Saturday, August 13, 2011
Dandelion won't tell no lies
Did a five-minute lesson today atrociously. My nervousness manifested itself in an inability to explain what course I was teaching. Ghastly. I was commended for looking professorial so there's that. My fun-loving lunch appointment had to cancel so I thought I'd try Burrito Fiesta and order the pork burrito that I remember Rachel Baby raving about a long time ago because I am looking rather emaciated: the combination of teaching and bicycling these hills is ridiculously slimming. I don't feel like The Pianist, but I kind of look like him and my jeans are falling off and there's not a belt anywhere to hold it together. Anyhow, Burrito Fiesta was everything I hoped it would be and more. I washed down the marinated deliciousness with a strawberry soda. Then I went to Bookman's and since I am only mostly buying vinyl these days I camped out in the record section. Ran into Reymont, who's doing his thang at Mia's tonight. That should be a hoot. I think I'll put a little hep in the hip section (my hip sections). I got some fazed cookie Stonesy because Dandelion won't tell no lies, as Belster is ever so eager to remind me. Otherwise it's 3.54pm and I'm wondering when I am allowed my first G&T. God? I really want one so bad.
The only other thing I feel like sharing is a photo of a new pair of shoes and the fact I liked Dave Graney's memoir a lot. His rhapsodic thoughts and feelings on junk shop denim and leather were not the only thing I admired, though these were fetishes I happened to note in the margin with an eyebrow-raising frequency. I also appreciated his DIY dry clean/steam suggestion that I am certain to implement in the event that I score some of that long-wearing fabric. It's all beautiful bullshit. 2001 Australian Nights, that is. Dave's thinking and prose stands apart in ways the great European thinkers do. He doesn't belong to Australia because his vision and experience is uncommon and it's refreshingly apparent in the text. Robert Hughes in his memoir (that I picked up after Dave's) and elsewhere slams Australia (he's been very vocal about needing to live overseas) but his writing does nothing to dispel the fact that Australia owns him and his childhood depiction could be countless other well-to-do chaps teased for sounding too British. Similarly the US owns me, but best believe my memoir will be all about Australia. In fairness to Hughes, I put the book down when the author was 12. I guess I wish he had bypassed all that boring pre-pube bilge and went straight to Julian Schnabel's classic leather daddy takedown that Jesse shepherd is so tickled by!