Journalists should spend more time clubbing
Forget journalism school. Wannabe-journalists should go clubbing. If it’s not your scene, just take disco drugs - you’ll soon get comfortable and it’ll probably help.
I’ve spent the last two days calling brothels and trying to find student prostitutes (that is, prostitutes who are students, as opposed to people learning how to be prostitutes). It ruined my snowboarding weekend.
I shelled out 600-odd dollars for a trip to the snow and all I could think about as I slid arse-first down the mountain was: ‘Who do I know who’s a prostitute…or who uses prostitutes? Who, who, who?’ And when that question yielded no anwers: ‘Why don’t I know any hookers? I should know more hookers! What do I do with my life, anyway? I should get out more and start meeting hookers…!’
In the end I called my friend Sue. Sue goes out clubbing. A lot. This means she has a phone full of numbers of people she has only met once. Most of the time she doesn’t even know why or how these numbers came to be in her possession. Contact names such as ’Adam Arq Shirt’ or ‘Brock Candy Hot’ fail to trigger any memories. But on some occasions, her fleeting euphoric encounters leave a useful footprint and her contact list becomes a journalist’s goldmine.
‘Hookers?’ She thinks for a second. ’…yeah, actually I could call this guy Mark. I met him at Stonewall, he was really friendly…Or you know, if I was still on good terms with Bambi, I could have called her…we met at Globe, she works in the Cross…oh wait! I can call her! She doesn’t know I know she f*cked Paul just after we broke up! Yeah, sure, I’ll give her a call too and call you back…’
The thing is, Sue doesn’t just know hookers or drug dealers. I could have been after taxi drivers, plumbers, lawyers, doctors, cosmetic surgeons, snake breeders - Sue would know one, or at the very least, she would have known who to call to find one.
‘It’s not what you know, it’s who you know’ - lecturers say it all the time, but they don’t actually teach it. From now on, no more writing blog posts and stories at night. I’m going clubbing. Every weekend.
Words I Think I Know the Meaning of But it Turns Out I Don't
I like to tell myself that I’m a journalist, maybe even amateur writer. I might even tell other people this sometimes. So words are supposed to be my craft.
I use these words in conversation, sometimes quite often, but it turns out that I don’t actually know what they mean. My theory is that making a list of these words will 1. help me learn the real meanings of words, and 2. serve as a sobering reminder that things I like to tell myself do not always have a basis in material reality.
(Actual dictionary meanings are sourced from one of my favourite websites, Dictionary.com)
travesty
What I thought it meant: an injustice so extreme or outrageous it reaches tragic proportions e.g. the Stolen Generations were a travesty.
What it actually means:
1. a literary or artistic burlesque of a serious work or subject, characterized by grotesque or ludicrous incongruity of style, treatment, or subject matter.
2. a literary or artistic composition so inferior in quality as to be merely a grotesque imitation of its model.
3. any grotesque or debased likeness or imitation: a travesty of justice.
How to Score in a Meat Market
KB International in Surry Hills gives away gigantic meat trays as raffle prizes. We won one last Friday night. It caused men to behave strangely towards us.
At the end of the night, my girlfriend and I find ourselves trotting along Foveaux St to a soundtrack of admiring male commentary, but not the usual, inane, ball-scratching, unintelligible, cat-calling and wolf-whistling. It was polite, even respectful. ‘Wow, nice meat!’, ‘Your meat looks great!’, ‘That’s some beautiful meat you’ve got there, ladies…’ Had we ever received so much male attention? Had that attention ever been so inoffensive?
It gets better.
Dave, my friend’s boyfriend, met us at the train station. All three of us heard the whistle blow and a recorded voice announce the imminent departure of our train. Dave, who generally only ever thinks about himself, grabbed the meat tray from me and bolted up the platform stairs. ‘Hey!’ we shouted, giving chase, ‘that’s our meat!’
The next few scenes unfold in slow motion:
A man turns as Dave runs past with The Meat. He hears us shouting. He looks back. He recognises The Meat as ours. ‘Hey…!’ he says, ‘That’s that girl’s meat…!’
His words are like a cry in the jungle. A second man turns: ‘OI! YOU! That’s their meat!’
One by one, all the men within earshot turn to answer the call. A heavyset man wearing a beanie and at least five gold chains is standing at the top of the stairs. He turns just as Dave sails past him with The Meat.He doesn’t even blink. We see his huge bulk swing back towards Dave. Two massive hands grabs both ends of Dave’s scarf.
He coat-hangers Dave. Dave’s feet are running but his body is going nowhere. His ass hits the concrete and The Meat is launched into the air.
Chain Man leaps forward. He stretches out his thick arms…and The Meat lands delicately in his monstrously large grasp.
The whole platform (by ‘whole platform’ I probably actually mean four or five people) erupts into wild applause. There’s cheering, whistling and fists punching the air.
Even Dave is clapping.
Sometimes you’ve just gotta get the hell out
even if (or especially if) you don’t know where you’re going.
Your Local Pub May One Day Save You From A Psycho Closet Lesbian
I have two new flatmates. I think one of them might be a closet lesbian who is secretly in love with her ‘best friend’, the other new flatmate.
To cut two long stories short, I’ve been home alone on a Saturday night twice now when Psycho Closet Lesbian has come home in the middle of the night, holed herself up in her room and started wailing hysterically. Hysterically. The second time this happened, she was swearing at the top of her lungs as well, screaming into her pillow: ‘SHIIIIIIIIT!!! FUUUUUUUUCK!!!! STUPID BIIIIITCH!!!’ Odd.
Perhaps even more bizarre is that she actually tried to pretend like she wasn’t there when I tried to talk to her. I’m like, ‘Uh…hello?’ Silence. ‘Um…are you ok?’ Silence. ‘Come on, I know you’re in there. I just want to know if you’re okay…’ I get nothing. No response. What a freak.
The second time it happens, I break down her door. I thought someone might have been forcing her to have bizarre animalistic sex. (Okay, I may or may not have just smoked a massive spliff just minutes prior, but I am certain you would have thought the same had you heard the noises emanating from that room.) But when I explode through her door – eyes bloodshot with the effort of fighting a thick sense of lethargy – it’s just her, alone and half naked, sniffling into her pillow. No ducks, no sheep…no sick, twisted sex partner.
Incomprehension gives way to Panic and Panic gives way to Terror. Terror kicks Lethargy’s ass and I am outta there, pulling on shoes and tearing through the front garden to somewhere, anywhere that’s not there.
Re-assessing my local: The Oaks on Military Rd gets serious points for providing a refuge at one o’clock on the morning. The staff also get points for not questioning my outfit (pyjamas and knee high FMBs - the only shoes I could find at the time, it would seem). And for letting me sit there without a drink until my friends arrived. Still, I can’t believe this place has the gall to charge you $30 to cook your own steak. Outrageous.
