A black cat crossed my path Friday night. Not that I’m superstitious, but I do wonder sometimes. Saw some good bands, none of whom could hear themselves too well and since Flywheel were the quietest they sounded the best. Spontaneous slumber party took place afterwards, vaguely recall belting out Madonna’s Cherish, among other less memorable selections.
I woke up shattered, but glad to be in North Fitzroy. De Campee thought I had wetted myself, but I hadn't, what a greeting! Huevos at Julio’s with a Cambodia-bound Carla.
Biked into town, arduously, settled in at The Regent (classically handsome), saw a Finnish film that licked.
After the flick, bought some beer in Chinatown, teenage clerk with the disconcerting hands of an old woman (not that an old woman’s hands are disconcerting but they are if a teenager is attached to them). She gave me 60 dollars change for a fifty, a moral quandary ensued. Took it and bought De Campo dumplings with it.
Later that night I forgot to wipe oven cleaner off the roof and ruined the roast. Leaned against kitchen bench and pondered the point of it all. Nibbled on a bit of skin before I tossed it in the bin, keen to savour some flavour and immediately got a stomach ache afterwards. Convalesced on our new couch. Fell asleep watching bad movies. Had a dream I came into the possession of unpublished works by Henry Miller. ‘Gentle turtle cavern’ being the only phrase I can repeat here.
Saw the Hunter S Thompson doco last night. Excellent production with a picaresque gallery of riffraff, from the important (William Buckley, Nick Tosches, Bill Murray) to the self-important (Benicio Del Toro, John Cusack, Sean Penn) to the dear (Johnny Depp, Ralph Steadman).