Yesterday we almost got arrested as violent G8 summit bio-terrorists for crossing three national borders visa-less and with two bottles of A-negative blood in tow.
It had been a busy morning. Week, in fact, though not for me so much as Wilken, who’d broken his knee in what we will, for insurance purposes, refer to here as a sporting injury. In fact it was rather an unfortunate dance-floor incident in which someone had thrown him the imaginary dance-floor ball: he dribbled it for a bit without incident but then had somewhat misguidedly (after a biertje or four) attempted to put it through his legs.
And so we found ourselves some days later driving with a friend to the clinic in Aachen, where Wilken was to be seen by the unfortunately named orthopaedic surgeon Herr Doktor Messer (messer in German meaning ‘knife’). In the meantime he’d been given a pair of crutches (which we’d affectionately dubbed Jimmy sticks, in honour of the South Park character), and stuck in the knee with a pair of needles that turned into clear tubes that led to two bottles that progressively filled up with blood and other unidentified fluids. With no pocket large enough to conceal them, they dangled disconcertingly at belt height outside his jeans, frightening small children and the elderly. It was not the prettiest sight.
But underway we were to have the ghastly things removed. Now, given that the international G8 summit was to be held in a nearby German town, and the Schengen agreement (which permits EU citizens to travel freely across borders) had been suspended for security reasons, and that my British passport was being held at the Chinese Embassy in the Hague for visa application purposes, attempting a border crossing with said bottles of blood and a Dutch number plate may not have been the wisest endeavour.
Needless to say, we were singled out and pulled over at the border crossing into Germany by a pair of ruthless cops who insisted on unloading all of us and removing one leg of Wilken’s jeans to check that his blood bottles were in fact connected to his knee and not bio-medical weapons that happened to be sitting in his lap at a national security checkpoint. Then they asked for our passports and I was forced to hand over my conspicuously blue Australian one – without visa – for verification. Luckily, old Hans didn’t seem to be in the mood for catching illegal aliens today – evidently he was set on terrorists and queue jumpers just didn’t fit the bill. Luckily for me.
And the third national border? Well. Diesel’s cheaper in Luxembourg.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Monday, May 28, 2007
To Z or not to Z
Some people collect stamps. Others are bent on umbrella covers, air sickness bags or locks of celebrity hair. My ex-boyfriend’s Uncle Bruce, a park ranger, used to collect pieces of dried animal crap and fix them to his noticeboard until he’d identified them. What’s my hankering for, then? Well. I’ve got a thing for style guides. BBC television, Harvard medical school, the Financial Times – you name it, I know how they spell stuff. And what font they do it in. And how many line spaces should separate it all.
Rectifying oversights
I'm loathe to let you know that you forgot one the most important party niches: Beach Parties. Sometimes combined with the Office Party or We Love Sand in our Knickers S&M Party, it is best occasioned hand in hand with a barbecue and a heavy dose of vodka. Things to do: try writing obscene words on people's backs in sunscreen. This works especially well if you can get a kid without getting noticed. Nothing's more entertaining than the sight of a rabid parent standing next to a rubber dinghy who hasn't quite yet decided where to direct their anger. Second, see if you can bring along a hefty redneck who enjoys catching eels with their bare hands. This will cut down your overheads as you can just throw it right on the barbie. What not to do: drink and dive. Nothing makes The Man happier than the sight of you and all your friends floating face down in the shallows as dusk falls ... so don't give him the satifaction. Take floaty wings.
Oh, and I've just remembered another fun-filled event which really maximises attendence and participation. It's the Party at Which Both Your Current Boyfriend and Ex-Boyfriend Are At. For optimal effect be sure to bring sumo-wrestling suits and set up a ring that is closely surrounded by glass coffee tables and expensive Egyptian vases. Liberally apply alcohol and if you're feeling really adventurous, leave the potato and mayonnaise salad out in the sun for several hours before serving to all the other guests. This will ensure that not only you and your boys get in on the action. As people start to leave with vomit dribbling down their chins or large chunks of glass embedded in their scalps, stand by the door handing out "I Survived [insert name]'s Party." They're guaranteed to cherish it forever.
Oh, and I've just remembered another fun-filled event which really maximises attendence and participation. It's the Party at Which Both Your Current Boyfriend and Ex-Boyfriend Are At. For optimal effect be sure to bring sumo-wrestling suits and set up a ring that is closely surrounded by glass coffee tables and expensive Egyptian vases. Liberally apply alcohol and if you're feeling really adventurous, leave the potato and mayonnaise salad out in the sun for several hours before serving to all the other guests. This will ensure that not only you and your boys get in on the action. As people start to leave with vomit dribbling down their chins or large chunks of glass embedded in their scalps, stand by the door handing out "I Survived [insert name]'s Party." They're guaranteed to cherish it forever.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Parties: A Crash Course
Since the Dawn of Time, Man has wanted to Party. Woman too. Just this year, archaeologists have discovered the remains of a 30-million-year-old human ancestor, with a brain the size of a nickel, holding a glowstick. (Come to that, I met a guy with a brain the size of a nickel in Purple Sneakers just last week.)
But, for just as long as there have been parties, people have been left disappointed, frustrated and confused. There’s a reason it’s called “throwing” a party. Throw it well, and it’ll soar. Throw it badly, and it’ll fall flat, or put someone’s eye out, and lead to messy legal proceedings.
So, before you hold your next party, think about all the best parties you’ve been at…
House Parties - No, I don’t mean parties where you play house music. I mean parties that you hold at your house. (Having said that, there’s nothing to stop you from playing house music at your House Party and having a House House Party. Go right ahead. Indeed, you can even watch acclaimed medical drama series House at said House House Party, making it a House House House Party.) What was I saying again? Oh yeah. House Parties are great.
Costume Parties - When else could you make out with Marilyn Monroe, sing karaoke with Marcel Marseau, or beat up Osama bin Laden? Anyone with a passing acquaintance with The Bard knows that Romeo and Juliet met at a costume party. And that ended up happily, right? Right? Right? Right. Themed parties also add an extra element of fun to proceedings. Why not give your party a theme, like Superheroes, Hollywood Stars, or Characters from the Collected Works of Fyodor Dostoevsky? And, if you really enjoy pretending to be someone else, why don’t you try identity theft? Try stealing mail, eavesdropping on other people’s personal transactions or hacking into computer databases.
Bachelor Parties - A Bachelor Party is the party at which you’re most likely to have two strippers turn up and lick whipped cream off each other’s private parts. (Except perhaps the Liberal Party.) Yes, yes, I know: apparently you’re only supposed to have a Bachelor Party when you’re getting married - but with divorce rates like they are and it being the 21st century, it is becoming increasingly acceptable to get married purely to have a Bachelor Party.
Dinner Parties - Traditionally the domain of married couples, Dinner Parties are a classy affair, usually involving candlelight, a nice dinner, a nice bottle of wine, a domestic spat, a spontaneous act of infidelity in the laundry room, and Kenny G records. [CAUTION: Prolonged exposure to Kenny G records may cause dizziness, mottled skin, loss of appetite, paranoia, baldness, dark urine, gastrointestinal upset and impotence FOREVER.]
Office Parties - There are some things that were never meant to go together. Nitric acid and zinc. Pineapple and pizza. Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas. But by far the most lethal combination - far more frightening than any mere chemical reaction or Domino’s Hawaiian - is work colleagues and alcohol. Letting loose and chilling out with your workmates might sound like a good idea at first but, by the end of the night, James from IT is dancing with his shirt off, Max from Sales is telling the Boss what he really thinks of him, and Rob from Accounting is having his way with Jill from Reception in the corner… The phrase “You’ll never live it down” was invented for Office Parties.
McDonald’s Parties - We all remember these. Due to the age ceiling, having a real McDonald’s Party is a bit difficult for those of us over 10 years old (i.e. most of the 3D World readership). However, feel free to turn up to McDonald’s with all of your mates, buy 27 soft serve cones for about eight dollars, and dance the night away. You’ll have fun. Trust me.
Cast Parties - All those weeks of rehearsing have paid off, and your musical society’s production of Jesus Christ Superstar was a huge success! Ashfield Community Hall has never seen anything like it! So, it’s time to get together one last time, have some punch, play drama games and have everyone join in a lovely sing-along of I Don’t Know How To Love Him.
Tupperware Parties - In need of some plastic containers in which to store rice, pasta, Thai stir-fry or any number of other tasty dishes? Then you’re in need of a Tupperware Party. Contact your local FridgeSmart consultant (what a job!), get together with your fellow housewives, and find out about the exciting world of keeping food fresh! Mmm! For best results, combine with Bachelor Party.
Coming-Out Parties - What better way to celebrate coming out of the closet about your BIG SECRET than holding a party? If you manage to get everyone drunk, half the people there won’t even remember your BIG SECRET by the time it’s morning - except your parents, who will disown you. Sorry.
Search Parties - Trying to find a lost loved one in a national park by torchlight with police and wilderness-trained emergency medical personnel at your side can be a fun and exciting way to spend a Friday night. Make sure you don’t forget to play the Grease Mega-Mix.
But, for just as long as there have been parties, people have been left disappointed, frustrated and confused. There’s a reason it’s called “throwing” a party. Throw it well, and it’ll soar. Throw it badly, and it’ll fall flat, or put someone’s eye out, and lead to messy legal proceedings.
So, before you hold your next party, think about all the best parties you’ve been at…
House Parties - No, I don’t mean parties where you play house music. I mean parties that you hold at your house. (Having said that, there’s nothing to stop you from playing house music at your House Party and having a House House Party. Go right ahead. Indeed, you can even watch acclaimed medical drama series House at said House House Party, making it a House House House Party.) What was I saying again? Oh yeah. House Parties are great.
Costume Parties - When else could you make out with Marilyn Monroe, sing karaoke with Marcel Marseau, or beat up Osama bin Laden? Anyone with a passing acquaintance with The Bard knows that Romeo and Juliet met at a costume party. And that ended up happily, right? Right? Right? Right. Themed parties also add an extra element of fun to proceedings. Why not give your party a theme, like Superheroes, Hollywood Stars, or Characters from the Collected Works of Fyodor Dostoevsky? And, if you really enjoy pretending to be someone else, why don’t you try identity theft? Try stealing mail, eavesdropping on other people’s personal transactions or hacking into computer databases.
Bachelor Parties - A Bachelor Party is the party at which you’re most likely to have two strippers turn up and lick whipped cream off each other’s private parts. (Except perhaps the Liberal Party.) Yes, yes, I know: apparently you’re only supposed to have a Bachelor Party when you’re getting married - but with divorce rates like they are and it being the 21st century, it is becoming increasingly acceptable to get married purely to have a Bachelor Party.
Dinner Parties - Traditionally the domain of married couples, Dinner Parties are a classy affair, usually involving candlelight, a nice dinner, a nice bottle of wine, a domestic spat, a spontaneous act of infidelity in the laundry room, and Kenny G records. [CAUTION: Prolonged exposure to Kenny G records may cause dizziness, mottled skin, loss of appetite, paranoia, baldness, dark urine, gastrointestinal upset and impotence FOREVER.]
Office Parties - There are some things that were never meant to go together. Nitric acid and zinc. Pineapple and pizza. Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas. But by far the most lethal combination - far more frightening than any mere chemical reaction or Domino’s Hawaiian - is work colleagues and alcohol. Letting loose and chilling out with your workmates might sound like a good idea at first but, by the end of the night, James from IT is dancing with his shirt off, Max from Sales is telling the Boss what he really thinks of him, and Rob from Accounting is having his way with Jill from Reception in the corner… The phrase “You’ll never live it down” was invented for Office Parties.
McDonald’s Parties - We all remember these. Due to the age ceiling, having a real McDonald’s Party is a bit difficult for those of us over 10 years old (i.e. most of the 3D World readership). However, feel free to turn up to McDonald’s with all of your mates, buy 27 soft serve cones for about eight dollars, and dance the night away. You’ll have fun. Trust me.
Cast Parties - All those weeks of rehearsing have paid off, and your musical society’s production of Jesus Christ Superstar was a huge success! Ashfield Community Hall has never seen anything like it! So, it’s time to get together one last time, have some punch, play drama games and have everyone join in a lovely sing-along of I Don’t Know How To Love Him.
Tupperware Parties - In need of some plastic containers in which to store rice, pasta, Thai stir-fry or any number of other tasty dishes? Then you’re in need of a Tupperware Party. Contact your local FridgeSmart consultant (what a job!), get together with your fellow housewives, and find out about the exciting world of keeping food fresh! Mmm! For best results, combine with Bachelor Party.
Coming-Out Parties - What better way to celebrate coming out of the closet about your BIG SECRET than holding a party? If you manage to get everyone drunk, half the people there won’t even remember your BIG SECRET by the time it’s morning - except your parents, who will disown you. Sorry.
Search Parties - Trying to find a lost loved one in a national park by torchlight with police and wilderness-trained emergency medical personnel at your side can be a fun and exciting way to spend a Friday night. Make sure you don’t forget to play the Grease Mega-Mix.
Monday, April 30, 2007
The second attempt
Fickle, fickle, fickle. That's what I am. We start a piece; I get bored.
Tell you what I'm not bored of though. Semi-colons.
Sorry, got distracted. Where was I? Yes. Fickle. Can't even buy a bloody loaf of bread cos I know I'll chuck it out after three slices. Moved to a new city; bored already. But I cna't leave until I've conquered it. I mean properly - so far I've done a real plum job of hanging out with Wilken, working and watching Prison Break re-runs on alloftv.com. There's still work to be done here though - I can't leave it till I'm sure to miss it.
Don't mistake this for what it's not. On a scale of 1 to 10 when 10 is the desire to come back to Australia, I'm at minus a couple of thou. To the power of another couple. People have been asking me lately what I've got against it. I tell them, there's nothing wrong with the place. It's just - no, you're right. It's what's wrong with the place. It's people who say things like "This is the most beautiful place in the world. How could you want to leave?" That's what's wrong with it.
Shall we start working on a little Australia versus Abroad number? Shotgun abroad.
Tell you what I'm not bored of though. Semi-colons.
Sorry, got distracted. Where was I? Yes. Fickle. Can't even buy a bloody loaf of bread cos I know I'll chuck it out after three slices. Moved to a new city; bored already. But I cna't leave until I've conquered it. I mean properly - so far I've done a real plum job of hanging out with Wilken, working and watching Prison Break re-runs on alloftv.com. There's still work to be done here though - I can't leave it till I'm sure to miss it.
Don't mistake this for what it's not. On a scale of 1 to 10 when 10 is the desire to come back to Australia, I'm at minus a couple of thou. To the power of another couple. People have been asking me lately what I've got against it. I tell them, there's nothing wrong with the place. It's just - no, you're right. It's what's wrong with the place. It's people who say things like "This is the most beautiful place in the world. How could you want to leave?" That's what's wrong with it.
Shall we start working on a little Australia versus Abroad number? Shotgun abroad.
The first attempt
Where it all begins (a horrible title)
From: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Sent: Sun 18/03/2007 8:35 PMTo: Darryn King [mailto:darrynking@optusnet.com.au]
Subject: The blank slate
For too bloody long now we’ve said we’d write something together. Get rich and famous, we said. Hell. Let’s just get fucking published first.
How can you know where to start? Plot? Character? Genre, even? Start at the start, they always say. Well – thanks a lot. That’s most helpful. I start by getting out of bed every day with big plans for it all. Then I have to go to work. I’ve not got the time to sit about planning novels. You lazy fuck. I bet that’s all you do.
I know all the tricks. Swear words. Short sentences. It’s just that nothing really comes out. Oh, I make big plans, sure. I’ve got dozens of books in the works. It’s just that I’ve never written any of them down.
Honestly? I’ve not really got anything to write about. Not anything that really means something anyway. Nothing that can sustain me for a whole book. At least your dad carked it, so you’ve got that to write about.
From: Darryn KingSent: Tues 20/03/2007 11:06 PMTo: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Subject: The tarnished slate
Alison, you tactless, twisted bitch. What part of your weed-singed brain decided that last line was a good idea? Bringing up my dad like that? Like a passing afterthought? What kind of friend does that? I don’t give you any shit about you being the closest living relative of Tom Thumb, do I?
Look, I know it was just another one of your really, really bad jokes, but… Jesus, you piss me off, Alison.
You want something to write about? Something that “really means something”? Okay. How about a coming-of-age story? How about the story of a neurotic little nerd girl who leaves Australia, gets drunk a lot, meets some rich German, and thinks about the fucking Holocaust while he fucks her from behind and she looks at an oil painting of Martin Luther on the wall? Hmm?
Or has that been done?
From: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Sent: Tues 20/03/2007 7:32 PMTo: Darryn King
Subject: The meticulous rebuttal
I’ll have you know that my ability to make use of tact, believe it or not, is on the increase. I need it these days. When my Saudi students asked me in class today about religion and starting bollocksing on about souls and prophets and whatnot I even suppressed a scoff.
Twisted I most certainly am not. I pride myself on my physical condition with all the confidence of someone who exercises AT LEAST once every three months. You won’t find a hint of scoliosis here (boom boom).
Weed-singed? I object. I’m not you. Obviously.
As you will no doubt conclude if you look back at my last passage, I most certainly did not bring up your dad as a passing afterthought. It was much more of a climacteric, moment-of-truth-like apogee.
If you’re going to draw analogies between me and diminutive but much-loved cartoon characters I’d much prefer Tiny Tim, thanks very much.
Neurotic little nerd girl? Excuse me? No – wait. You got me on that one.
As for the fucking Holocaust, fucking Luther and all that fucking jazz … that was a piece of fiction and you bloody well know it.
Finally, I’d like to point out a major flaw in what you’ve done to ‘our story’ so far. Are you trying to destroy this thing already? You’ve not allowed any room for character development, or any measure of plot. You’ve just gone and jumped right in there, haven’t you - bringing up all that Holocaust shit. How can you expect a reader to keep up with your dribbling!
P.S. You’ll note my use of exclamation point over question mark there; I’ve used it to express incredulity at your premature idiocy, and because I know that you’re very personally and particularly opposed to them. After all, the pen is mightier than the sword, no?
P.P.S. Those of you with half a brain, unlike my lax correspondent, Darryn, will note the apparent discrepancy in the time at which the last two e-mails were sent. Sadly, I’ve not deciphered the mysteries of time travel, though had I done so I’d surely be getting more pay right now than a bloody cheeseparing teacher’s salary (so on that note it might be something to consider). Rather, it is the age-old northern-southern hemisphere divide that … well, that divides us.
From: Darryn KingSent: Wed 21/03/2007 9:29 PMTo: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Subject: The rules of engagement
My dear Wormwood,
All right. Obviously I was a little bit on edge in that last email. If I trod on your character development, I apologise. Likewise, I think you should apologise for that terrible scoliosis joke. Hell, I think you should get down on your knees and beg forgiveness for it.
Anyway, where were we? Oh, right: ‘our story’.
I think this might be a good time to lay down some ground rules.
No addressing ‘the reader’. What is this, Robinson fucking Crusoe? Alison, this whole concept is postmodern and pretentious enough already without you resorting to that. Please.
A few stylistic preferences: minimal italics, minimal exclamation marks, and no emoticons. For goodness sake. Not to mention this atrocious font… but I expect we can change that later.
This should go without saying, but just in case: let’s not turn this into one of those stories about ‘soul mates at far-flung corners of the earth, destined to be together’. A bit predictable, don’t you think? Instead, over the course of this correspondence, one of us should invent an artificially intelligent robot that develops emotions. Everyone can enjoy that.
Dibs being the unreliable narrator. Maybe I’m not really who I say I am? Or possibly you’re a figment of my imagination, which frankly would be desirable sometimes.
Let’s not say anything about our dirty weekend in Reykjavík. Let’s just keep that between ourselves.
Keep on writing. I mean, this thing could be pretty good – provided we don’t slack off, or just abruptly abandon it. There’s no pride in an unfinished book. The Diary of Anne Frank, for example. Laziness.
Both of us have to cut down on our lists.
That’s all for now. I’m typing this in my last hour of my last day at Career FAQs. I should probably delete all the porn from my computer.
From: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Sent: Tues 20/03/2007 7:32 PMTo: Darryn King
Subject: The ground rules revisited
Be the unreliable narrator then. But do not, under any circumstances, try to introduce any of that Magic Shit to this little number. You know how I feel about zombies, vampires and Harry Potter. I’m afraid that robots fall into that category too.
Second – and note that I’ve worked my list into prose here – must you persist with this fake innuendo about the two of us? I feel that it cheapens things and may lead they-of-whom-we-do-not-speak to suspect that some form of plot along these lines is going to develop. There’s nothing worse than watching some cheesy piece of Romance Shit unfold into a wow-I’d-never-have-guessed-they’d-get-together [insert sarcasm] type ditty. Please respect said pretentious post-modernism and refrain from any form of banter that may be construed as a potentially definable relationship. Think of yourself as a vehicle. I’m thinking of a boxter – wannabe flashy but with a bit more under the bonnet than one would think. So don’t fake that oozing pheromones stuff with me. Just write.
From: Darryn KingSent: Wed 04/04/2007 9:35 PMTo: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Subject: The rules of engagement
Fine. No zombies. No love story. No zombie love story, even.
I should point out that your dates are totally wack, though. Bit rich, you calling me your “lax correspondent”. It took you a week and a half to produce a couple of paragraphs, but apparently you’re trying to make it look like you responded to me before you had anything to respond to. A valiant effort.
Sure, sure… “work” and all that. We all “work”, Alison. It’s called “time management”.
And this font is awful.
From: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Sent: Thurs 05/04/2007 3:45 PMTo: Darryn King
Subject: At least I remembered to change my subject line
Quite frankly I’d have thought the need for you to come up with your own font was on the rather self-evident, goes-without-saying side. Clearly we need to differentiate ourselves for the benefit of those-of-whom-we-do-not-speak (okay, I promise – that was the last time). You’re the unreliable narrator, as previously stated; I’ll admit to being a little lax now and then. (Note: only because I’ve got a life.)
Speaking of said life, it’s really wearing me down right now. Last week I was interviewed for the university newspaper for one of their regular English-language columns called “My Fabulous Neighbourhood.” I know, with a title like that I was clearly setting myself up for embarrassment. But it turned out worse than I expected. In turns out, in fact, that I’m an arrogant bitch. I was quoted saying all sorts of lines like “Riding a bike is social suicide” (not clever in a country where bikes are more in vogue than cars – not to mention the fact that my boss and indeed all workplace superiors ride bikes to work); “Why does everyone in this country wear their pants so high?” (said employer and workmates again); and “I live in town because the suburbs here are just so crappy” (ditto).
Luckily, I’ve had a raging fever all week and had to call in sick to work. Talk about timely.
From: Darryn KingSent: Fri 06/04/2007 7:57 PMTo: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Subject: Subject lines
I was just about to suggest we stop writing about our writing and just write… so good.
Sounds like an exposé rather than an article. What was that about tact we were talking about a few emails ago…?
You’d better watch yourself. Your bicycling, high-pantsed, suburbia-dwelling boss is paying your way through a Master’s degree, remember.
And—this sounds rather feeble coming in a little email from the other side of the world—but I hope you recover from your fever. (Also, I figure I’d might as well start taking my character development into my own hands. I’m the nice one.)
As for my life, it took me five hours to get home last night/this morning. I missed the midnight train out of the city (possibly because I was in the middle of a necking match in Circular Quay), and went to catch a nightrider bus. Three successive buses – an hour’s wait each – were too full to let me on, even with my well developed negotiating skills (“Give a guy a fucking break!”).
Admittedly, I did enjoy some free entertainment during my wait. A couple of fat, slobbering, beer-soaked council workers were waiting for a nightrider to Mt Druitt. The repartee would have made Oscar Wilde proud:
Bogan 1: [wincing at the completely incorrect bus timetable:] How do you read this?
Bogan 2: I don’t fucking know!
Bogan 1 hits the timetable with the underside of his palm as if to knock it into submission.
Then there were two uni fellows, dressed only in purple togas and laurels and shivering away, telling anyone who dared to listen about their unsuccessful romantic exploits that evening. (“They told us they’d show us their tits if we showed them our penises! They didn’t… And it was cold.”) At one stage they sat on the ground opposite me, and it nearly got very Basic Instinct.
Then there were two guys who greeted each other “Hi Bert!”, “Hi Ernie!” ad infinitum and tried to high-five every single person that walked past… Not that interesting, come to think of it. I only mentioned them so that there were three lots.
From: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Sent: Sun 18/03/2007 8:35 PMTo: Darryn King [mailto:darrynking@optusnet.com.au]
Subject: The blank slate
For too bloody long now we’ve said we’d write something together. Get rich and famous, we said. Hell. Let’s just get fucking published first.
How can you know where to start? Plot? Character? Genre, even? Start at the start, they always say. Well – thanks a lot. That’s most helpful. I start by getting out of bed every day with big plans for it all. Then I have to go to work. I’ve not got the time to sit about planning novels. You lazy fuck. I bet that’s all you do.
I know all the tricks. Swear words. Short sentences. It’s just that nothing really comes out. Oh, I make big plans, sure. I’ve got dozens of books in the works. It’s just that I’ve never written any of them down.
Honestly? I’ve not really got anything to write about. Not anything that really means something anyway. Nothing that can sustain me for a whole book. At least your dad carked it, so you’ve got that to write about.
From: Darryn KingSent: Tues 20/03/2007 11:06 PMTo: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Subject: The tarnished slate
Alison, you tactless, twisted bitch. What part of your weed-singed brain decided that last line was a good idea? Bringing up my dad like that? Like a passing afterthought? What kind of friend does that? I don’t give you any shit about you being the closest living relative of Tom Thumb, do I?
Look, I know it was just another one of your really, really bad jokes, but… Jesus, you piss me off, Alison.
You want something to write about? Something that “really means something”? Okay. How about a coming-of-age story? How about the story of a neurotic little nerd girl who leaves Australia, gets drunk a lot, meets some rich German, and thinks about the fucking Holocaust while he fucks her from behind and she looks at an oil painting of Martin Luther on the wall? Hmm?
Or has that been done?
From: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Sent: Tues 20/03/2007 7:32 PMTo: Darryn King
Subject: The meticulous rebuttal
I’ll have you know that my ability to make use of tact, believe it or not, is on the increase. I need it these days. When my Saudi students asked me in class today about religion and starting bollocksing on about souls and prophets and whatnot I even suppressed a scoff.
Twisted I most certainly am not. I pride myself on my physical condition with all the confidence of someone who exercises AT LEAST once every three months. You won’t find a hint of scoliosis here (boom boom).
Weed-singed? I object. I’m not you. Obviously.
As you will no doubt conclude if you look back at my last passage, I most certainly did not bring up your dad as a passing afterthought. It was much more of a climacteric, moment-of-truth-like apogee.
If you’re going to draw analogies between me and diminutive but much-loved cartoon characters I’d much prefer Tiny Tim, thanks very much.
Neurotic little nerd girl? Excuse me? No – wait. You got me on that one.
As for the fucking Holocaust, fucking Luther and all that fucking jazz … that was a piece of fiction and you bloody well know it.
Finally, I’d like to point out a major flaw in what you’ve done to ‘our story’ so far. Are you trying to destroy this thing already? You’ve not allowed any room for character development, or any measure of plot. You’ve just gone and jumped right in there, haven’t you - bringing up all that Holocaust shit. How can you expect a reader to keep up with your dribbling!
P.S. You’ll note my use of exclamation point over question mark there; I’ve used it to express incredulity at your premature idiocy, and because I know that you’re very personally and particularly opposed to them. After all, the pen is mightier than the sword, no?
P.P.S. Those of you with half a brain, unlike my lax correspondent, Darryn, will note the apparent discrepancy in the time at which the last two e-mails were sent. Sadly, I’ve not deciphered the mysteries of time travel, though had I done so I’d surely be getting more pay right now than a bloody cheeseparing teacher’s salary (so on that note it might be something to consider). Rather, it is the age-old northern-southern hemisphere divide that … well, that divides us.
From: Darryn KingSent: Wed 21/03/2007 9:29 PMTo: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Subject: The rules of engagement
My dear Wormwood,
All right. Obviously I was a little bit on edge in that last email. If I trod on your character development, I apologise. Likewise, I think you should apologise for that terrible scoliosis joke. Hell, I think you should get down on your knees and beg forgiveness for it.
Anyway, where were we? Oh, right: ‘our story’.
I think this might be a good time to lay down some ground rules.
No addressing ‘the reader’. What is this, Robinson fucking Crusoe? Alison, this whole concept is postmodern and pretentious enough already without you resorting to that. Please.
A few stylistic preferences: minimal italics, minimal exclamation marks, and no emoticons. For goodness sake. Not to mention this atrocious font… but I expect we can change that later.
This should go without saying, but just in case: let’s not turn this into one of those stories about ‘soul mates at far-flung corners of the earth, destined to be together’. A bit predictable, don’t you think? Instead, over the course of this correspondence, one of us should invent an artificially intelligent robot that develops emotions. Everyone can enjoy that.
Dibs being the unreliable narrator. Maybe I’m not really who I say I am? Or possibly you’re a figment of my imagination, which frankly would be desirable sometimes.
Let’s not say anything about our dirty weekend in Reykjavík. Let’s just keep that between ourselves.
Keep on writing. I mean, this thing could be pretty good – provided we don’t slack off, or just abruptly abandon it. There’s no pride in an unfinished book. The Diary of Anne Frank, for example. Laziness.
Both of us have to cut down on our lists.
That’s all for now. I’m typing this in my last hour of my last day at Career FAQs. I should probably delete all the porn from my computer.
From: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Sent: Tues 20/03/2007 7:32 PMTo: Darryn King
Subject: The ground rules revisited
Be the unreliable narrator then. But do not, under any circumstances, try to introduce any of that Magic Shit to this little number. You know how I feel about zombies, vampires and Harry Potter. I’m afraid that robots fall into that category too.
Second – and note that I’ve worked my list into prose here – must you persist with this fake innuendo about the two of us? I feel that it cheapens things and may lead they-of-whom-we-do-not-speak to suspect that some form of plot along these lines is going to develop. There’s nothing worse than watching some cheesy piece of Romance Shit unfold into a wow-I’d-never-have-guessed-they’d-get-together [insert sarcasm] type ditty. Please respect said pretentious post-modernism and refrain from any form of banter that may be construed as a potentially definable relationship. Think of yourself as a vehicle. I’m thinking of a boxter – wannabe flashy but with a bit more under the bonnet than one would think. So don’t fake that oozing pheromones stuff with me. Just write.
From: Darryn KingSent: Wed 04/04/2007 9:35 PMTo: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Subject: The rules of engagement
Fine. No zombies. No love story. No zombie love story, even.
I should point out that your dates are totally wack, though. Bit rich, you calling me your “lax correspondent”. It took you a week and a half to produce a couple of paragraphs, but apparently you’re trying to make it look like you responded to me before you had anything to respond to. A valiant effort.
Sure, sure… “work” and all that. We all “work”, Alison. It’s called “time management”.
And this font is awful.
From: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Sent: Thurs 05/04/2007 3:45 PMTo: Darryn King
Subject: At least I remembered to change my subject line
Quite frankly I’d have thought the need for you to come up with your own font was on the rather self-evident, goes-without-saying side. Clearly we need to differentiate ourselves for the benefit of those-of-whom-we-do-not-speak (okay, I promise – that was the last time). You’re the unreliable narrator, as previously stated; I’ll admit to being a little lax now and then. (Note: only because I’ve got a life.)
Speaking of said life, it’s really wearing me down right now. Last week I was interviewed for the university newspaper for one of their regular English-language columns called “My Fabulous Neighbourhood.” I know, with a title like that I was clearly setting myself up for embarrassment. But it turned out worse than I expected. In turns out, in fact, that I’m an arrogant bitch. I was quoted saying all sorts of lines like “Riding a bike is social suicide” (not clever in a country where bikes are more in vogue than cars – not to mention the fact that my boss and indeed all workplace superiors ride bikes to work); “Why does everyone in this country wear their pants so high?” (said employer and workmates again); and “I live in town because the suburbs here are just so crappy” (ditto).
Luckily, I’ve had a raging fever all week and had to call in sick to work. Talk about timely.
From: Darryn KingSent: Fri 06/04/2007 7:57 PMTo: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Subject: Subject lines
I was just about to suggest we stop writing about our writing and just write… so good.
Sounds like an exposé rather than an article. What was that about tact we were talking about a few emails ago…?
You’d better watch yourself. Your bicycling, high-pantsed, suburbia-dwelling boss is paying your way through a Master’s degree, remember.
And—this sounds rather feeble coming in a little email from the other side of the world—but I hope you recover from your fever. (Also, I figure I’d might as well start taking my character development into my own hands. I’m the nice one.)
As for my life, it took me five hours to get home last night/this morning. I missed the midnight train out of the city (possibly because I was in the middle of a necking match in Circular Quay), and went to catch a nightrider bus. Three successive buses – an hour’s wait each – were too full to let me on, even with my well developed negotiating skills (“Give a guy a fucking break!”).
Admittedly, I did enjoy some free entertainment during my wait. A couple of fat, slobbering, beer-soaked council workers were waiting for a nightrider to Mt Druitt. The repartee would have made Oscar Wilde proud:
Bogan 1: [wincing at the completely incorrect bus timetable:] How do you read this?
Bogan 2: I don’t fucking know!
Bogan 1 hits the timetable with the underside of his palm as if to knock it into submission.
Then there were two uni fellows, dressed only in purple togas and laurels and shivering away, telling anyone who dared to listen about their unsuccessful romantic exploits that evening. (“They told us they’d show us their tits if we showed them our penises! They didn’t… And it was cold.”) At one stage they sat on the ground opposite me, and it nearly got very Basic Instinct.
Then there were two guys who greeted each other “Hi Bert!”, “Hi Ernie!” ad infinitum and tried to high-five every single person that walked past… Not that interesting, come to think of it. I only mentioned them so that there were three lots.
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