I was watching music videos on Juice and happened to see a girl, who used to work on the reception desk at my old job, in a music video writhing about in a faux-lesbionic manner in the back of a limo while some boring rappers try to be bad-asses.
Wow, I kind of know a real booty girl!
One of the signs of getting older, or perhaps rather maturing is when you call noise control on some rowdy neighbours.
Having attended more than a few parties where noise control was called, including the spectacular Metalfest ’94, where my friend’s sister got a whole bunch of metal bands playing on the deck at the back of her parents’ quiet suburban home, I know how much it sucks and I’ll happily tolerate hearing other people’s stereos. But I have limits.
The first and only time I called noise control was at the tender age of 22. I was living next door to a student village. There were supposedly strict rules for the residents about noise, and indeed there was never usually much noise coming from there. But then one night, I think near the end of a semester, someone was played their stereo really loudly. A massive party was in action. This German guy who lived in my building got out onto his balcony and started yelling at the students, who laughed at him and called him a Nazi. I was caught in the middle of this cul-de-sac melee and I didn’t like it. I picked up the phone and called noise control. Others had also complained and soon enough events at the student village simmered down.
Tonight I did the lite version of calling noise control – I banged on the wall.
My neighbours on one side are this cool married couple. They’re really nice people and possibly the best neighbours I’ve ever had. But tonight something mental was going on. Madonna’s “Immaculate Collection” was being played at a reasonable volume. Yeah, it was loud enough for me to be able to figure out what the music was (and to wonder if perhaps they were going to listen to “Like A Virgin” and recreate the Madonna/Britney/Christina lesbo pash moment from the MTV awards, OMG, how cool was that?), but not loud enough to be at all annoying.
Then it got annoying. Someone was playing with the volume control. Making things go really loud, then really soft, like they were just sitting there twisting it back and forth. Then it just got really loud.
Sometimes cars with loud stereos stop in traffic outside my house and it makes my windows rattle. This was worse than that. Everything in my lounge was rattling to the bass of “Holiday”. It was really, really horrible. Then the volume went down. Then it went right back up. I was getting really pissed off. After it went down again I got up, walked over to their side of the room and banged on the wall. I heard the stereo get turned right down.
Ha, that’ll learn them kids.
I met up for coffee today with a few MCC people. It’s actually really cool how we can all sit around and talk about all the cool stuff we’re doing. The bling isn’t rolling in yet, but it will be eventually.
Meeting up with people for coffee during a weekday seems so cool. I’m not sure why. I should do it more often.
At the table next to us were a couple of mothers with small children. The mothers had coffees, the kids had fluffies. Ah, the fluffy. A small espresso cup filled with milk foam, sprinkled with chocolate powder and possibly a marshmallow, or if you’re really lucky a mini chocolate-marshallow treat. Some cafes charge about 50 cents or a dollar for a fluffy, but others let kids have them free.
I guess the theory behind the fluffy is that a) it’s something for the kids so they can be just like the grown-ups. While a cappuccino would cause a typical three year old to turn into Satan, a little cup of milk fluff would be harmless. Unless they were lactose intolerant. And then b) it familiarises the kids with cafe life, readying them for a life of latte addiction. The younger they start, they more they spend.
But when I think back to all the kids in cafes I’ve seen, I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen a child enjoying a fluffy. The average kid will eat the marshmallow and then go and play in the sandpit or throw things at the cafe’s cat. Why could this be? Oh, maybe it’s because a small coffee cup filled with milk foam is really boring and that no one – adult or child – would willingly eat one.
No, that can’t be right. Fluffies are fun!!!
See, I really was in Paris:
That’s at the top of the Arc de Triomphe overlooking the city. In the background you can see the – oh, you know what that thing in the background is.
I recently scanned a photo of myself from about six years ago. I was 22 and was dressed up in my finest goth wear. It’s important to note that I was never a goth, but was going to a goth ball so I didn’t want to just show up wearing some black jeans and eyeliner and be like “Hey! I’m a goth!”.
I went all out to do the goth thing and even bought some really cool make-up from Shiseido to get the pale face thing happening well. But I didn’t end up making it to the goth ball. The people who had the tickets never showed up. I had a shitty evening with a friend who was rapidly overstaying his welcome.
But the day before the ball, when I was practising my make-up, I took the photo that shows me in all my gothness. So with sexygothchick.jpg on my computer, I decided to do something truly diabolical with it. Yes, I put it on Hot Or Not.
I realised that for maximum impact I would have to create a persona to go along with it. I decided that Hot Or Not Goth Robyn would be a 22 year old goth chick. No wait – a bisexual goth chick. Yes, and her keywords would included poetry, pain and Jack Osbourne.
So I uploaded the picture and created the account. I keep getting bisexual goth chicks clicking on the button that says they want to meet me. My average rating is about five out of 10, which is nice. And a few people have even rated me a 10.
Damn, if only I really were a 22-year-old hot goth chick.
