Last night should have been excellent. I went to the cinema and saw "The Stroll" which was delightfully quirky, populated by excellently drawn characters, and set in St. Petersburg to boot. On the way from the station to the cinema, a besuited Important Person asked me if I was going to vote for him in the next election, which was interesting, because in my ragged trenchcoat, oversized Iron Maiden t-shirt, PVC miniskirt, stripey tights and uberboots, I couldn't have looked more like someone who either wouldn't vote at all, or would vote for a radical candidate. And it's always useful to know that you can pass for Australian. Then, on the way back, some girls complimented me on my boots.
After that, I went to a gig. The bands (Dreadnaught, Tailbone, Creech (band of the random bloke from last weekend) and Block) were a bit tamer than is my usual preference, but totally mint all the same, and well worth the $8 entrance fee. A cheap and amazingly well-fitting Creech t-shirt was purchased. Hurrah! A band who actually believes in providing sizes between "skintight" and "small if you're an elephant". And, thanks to the mystical powers of alcomahol, many random people were met, including two girls who seemingly decided I was their new best friend.
Sadly, the mystical powers of alcomahol also turned into an angstful f00l. I'm over the angst now, and have developed strategies to limit any f00lfacedness that might afflict me in the future, but I think this calls for an end to my fledgeling career as a hardened drinker. I don't plan to stop totally, but I need to go with the vibes, maaaan, and sober up if it gets too heavy. Yeah.
Sunday 22 August 2004
Last night, I went on the Melbourne ghost tour. It was ok, but it dragged on a bit - the tour guide said it wasn't usually so slow - and it was neither as funny, macabre and frightening as the one I went on in Edinburgh, although that wasn't the fault of the tour itself, but only to be expected as Edinburgh's vastly superior age rather gives it an edge all three respects. We went to a haunted carpark, where lots of people on these tours have seen stuff, but the only fright came was when someone accidentally stood in a huge unseen puddle (and it wasn't even ectoplasm).
Afterwards, I went to the metal and goth nights. The metal night was pretty good, though I didn't feel like drinking much and consequently didn't; by the time I got to the goth night, I was tired and snoozed a lot and caught the first train home. Three odd things:
1. The first person I ever met at the metal night has now broken HIS foot!
2. There was a bad case of Overly Informative Dressing (tm): a bloke kept lifting up his shirt rhythmically, seemingly as a dance move, and he was wearing his jeans so low that the entirety of his underwear was on display. I've been to enough hardcore gigs to be entirely au fait with seven inches of boxers, but these were briefs. Oddly, Sarah writes that The Wendyhouse was infected by a similar problem.
3. My hacked-up Motorhead shirt did very well for itself. I'm very fond of it, but I can't remember it ever drawing any comment before, but both an ubermetal bloke AND an uberpunk bloke went over the top with compliments on it.
