and so it always happens this time of year that I get a bee in my bonnet about how I want to feel about New Years. Either it's carefully cultivated indifference ("oh, I dunno. Whatever, no big deal"), or a desperate need for the big-kiss-at-the-end-of-the-countdown cheese, as seen in romantic comedies. This year I'm getting a feeling for the latter plus a new desire to just... well.. sort of get shitfaced in some way or other. And nurture a hangover maybe.
Whenever I express this desire to others, this is how the conversation goes:
them: why on earth would you want to do that?
me: because I've never had a hangover before, and I thought this was a good occasion to do it.
t: well you've never jumped off the Harbour Bridge before either.
m: yes, but that's terminal. People have hangovers all the time and I want to know what that's
like. Also, I've never been vomity drunk before.
t: why the fuck would you want to feel like that?
m: because people are always going on about how wasted they were/are and I just want to know what they're talking about. It's like a need for empathy.
t: you don't need any empathy! It's a horrible feeling!
m: well you do it all the time.
t: yes, but it's awful.
m: so why do you do it?
t: I don't do it to get a hangover or vomit!
m: yes but you still drink with the knowledge that you'll probably get a hangover and possibly get drunk. If it's so awful why don't you just not drink?
t: shut up, dick!
OK, so they don't end it like that. But I had to end the script somewhere.
What irritates me is the patronising "oh, I've been there, and you don't want to do that, little one" tone that seems to permeate this conversation. Drinking and getting shitfaced is, from what I've seen, a large part of this culture, and what confounds me is the cultivation of the idea of "accidental" shitfacery, when, quite clearly, in this town at least, the act of drinking is a deliberate stepping stone to shitfacery. So it's OK for the drinker to decide to get shit-faced while drinking, under the pretence of "accidental shitfacery", but not OK for me to decide to get shitfaced to see what a hangover is like?
Maybe the hangover curiosity stems from the one (and last, he vows) time that Stephen got shitfaced - on the night before the day before our wedding. I'd had a rather pleasant hen's night bowling while he played poker and drank Soju in the wedding marquee until he fell off his chair multiple times and vomited in the garden. The next morning, when we were due to complete a not entirely small amount of gardening to get the grounds ready for everything, his brother answered the phone blearily and told me that Stephen wasn't going to make it to the phone. My dependable, always there Stephen, not coming to phone when there was a heap of sweaty labour to be done? I had never experienced a hangover so first hand before. By afternoon, I still hadn't seen my groom-to-be and I was miserable. I remember sitting in the grass with a trowel in one hand and 20 little pots of pink flowers to be planted on the ground next to me, and crying. All because of Stephen's Hangover.
Later, when I asked why he couldn't physically have dragged himself out of bed and helped me, he told me that having a hangover felt like death. I don't know how that feels and I guess ever since then I've wanted some kind of empathy. I could have just gotten shitfaced a few days after when the wedding madness was over, but it would have seemed... unpoetic. I could have got shitfaced last New Years, but... to be honest, I can't actually remember what I did last New Years, which is just my point. I want to remember my New Years. And ironically, forgetting it in a drunken stupor would actually be more memorable than what I did last year. Which isn't to say that last New Year's was crap, I'm sure it was pleasant, but it was so pleasant that I forgot it. Maybe a bit of debauchery this year will mark the occasion in a more appropriate fashion.
We'll see.
(and it's not lost on me that I'm extremely privileged this is my only New Year concern)
breakfast:
rice and left over scallops, finished with a plate of cherries. I am so lucky to live here.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Thursday, December 06, 2007
moving on...
nothing really to say really. Not sure why I had the urge to blog, but then I managed to get onto one of the hostel's two 'free' internet stations, and felt I needed to use the time well. This travel head space is taking a little while to get used to.. having internet and hearing news from home (just got the news our cat is getting a little stressed in the new cattery :( ) makes the transition better in some ways, but not so good in others because the tethers to home are still there, and in some ways it's better not to be missing and worrying about the things back home...
Things done in BA:
Tango show
La Boca (it's a tourist trap!)
Puerto Madro
Ummm.... lolly and iceblock stores, which are everywhere! On every block! My dentist is going to kill me...
Onward to Cordoba tonight on an 11 hour bus ride, but apaprently, it's like business class on a plane with very reclinable seats and fold down TV screens... sweeeeet
breakfast:
nothing yet, but about to have toast with jam and butter. Stephen says it reminds him of home...
Things done in BA:
Tango show
La Boca (it's a tourist trap!)
Puerto Madro
Ummm.... lolly and iceblock stores, which are everywhere! On every block! My dentist is going to kill me...
Onward to Cordoba tonight on an 11 hour bus ride, but apaprently, it's like business class on a plane with very reclinable seats and fold down TV screens... sweeeeet
breakfast:
nothing yet, but about to have toast with jam and butter. Stephen says it reminds him of home...
Monday, December 03, 2007
free internet at the hostel = no
the reality of our addiction to the internet is apparent when we get grumpy and start sniping at each other, just because it´s been too long between hits. The hostel boasted ´free internet´, which actually meant 2 internet stations, one of which was bung (and the other of which is also occasionally bung) which means that there´s always a young and bouncy backpacker sitting there.
Since when did I get so old that young and bouncy backpackers irritate me just by their enthusiasm for beer and extreme sport? Maybe it´s their hair fudge and cut off tees that just rub me up the wrong way. Grump grump.
Anyway, it´s nice to get our hit here in an extremely cheap internet cafe... noone speaks english, but it´s cool, they seem friendly enough. Swelteringly hot outside, but looking forward to the antique market today - Stephen is off with Jason to the Science Museum (ha ha nerds!).
Have visited:
The Evita Museum
Evita´s tomb in the Recoleta Cemetery
The huuuge Recoleta market
The Obelisco
The city cathedral
Market shopping really is done best by oneself. Signing off!
Breakfast:
cornflakes. Provided free by the hostel ( the bakery around the corner was closed but if it had been open I would have got a sweet croissant)
Since when did I get so old that young and bouncy backpackers irritate me just by their enthusiasm for beer and extreme sport? Maybe it´s their hair fudge and cut off tees that just rub me up the wrong way. Grump grump.
Anyway, it´s nice to get our hit here in an extremely cheap internet cafe... noone speaks english, but it´s cool, they seem friendly enough. Swelteringly hot outside, but looking forward to the antique market today - Stephen is off with Jason to the Science Museum (ha ha nerds!).
Have visited:
The Evita Museum
Evita´s tomb in the Recoleta Cemetery
The huuuge Recoleta market
The Obelisco
The city cathedral
Market shopping really is done best by oneself. Signing off!
Breakfast:
cornflakes. Provided free by the hostel ( the bakery around the corner was closed but if it had been open I would have got a sweet croissant)
Friday, November 30, 2007
awake in argentina - day one
I thought about writing this down old school styles in a journal, but with the computers at this Buenos Aires San Telmo hostel (Tango City Hostel!!! Party!!!!) finally free at 4am and coinciding with my profound lack of sleepiness, the temptation to blog was too great.
It´s weird how I always seem to manage to get busy just before I go away, so that the reality only hits when I´m sitting on the plane thinking ' man I´m bored. Why aren´t I doing something?´. It doesn´t help when the bloody queue at Auckland airport took over 90 minutes - I mean no wonder they tell you 3 hours, with shitty check'in systems like that. I forget how much waiting is involved with travel, and after having comfort and efficiency down to a tee at home in my oh-so-busy life, this sudden waste of time is as much a shock as landing in a place where your sister told you that most people will be able to speak English, but in reality, when you get there and trot out feeble ´habla englees´´s hither and thither, most people shake their heads and put their thumb and forefinger together and go ¨un poco¨, which means ¨well I´ll try, but not too hard, noob¨.
Highlight so far on day one include:
- the very laidback service on the flight to BA - we gamely put on the wee service signal in the ¨airconditioned¨, sweltering plane ride, having sucked the water out of us and our single water bottle.. after a couple hours we realised that they weren´t coming, so I ventured to the back of the plane where I found our two wayward flight attendants gossiping atop food boxes. When I asked if I could have some water, one of them, vaguely distracted, waved in the general direction of a counter laden with drinks and snacks, then turned back to the interesting story she was listening to. I helped myself, and on return to my seat was asked by another passenger - no doubt flummoxed by the lack of attendants - where I got all my snacky booty from. I told her, and slowly word began to spread around the cabin. One hour later, when Stephen ventured to the back for more ¨cereal bar¨, a small crowd had apparently developed there.
- dinner. The hostel lady recommended a meat eatery nearby, so we gamely went there.. after the usual sign language and bemused looks from waiter staff, we sat down, and ordered this famous steak that everyone had been telling us about, as well as a Spanish tortilla. Wrong thing number 1 - we ordered the steak rare. It was rare alright. Thick (like, 7 cm thick), tasty, yes... raw, basically still mooing (yes, Renee, we learned our lesson, we took the Lonely Planet´s word over yours, it shall never happen again). Wrong thing number 2 - do not order Sapnish tortilla in Argentina. It was basically a big dinner plate sized slab of fries held together by lots of barely cooked egg, and not slated or seasoned at all. Worst Spanish tortilla ever.
Otherwise all is well - the people are brusque, but good natured. The surrounds are completely different which is kind of what I wanted.. it´s so easy to settle into griping about this and that, but really there is a sort of joy about getting out of your element...
Breakfast:
on the plane, two cold croissants and tea and chemically tasting ornage juice. Ah, plane food...
It´s weird how I always seem to manage to get busy just before I go away, so that the reality only hits when I´m sitting on the plane thinking ' man I´m bored. Why aren´t I doing something?´. It doesn´t help when the bloody queue at Auckland airport took over 90 minutes - I mean no wonder they tell you 3 hours, with shitty check'in systems like that. I forget how much waiting is involved with travel, and after having comfort and efficiency down to a tee at home in my oh-so-busy life, this sudden waste of time is as much a shock as landing in a place where your sister told you that most people will be able to speak English, but in reality, when you get there and trot out feeble ´habla englees´´s hither and thither, most people shake their heads and put their thumb and forefinger together and go ¨un poco¨, which means ¨well I´ll try, but not too hard, noob¨.
Highlight so far on day one include:
- the very laidback service on the flight to BA - we gamely put on the wee service signal in the ¨airconditioned¨, sweltering plane ride, having sucked the water out of us and our single water bottle.. after a couple hours we realised that they weren´t coming, so I ventured to the back of the plane where I found our two wayward flight attendants gossiping atop food boxes. When I asked if I could have some water, one of them, vaguely distracted, waved in the general direction of a counter laden with drinks and snacks, then turned back to the interesting story she was listening to. I helped myself, and on return to my seat was asked by another passenger - no doubt flummoxed by the lack of attendants - where I got all my snacky booty from. I told her, and slowly word began to spread around the cabin. One hour later, when Stephen ventured to the back for more ¨cereal bar¨, a small crowd had apparently developed there.
- dinner. The hostel lady recommended a meat eatery nearby, so we gamely went there.. after the usual sign language and bemused looks from waiter staff, we sat down, and ordered this famous steak that everyone had been telling us about, as well as a Spanish tortilla. Wrong thing number 1 - we ordered the steak rare. It was rare alright. Thick (like, 7 cm thick), tasty, yes... raw, basically still mooing (yes, Renee, we learned our lesson, we took the Lonely Planet´s word over yours, it shall never happen again). Wrong thing number 2 - do not order Sapnish tortilla in Argentina. It was basically a big dinner plate sized slab of fries held together by lots of barely cooked egg, and not slated or seasoned at all. Worst Spanish tortilla ever.
Otherwise all is well - the people are brusque, but good natured. The surrounds are completely different which is kind of what I wanted.. it´s so easy to settle into griping about this and that, but really there is a sort of joy about getting out of your element...
Breakfast:
on the plane, two cold croissants and tea and chemically tasting ornage juice. Ah, plane food...
Friday, October 19, 2007
on taking the 'shits' and 'fucks' out of the NZ Music Awards
Just spent the day editing the naughty words out of the New Zealand Music Awards... it really is a pointless exercise as noone really cares and any kid with half a brain would know what they're saying anyway. Ah, the rabid right, ay? Paying my bills. Bless em.
I would also like to announce that as a result I have a (completely innocent, married-woman) crush on the drummer of the Mint Chicks. He is so cuuute! And when he twirls his sticks in between the rolls, my heart is gay! Here is a cute wee picture of him!
He's the cute one. On the left. With the glasses.
It'll pass.
Breakfast:
milo, some dried apple, and a breadstick.
Verdict:
I was in a rush.
I would also like to announce that as a result I have a (completely innocent, married-woman) crush on the drummer of the Mint Chicks. He is so cuuute! And when he twirls his sticks in between the rolls, my heart is gay! Here is a cute wee picture of him!
He's the cute one. On the left. With the glasses.
It'll pass.
Breakfast:
milo, some dried apple, and a breadstick.
Verdict:
I was in a rush.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
on drooling, writing, star-struckery and pyjamas
So it's been a while, etc etc. Things of note that have happened since I last blogged:
1) I made, and have almost completed a new dramatic short film! 12 mins on 35mm. Wowee. It was one of the most wonderful and positive filmmaking experiences to date. I was sitting there on set thinking 'Man, I could actually do with another 5 weeks of this'. It was that much fun. Whether or not the film was any good is up to the selection committees of the A-List film festivals around the world. I'm not going to say what I think of it in public because I'm tremendously superstitious and wary of The Fates who don't take too kindly to arrogant or self-congratulatory people. Hmm, that gives it away doesn't it. OK, just for the record, I think it's OK. Just OK. OK?
2) The above is where I sound mixed and finished the film. Park Road Post (insert sounds of heavenly angels). No, we weren't mixing Oliphants, but hey. Droooool-tastic. Plus the people there were absolutely lovely. Style, quality, and nice people? It does exist!
3) The feature script has been progressing. No more on that, or the Fates will intervene.
4) Funding has been given for a pan-Asian comedy sketch-show I've been involved in! Hurrah! More writing has been happening, and I've been part of a 6 person collective, which is nice. Having wing-people is very nice. We'll be shooting early next year.
Now.. what other things were there to blog about. Oh yes, I am well and truly over the whole Richard E. Grant thing, though my problem with being star-struck is still around (I saw Anika Moa in a cafe yesterday, and I got all nervous and tried to look anywhere but in her direction. I'm sure she would prefer to just be treated normally. Or she didn't care anyway, which is fine also). Anyway, I saw REG's debut feature film, Wah-Wah, and I really, really didn't like it. I didn't like it so much that I couldn't actually finish watching it. The reading of the 'making of' book was infinitely more agreeable (my god, how on earth did his terrible producer Marie-Castille Mention-Schaar (jesus, what a crazy name!) manage to get work after that? I can't help but think this is but one side of the story), but I still couldn't really get over the bad taste of the actual film, so ... ah well. It was a fun read anyway.
I was reading a Willem Dafoe interview on the Onion AV Club, and he mentioned that he doesn't really talk about his private life because the more one knows about an actor's private life, the more it bleeds into opinions on the work they they do. It's a pity how that happens - though I have to say as a bit of a 'star-strucker' I'm a sucker for it. Which reminds me. As a complete side note, due to my starry-eyed tendencies, I had started to call myself a 'star-fucker', but a couple of director friends said this wasn't a good term to use because a 'star-fucker' wanted to be close and personal with stars, which wasn't the case with me because I clearly wasn't a 'ho-bag' (their words, which I love). I settled on 'star-strucker' just now, but maybe I should change it to 'star-sucker'? Which has many different meanings? Well, at least 2 anyway. One not so good.
Anyway, Mr Dafoe has a point. I have to say I don't really like Bobby Lee any more, ever since I saw this Youtube video. I would like to have given him the benefit of the doubt, but I simply can't get past the things he said, or see how this could be a fake. Even if it is a put-on, it's in extremely poor taste. Actually, the things he said just make me sad. As if Bitter Asian Men needed any more dickhead role models.
On another completely unrelated note, I saw some pink girls' pyjamas at the Warehouse the other day with the picture of a cat, and the words 'Perfect Pussy' next to it. Is this a really bad joke, or is my mind disgusting? The answer of course is yes, but even so, I'm not going to be the first to think of the most obvious double entendre. These are girls' pyjamas, for goodness' sake! next time I go past, I might take a picture, to make sure I wasn't imagining it...
Breakfast:
Rice with egg & crayfish, Chinese marrow (don't know the English name, but in Cantonese, is phonetically spelt 'jeet gua'). Hand squeezed orange juice!
Verdict:
velly gΓΌd. Something satisfying about squeezing your own orange juice.
1) I made, and have almost completed a new dramatic short film! 12 mins on 35mm. Wowee. It was one of the most wonderful and positive filmmaking experiences to date. I was sitting there on set thinking 'Man, I could actually do with another 5 weeks of this'. It was that much fun. Whether or not the film was any good is up to the selection committees of the A-List film festivals around the world. I'm not going to say what I think of it in public because I'm tremendously superstitious and wary of The Fates who don't take too kindly to arrogant or self-congratulatory people. Hmm, that gives it away doesn't it. OK, just for the record, I think it's OK. Just OK. OK?
2) The above is where I sound mixed and finished the film. Park Road Post (insert sounds of heavenly angels). No, we weren't mixing Oliphants, but hey. Droooool-tastic. Plus the people there were absolutely lovely. Style, quality, and nice people? It does exist!
3) The feature script has been progressing. No more on that, or the Fates will intervene.
4) Funding has been given for a pan-Asian comedy sketch-show I've been involved in! Hurrah! More writing has been happening, and I've been part of a 6 person collective, which is nice. Having wing-people is very nice. We'll be shooting early next year.
Now.. what other things were there to blog about. Oh yes, I am well and truly over the whole Richard E. Grant thing, though my problem with being star-struck is still around (I saw Anika Moa in a cafe yesterday, and I got all nervous and tried to look anywhere but in her direction. I'm sure she would prefer to just be treated normally. Or she didn't care anyway, which is fine also). Anyway, I saw REG's debut feature film, Wah-Wah, and I really, really didn't like it. I didn't like it so much that I couldn't actually finish watching it. The reading of the 'making of' book was infinitely more agreeable (my god, how on earth did his terrible producer Marie-Castille Mention-Schaar (jesus, what a crazy name!) manage to get work after that? I can't help but think this is but one side of the story), but I still couldn't really get over the bad taste of the actual film, so ... ah well. It was a fun read anyway.
I was reading a Willem Dafoe interview on the Onion AV Club, and he mentioned that he doesn't really talk about his private life because the more one knows about an actor's private life, the more it bleeds into opinions on the work they they do. It's a pity how that happens - though I have to say as a bit of a 'star-strucker' I'm a sucker for it. Which reminds me. As a complete side note, due to my starry-eyed tendencies, I had started to call myself a 'star-fucker', but a couple of director friends said this wasn't a good term to use because a 'star-fucker' wanted to be close and personal with stars, which wasn't the case with me because I clearly wasn't a 'ho-bag' (their words, which I love). I settled on 'star-strucker' just now, but maybe I should change it to 'star-sucker'? Which has many different meanings? Well, at least 2 anyway. One not so good.
Anyway, Mr Dafoe has a point. I have to say I don't really like Bobby Lee any more, ever since I saw this Youtube video. I would like to have given him the benefit of the doubt, but I simply can't get past the things he said, or see how this could be a fake. Even if it is a put-on, it's in extremely poor taste. Actually, the things he said just make me sad. As if Bitter Asian Men needed any more dickhead role models.
On another completely unrelated note, I saw some pink girls' pyjamas at the Warehouse the other day with the picture of a cat, and the words 'Perfect Pussy' next to it. Is this a really bad joke, or is my mind disgusting? The answer of course is yes, but even so, I'm not going to be the first to think of the most obvious double entendre. These are girls' pyjamas, for goodness' sake! next time I go past, I might take a picture, to make sure I wasn't imagining it...
Breakfast:
Rice with egg & crayfish, Chinese marrow (don't know the English name, but in Cantonese, is phonetically spelt 'jeet gua'). Hand squeezed orange juice!
Verdict:
velly gΓΌd. Something satisfying about squeezing your own orange juice.
Friday, June 15, 2007
on immortality, journals and Richard E. Grant
The urge to write in this diary of sorts so often dissipates when I get here - the difference between this and something more private is that I think I feel the need to perform no matter how unselfconscious i want to appear - were it not for my 'readers', I wouldn't need to go back and check what I'd written or correct those awful times I'd used 'your' instead of 'you're' (not that I would).
In the end I guess it comes down to the old idea that most of us artists do what we do because we want to be immortal - I mean, I think it was Robert Mckee who first spelled it out for me in one of his famous workshops - I read it later in his love-it-hate-it scriptwriting bible, 'Story'. The way I understand it, all art is created as a legacy of our being here - basically, it can all be reduced to various forms of 'I woz 'ere'.
In some ways I subscribe to that. I think I do this diary thing here on the mighty web because part of me believes it'll still be around in the lifetimes after I'm gone - if indeed humanity survives, let alone the internet. I think Jochen told me, to my horror (and, I'll admit, amazement) that a very very old blog entry about my burgeoning sexuality was still floating somewhere around the ether of the net, even after I'd deleted all the files of the site on my computer. As those cheesy US commercials say - think before you post.
Eh.
I also 'blog' and diarise (is that a word?) for my benefit as well. I want to remember what life was like when I lived it. Things change so fast, and my memory is so bad that I can take immense pleasure from reading old letters or notes to myself, or notes people have written me, or photos I don't remember taking, but am so thankful for when I find them in a corner of debris I haven't touched in what seems like decades. I love that feeling of reading through it all, and I get scared when I think what I might have lost had someone cleared it all away, or a fire had started. In many ways I'm keeping future writings here so I don't have to dig through the debris to get to them. Still, there's something to be said for paper.
It was at the Auckland Readers and Writers Festival a month ago that I was all aflutter over Richard E. Grant's eloquent and good-natured session - he mentioned that he had written something in a journal (which is so much more dignified than 'diary', don't you think?) every day since... well I forget when, but he had boxes of the stuff. I wonder if I should do that now. Maybe not here.. but.. maybe? I sometimes wonder whether Neil Gaiman does his blog for his benefit or for his fans'? I suspect it's a bit of both, but perhaps more for one than the other, with the answering of questions and news of readings and signings? Hell, I don't mind - after not being able to bring myself to speak to Richard E Grant, I've since embraced my tendency for being a giggling hopeless fangirl. But back to the journal thing. Hmm.. shall it be a mid-winter resolution, a new year's one, or a 30th birthday one? I always find reasons for me to procrastinate, as I am doing now when I should be writing my goddam script.
At least something's being written around here (nope, I haven't tired of that joke yet).
Breakfast:
leftover steamed salmon fishheads, cucumber with Japanese sesame dressing, and rice.
Verdict:
one day, I dream of Stephen being able to appreciate fishheads. But oh well.
In the end I guess it comes down to the old idea that most of us artists do what we do because we want to be immortal - I mean, I think it was Robert Mckee who first spelled it out for me in one of his famous workshops - I read it later in his love-it-hate-it scriptwriting bible, 'Story'. The way I understand it, all art is created as a legacy of our being here - basically, it can all be reduced to various forms of 'I woz 'ere'.
In some ways I subscribe to that. I think I do this diary thing here on the mighty web because part of me believes it'll still be around in the lifetimes after I'm gone - if indeed humanity survives, let alone the internet. I think Jochen told me, to my horror (and, I'll admit, amazement) that a very very old blog entry about my burgeoning sexuality was still floating somewhere around the ether of the net, even after I'd deleted all the files of the site on my computer. As those cheesy US commercials say - think before you post.
Eh.
I also 'blog' and diarise (is that a word?) for my benefit as well. I want to remember what life was like when I lived it. Things change so fast, and my memory is so bad that I can take immense pleasure from reading old letters or notes to myself, or notes people have written me, or photos I don't remember taking, but am so thankful for when I find them in a corner of debris I haven't touched in what seems like decades. I love that feeling of reading through it all, and I get scared when I think what I might have lost had someone cleared it all away, or a fire had started. In many ways I'm keeping future writings here so I don't have to dig through the debris to get to them. Still, there's something to be said for paper.
It was at the Auckland Readers and Writers Festival a month ago that I was all aflutter over Richard E. Grant's eloquent and good-natured session - he mentioned that he had written something in a journal (which is so much more dignified than 'diary', don't you think?) every day since... well I forget when, but he had boxes of the stuff. I wonder if I should do that now. Maybe not here.. but.. maybe? I sometimes wonder whether Neil Gaiman does his blog for his benefit or for his fans'? I suspect it's a bit of both, but perhaps more for one than the other, with the answering of questions and news of readings and signings? Hell, I don't mind - after not being able to bring myself to speak to Richard E Grant, I've since embraced my tendency for being a giggling hopeless fangirl. But back to the journal thing. Hmm.. shall it be a mid-winter resolution, a new year's one, or a 30th birthday one? I always find reasons for me to procrastinate, as I am doing now when I should be writing my goddam script.
At least something's being written around here (nope, I haven't tired of that joke yet).
Breakfast:
leftover steamed salmon fishheads, cucumber with Japanese sesame dressing, and rice.
Verdict:
one day, I dream of Stephen being able to appreciate fishheads. But oh well.
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