The Dirty Weekend

Update 26 Sept 09: Vay keeps hassling me to upload actual pics of the happenings. Ugh, well here ya go, ya bastard. I've discovered the joys of photo editing. Now, this MAY look amateurish to the untrained eye, but it took me a while, damn it, so you better appreciate it. Oh, and I suppose now you can see what I really look like. Ugh, might as well get rid of that profile pic. I'll do it later damn it. Stop hassling me.

Top left: On the way to Bungalow 8 at King Street Wharf.
Top right: The aftermath in Rydges' foyer.
Bottom left: Vay lapping it up on the king size bed.
Bottom right: He does this EVERYTIME. God.

God I'm tired.

This is probably the quickest update from me that you'll ever get. That's right, cos it'll be back to waiting weeks, if not months, for another post. And I'm doing it now, despite the fact I've had a restless night's sleep, and for why? Cos I'll be buggered if I can remember it tomorrow.

The day passed by quite nicely in fact, with a nice long lunch on Friday with the receptionist, who's just finished her traineeship with us. I led her to Siorie - don't know if I've ever reviewed that - but it's been tried and tested by Vay and I. They do japanese fusion, and it's a good thing I booked the window seat, it was filled to capacity with people also wanting to wile away company time. Hee hee, even got someone to fill in for us while we wined and dined. Hee hee, that'll learn 'em. We shared chicken karaage and wagyu bento, and prawn and scallop skewers, and finished off with glasses of white and rose wine. We even had delicious strawberry tempura and icecream desserts. Well lah dee dah, you might say. Well yes, you would say that, wouldn't you?

We were fighting over the bill, but the waiter ended up charging her card, at her insistence. Ugh, maybe I should've pretended to go to the bathroom so I could get to the register first. Good thing I bought her a gift of thanks, which was a perfume, so you might even say we're even stevens. Hee hee, god I'm evil.

Later that evening, thanks to my director (to which this post is dedicated - "Booked yourselves in for a dirty weekend eh? "Yessir, I sure have."), I was able to book Vay and I a room at Rydges, World Square, all on company expenses. God I'm a legend. We were relishing the fact that we were staying at yet another hotel, and this time, gratis. We were planning to make it a massive night, with all the toppings. First stop was a work friend of Vay's 30th birthday party, which she was having at the Bungalow at King Street Wharf. It was a nice, balmy night, not too cold, so we all sat outdoors bitching, smoking and drinking ourselves into various states of oblivion. All in good fun of course, don't ya know.

It was probably the constant drinking, but we didn't bother with the water in between the drinks.

Marge: No, Homer, don’t fill up on bread!
Homer: What? Right! The steak!

It wasn't until the aftermath that we realised that we probably should've eased up on the drinking. Or at least filled up on water in between. Still. When are we ever going to have a night out like this again? We made our excuses and left the Bungalow, and made our way to the Establishment, for a spot of clubbing. It was only 10am, and we tried calling different karaoke places in the meantime, but the bastards were all booked out. Only Big Echo had a room, but that wasn't going to be available until at least 1am, and being a Friday night, they usually charge a premium, like $50 bucks. I didn't feel like forking out that much just for an hour, so we just went straight to Tank.

At the door: The fashion police was giving us the once over. I was looking pretty freaking hot in my silky peach dress, micro fishnets and stiletto boots, so I passed with flying colours. Vay, on the other hand. "You're aware that Chucks aren't allowed?" the guy says, looking at Vay's Converse shoes. Vay, looks dumbly at him, "What?" "God hun, your Converses," I tell him. "Ohhhh, right. Really, why?"

I thought we were done for, the guy was probably thinking whether he should just let me through on my own, leaving Vay standing there thinking what are Chucks. But no, he was in a good mood, and let Vay off with a warning. "Alright, but next week I don't want to see you wearing those." Geez, calm down mate. I don't understand why there's such a dress code. It's pitch dark in there, loud as fuck, and nobody's there to look at your freaking shoes, that's for god damn sure.

Anyway. Inside. The dance floor wasn't open yet, but they had managed to build a little holding area for early arrivers, and people who wanted a rest between dancing. It was a nice place actually. Comfortable and considerate. The floor wasn't going to open till 11pm, so we had a while to go, and treated ourselves to more of the good stuff. I even found the music to be better than that of the main dance arena, with Michael Jackson classics, and 90s pop. Vay: "This is boring. I'm bored," he repeats. Ugh, god you're a fun-ruiner hun. Anyway, I decided to ply him with his favourites, so that he'd chillax for once. Being a naturally impatient guy probably didn't help either. Thankfully his whining cleared up when we hit the dance floor. And only then did he say that he was having a good time. About bloody time, ya bastard.

Afterwards, we were thinking of hitting the karaoke bars, but it was already 2 or something, and my feet were killing me. I even managed to get gum on my brand new stockings.

Back at the hotel. Vay was starting again with his bitchy act, and in my besotted state, I was struggling to find the lamp light. "The switch is on the side!!" "Where?" "On the cord, jesus christ!" Well hun, it wasn't there, was it, it was actually on the lamp stand under the lampshade. God he was pissing me off for getting irritable with me. He ended up throwing up in the bathroom later, so yeah, I guess that's karma for ya. Hee hee. That's what happens hun, I felt fine though, and apparently slept like a snoring baby. The only problem was with the pillows. I just couldn't get used to the softness of them.

Lisa: Why didn't you write, Unckie Herb?
Herb: Hey, if I wrote to you, what was I supposed to say? "Dear Lisa, last night I used a rat for a pillow, thanks to your pop?"

Not only were they a bit too soft, they were uncomfortably high as well. You'd think that'd be a perfect combination. Well no, I prefer mine lower and firmer, damn it. I vaguely remembered that you could request different types of pillow, but it was 3am by the time we slept, and I couldn't be fucked calling.

Sometimes I'd wake after some restless activity on Vay's side, and I'd try to get back to sleep, but it was pretty hard. At least the alcohol didn't affect me that much. Thank god we had a late check out. Afterwards, we filled up on big breakfasts. It's the only thing to have after a massive night out.

And now? It's almost 9pm, and I'm still slaving away. Enough of that. Hope you enjoyed this quick and dirty update, I'm going to bed, with a real pillow.

Damn you, Stephen King!

Terrible news. I've finished the Dark Tower series, earlier this Monday. "What's life going to be like after the Dark Tower?" asks Peter from work. "I don't know Peter, I honestly... don't know." God, you just feel for Roland. Damn, I want to talk about this thing, but I don't want to give too much away, just in case anyone out there's wanting to, or is actually reading the series at the moment. Like Vay. "God, don't tell me... don't look at me!" he says. Ugh, he's still got 3 books to go, and it's just torturous waiting for him to finish it so I can talk about the whole damn thing.

That secret book came in too, and it's a nice little summary of the series. It gives a lot of insight into the characters, a bit like a reference manual. It's a good thing I waited till I had finished the series, because it contains a fair few spoilers. I might even lend it to Vay, if he's interested. But I doubt it. If anything, I think I'm a bigger fan of the DT than he is. Ironic, as he was the first to start reading it. Never mind that, I finished it first, damn it. That's right, nice girls finish first.

In the weekend before, when I knew I was going to finish it soon, I bought myself the new Stephen King compilation of short stories, "Just After Sunset" to console myself with. BORING. Maybe it's the writing style, or the stories themselves, but frankly, it just wasn't the same as reading the Dark Tower. GOD. Now he's practically ruined reading for me. The short stories have been disappointing so far, maybe they'll get better, I don't know. And frankly, I don't want to know.

Kirk: You're letting me go!?

Cracker Co. Foreman: Kirk. Crackers are a family food - happy families. Maybe single people eat crackers, we don't know. Frankly, we don't want to know. It's a market we can do without!

Kirk: So that's it? After twenty years, "So long, good luck?"

Cracker Co. Foreman: I don't recall saying, "Good luck."

After which I went and bought the new Ripleys Believe It Not book. I know, I've sunk to new lows, but it's sure as hell more entertaining than "Just After Sunset". Hmm, I suppose this was a bit like how I felt about the Gunslinger at first though, so I SUPPOSE I could at least finish the book, although I'm half way through, and even skipped a story just because it was so boring, to the point of irritation. Or maybe I'm just suffering from a bit of withdrawal. I might even go so far as to say that it's better than the Twilight series. Last year I would have bitchslapped anyone who even criticised that series, but meh, after reading the Dark Tower, I've realised the Twilight series isn't that great after all. Yeah, Edward was a bit of alright, but I didn't feel anything for him in the same way I do for Roland. There there hun. It's ok. It's called character appreciation.

And now look. It's taken about half a year and over 4000 pages later, but I've finally finished. Now what am I going to do with myself?

Drag Me to Hell eh?

The old guy walked in, he looked a bit scruffy, and had a couple of papers in his hand. He said he wanted 40 copies of what appeared to his poems, so he could take them to the publishers. At first I tried fobbing him off to the other side of the hall, but he said he'd already tried that side, and they turned him down, and he mentioned that he also tried the printers downstairs, but they were too busy with their printing jobs.

Which wasn't surprising, they probably took one look at the guy and thought what a bum he was. I have to admit I did. There he was, greying hair, wrinkled, missing a couple of teeth, but there was something pathetically earnest about the way he asked. He seemed to read my thoughts - sense my doubts, and offered to return with a ream to replenish our supplies.

Bet you're wondering what's so freaking scary about some random off the streets? He's just a creepy old man, after all. It all started at the cinemas. It was my first night out at the cinemas at night, with Vay. We ended up watching Drag Me to Hell. It was dark, and everyone was caught up watching the movie, until one scene scared the shit out of me, and I ended up screaming. I couldn't help myself, it caught me by surprise, damn it.

Present day, and here I was, faced with a fateful decision, and I was having flashbacks of a scene in the movie, where old Mrs Ganesh begs Christine Brown for an extension of her home loan, but puts a terrifying curse on her when Christine flatly refuses. Did I want to be Christine and have the wrath of an old gypsy on me?

Homer: Well, everything ended fine.
Marge: No, it didn't. Bart's dead.
Homer: Saying I'm sorry won't bring him back.
Marge: The gypsy said it would.
Homer: Pff. She's not the boss of me.

Well you don't want to end up like Christine do you? Do you? I had to think about it. The guy stood there, like a beggar asking for a dollar. Ugh, why couldn't I just say no and be done with it? Oh right, the curse thing.

Christine Brown: Another extension is out of the question.
Mrs. Ganush: Where will I live?
Christine Brown: I'm sorry.
Mrs. Ganush: Never have I begged for anything, but now I humble myself before you.
Christine Brown: Mrs. Ganush, please...
Mrs. Ganush: I beg you.

Finally something inside me made me relent - dear god, is that a conscience that you have Linhy? - maybe it was the fact he only wanted photocopies of his poems and didn't have money to get them done elsewhere. So I made him the copies, and he left. I felt pret-ty satisfied knowing not only was I a good Samaritan, but also that I probably foiled any chance of the guy wanting to use his curses on me. Take that, Mrs Ganesh. Let's see you drag me to hell now.

I was feeling rather satisfied with myself. God I'm good, I was thinking, until I saw the guy at Central Station, just standing there handing out the photocopies I so generously made for him, to any schmuck who wanted to read them! What the fuck? So any random passerby was this guy's "publisher "were they? UGH. That's the last time I'm helping anyone who comes strolling in asking for a handout. And I'll be damned if I do! Oh wait, scratch that.