?  I just don’t know.