Teretz Syndrome

Sunday, April 13, 2003. 8:34PM

I'm sure that if you're anything like a regular visitor to this site, you're well aware that we've been down for a week or so. I'm sorry. As I said on the old front page, my server went bankrupt, and the guy who's bandwidth we were mooching packed it in, so, to cut a long story short, we're back on a free server. I guess it's not so bad. There are however, no forums, and I don't like feeling affiliated with anything quite so suspect as web1000 (their choices for site audience are "adult with nudity", "homosexual adult with nudity", and "adult without nudity" - to avoid ads, we're officially a porn site), so as soon as I can scrape some funds together we'll move to somewhere paid, and I'll turn the site into a Quentin Tarantino fan page called Teriyaki Donut (a gold star to anyone who can name that reference).

I can't say I remember the last few weeks well enough to give you any sort of a decent log. It's been largely an assignment time - I've had some kind of assessment in every subject, building, as they do, before the Easter break (I don't really mind, however, as it's far superior to having to work during Easter). I remember watching a lot of war films (well, Apocalypse Now Redux and Full Metal Jacket, but I did watch them both a few times). I've been playing the infernal SimCity 4 a bit also. I'm on my last city, I think. I'm only a few structures short of all the bonuses, and I've finally made public transport work. All I have to do now is coax a resort hotel out of it and somehow cause my nuclear plant to melt down, and I think I will have seen it all. My computer, even in it's quite new pro-ness can't really handle the big cities without a better video card, and now I've had the good graphics, I know I can't go back. For shame.

What, you didn't find that last paragraph entertaining? Well, let's see if we can't fit some more racism into this next one.

Actually, we can't. I haven't seen a black man in so long. Why are there so few black men in my life?

Six months or so ago a pipe leaked in my wall, and saturated the plaster all behind by cupboard, peeling of all the paint and causing general disarray. When they discovered it, they fixed the pipe and waited a long time for it to dry out, climaxing around last week, when they repainted the wall. Consequently, I was removed from my room for a few days. Not so big a deal. I slept in here. However, I did take the opportunity to shift my furniture around in a few small ways. I moved my map from above my bed to the opposite wall (a shift made possible by the 90° rotation of my book shelves), leaving the main wall in the room free for my shrine to Quentin Tarantino. I've put my Reservoir Dogs poster above my bed, and blue tack purchase pending (unbeknown to me, my sister abandoned the last of out family blue tack in China), I will put Pulp Fiction in the middle and my newly purchased Jackie Brown (god damn posters are expensive! $45 for a bit of glossy paper!) on the end. When Kill Bill comes out, I will move every thing a bit closer and chuck it on the end. I actually had a conversation about movies with the clerk at the poster store. He seemed like a total dude.

The other week, after a small amount of wheeling and dealing, it came to pass that me and a seventeen year old femme were looking forward to a night of drinking, followed by some Rocky Horror Picture show. We were sitting on the steps of Flinders Street station when who should show up but some friends of mine who I haven't seen in a good long time. I don't really name names these days, but I'm about to abuse someone who I know is a regular player, so I guess some name naming is in order. Mark. Mark has obviously been out with two other old friends of mine (well, one old friend and her considerably older boyfriend who I have met numerous times, but whose name constantly eludes me, and the only thing I know about him is he likes Daddy Cool), and they're all just going to Flinders Street to head home (it's getting on 9:30). He talks to me a few moments, and asks if he might attach himself to us as he too is intending to go to Rocky later in the evening (Mark, this is your first mistake. Although you are my friend, and I do not object to your company, whenever I am alone with a femme (regardless of age) and you turn up, you may make brief conversation, and then, unless specifically invited, make swift exit - this applies to all of you future transgressors as well). Anyway, we go off drinking. I buy a small round, she buys a largish round, we see a bunch of my sister's friends, and we head off to Rocky. Here, we are confronted by some more old friends, I buy tickets, and we head on in. Before the show has actually started, Mark makes a phone call, then announces that he is pissing off. I've just paid for his God damn ticket (now Mark, you better be paying me some money, because not only am I angry that I have been deprived of money for no just cause - this normally wouldn't bother me so much, I'm reasonably laid back as far as money is concerned - however, my anger is redoubled because you, my associate, has deprived a poor young femme in my care of her precious capital, without any prior knowledge of said young femme, or any likelihood of a future meeting. Effectively, you've ripped off money I was responsible for - you've stolen my money, and I expect swift and full recompenses).

Sorry about that everyone. Sorry Mark, too, but you had still better SMS me as soon as you read this with the news that you're driving to my house right now with $13.35 ($9 + $6 + $3.33 - $5) in cheque or unmarked bills. Don't think I'm joking. You said once that when you read this you hear my voice, well, imagine my angry voice.

Ah... yes... Rocky. Quite frightening, as always, but fun nonetheless. I am amazed and disturbed that one of my friends, who I don't consider a particularly handsome man, can, with the aid of a leotard a fluffy tail transform him self into a woman who puts most other women to shame with her well rounded curves. Got damn rice all through my clothes. Walked young femme home in the freezing fucking cold (not an overly long distance), and got about half way further to my house (quite a long distance - but walkable) before saying "fuck this for a game of soldiers" and hailing a chariot of the night (no, not a hearse, a taxi. It was one of those large taxis, however, and may well have held a coffin).

Some time before all this I finished the second draft of my epitaph, Forty Eight Frames Per Second, the only feature film script I've ever had the tenacity to complete to it's full feature length - twice. I bound it at uni, and confused by the complexity of the binding machine, I had to seek help from one of my peers. He was suitably impressed by the fact that I'd written a feature film, and I was suitably embarrassed by this blatant public exhibition of my abnormality. It's funny what seems perfectly normal among ones friends (although I can't actually think of one of my friends who's ever written a hundred page document for pleasure) seems so strange among ones peers. Still, I'm quite proud that everyone seems to think they can't, and yet I can. I think maybe I'll write an existentialist novel, become Australia's youngest best selling adult author, go on Rove [live] and punch Rove McManus in the face. That'll earn me a place in television history (and possibly a law suit).

Yesterday I e-mailed an e-mail address that is mentioned in a book I am reading (The Corrections, by Jonathan Franzen) with the text "Is that you Jonathan Franzen? Is this me?" (I understand this is really very funny if you get it, which I don't), but alas, it was returned marked "server not found". If that's not the start of an existentialist novel, I don't know what is.

Happy birthday Will.

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