It was thursday night and I was on the train from Sydenham to Town Hall. I was wearing little more than fake tan, a denim micro mini, a truck load of blond hair extensions, false eyelashes, a fur lined white cardigan, fake tattoes and ugh boots.
I was scragg.
I also decided that I needed false nails to complete the look. I opened the box of $3.00 decorated pink nails and unscrewed the tube of nail adhesive. The realised it needed to be cut open. i tried biting and gnawing it instead. then read the ingredients list as i tasted cyaonocongeloggoaguatationguanisocin66opospluhpheoluons on my teeth and tongue.
it was going to be a toxic night. what goon would wash this crap off my tongue?
Undeterred by iminent carcinoma I squeezed droplets of the glue onto the false nails and pressed them onto the finger tips of my right hand. flashing my voluntarily disabled digits and deciding that I'd save my left hand from such fate.
that was 3 days ago and these false nails, unlike my usual $1.00 ones, refuse to budge. the glue must have been some mutant form of builders bog or something left over from the space shuttle. After 2 days of not being able to type, dress, search my pockets or do other two handed tasks, I decided to cut the false nails. Im left handed so I'm not totally immobilised, but there's one major major problem.
My right hand is the organ of lady love, and right now its festooned with 3D plastic pink flowers and glitter. Even in their trimmed state ths is guaranteed to send any girl not starring on a lesbo porn website running a mile. bugger.
I've had a fun weekend of running around and going out dancing. such delight aof gratuitous booty movements to fund music! such delight of the fairer sex before me. And yet, I felt like I was wearing a chastiity built. Immobilised, neutered.
I guess this was an appropriate way to spend the 10th anniversary of the sunday night fest of FRIGID. the 10 year farewell bash was held on a saturday night just to confuse things and I arrived just after the 2nd set and missed TOOTH. bugger again. the entranc eof Newtown RSL was not unlike a Blue lgiht disco - wiht a big fat que of bag chekcers, membership checkers, ID chekers and god knows what else.gratutious inneificient ridiulous bureacracy reminding me of Sdyney airport. Don'cha love Australia?
Inside saw friends and then tried to meet the extreme booty challenge of swinging to some extremely unhappy hardcore err, ithink the term is banging trance. Lots of tesosterone. Not many buxom wenches on the dance floor. the dance floor like a sauna. i retreated. retreated further from PV's extreme oscillations between slow fluffy e-trance and hard herdish hip hop. Like tha hard core dude he was wearing a thick fleecy hoody. he told me it was because he had a broken toe and couldn't dance. But I reckon he was doing some secret cryogenesis extreme cool challenge. they probably pracitce by weraing thermal underwear in saunas. I sat near a cool wall and saw old friends from the 90's and sat aroudn chin wagigng about our bunions.Inwardly pondered my previous nights extreme enjoyment of Albanian dance music. I really enjoyed it but I think in my eurotrash garb - that I scared the more modestly clad albanians. Everyone else there aready knew I was only doing this part time.
the frigid dance experience was rescued by sir robbos extreme schwanky cheese. Even luke was dancing. It was like hendrix meetsmotown meets the best ever 70's porn sudntracks and so I was happy, happy as larry. Really really happy and sober as a judge. I then floated in to Luke vyberts hard but witty techno retro smorgasbord. this ended on a really stilly segue of happy hardcore. I was glad my friend hoorst was around to hear it. this was a nice entree into the biggest sillliest happiest sub set i've heard in a long long time. Yayy for luke's orchestrated arm waving. yayy for the lovely combo of luke and sebmixing togehter dancing toehger. this is mixing as perfomrance - as a lovely live impro thing that reminds me of great jazz. yayy for seeing MD on the edge, floating near a big speaker and looking completely spacey and not recongizing me with no glasses, no eyebrows and no black hair. (I have a horrrible suspicion that I met MD on the UNSW library lawn in 1989 and the first thing he evern said to me was "you know the rave scene isn't what it used to be...." As I recalled this moment the snarl put in an ORB bit. yayyy!!!! and finished with classic butchered bowie.
My extreme frigid moments included stumbling over couples snogging on the dance floor (am I so puritan to find slow snog e-ing to be an inapropriate chemical strategy for a dance party?) and then seeing one of my students at the bar. (I fled and missed gemma's set!) . Some guy asked if I was the hula girl. I told him I was the booty queen and it was an important distinction. Not enough cute girls and not any cute boys actually (or am I really gay). all irrelevant due to ex-wife in next bedroom and plastic finger tips making me feel like a eunuch anyway.
Walking home in the drizzle, I had to slow right down to a barely moving crawl to avoid a gaggle ff drunken 3 am yobs that even the cabbies were reluctant to pick up. this was annoying.
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