Me not knowing the game isn't entirely true however as I have heard of it in passing. I know others play it and it's mainly targeted at people aged 13-99. Wide age gap I know, but it's unlike any game I'll ever review.

And since I'm not currently in the midst of reviewing it, I feel the need to write a preview on it. Sure, it's been out for a while but I feel like someone should write a preview of this game based on knowledge and facts and other useful tidbits that Juliet is trying to teach me.

So here it is.

Preview: Hard To Get (Real Life)

Most games have a requirement of some sort of computer or video game system. For instance, Halo 3 currently requires an Xbox 360, Heavenly Sword needs a PlayStation 3, and Supreme Commander makes you suck the lightning out of God's nipples using you as the conduit to power your terribly slow computer.

And then there's one game you can play that doesn't need the highest spec PC or the most expensive and brilliant piece of gaming technology on the planet. All you need to play that game is a passing interest in someone you fancy.

Hard To Get is the game in which you attempt to gain the one you desire, whether that be for a moment, a one night stand, a relationship, or the ultimate achievement score – a life-long relationship like marriage or just happiness.

But it's also a game aimed to confuse the living daylights out of you. You may well be versed in the quick response times of your WASD keys, a mouse, and an itchy trigger finger but can you resist the urge to call?

Indeed it's an interesting parallel, the shift from digital fantasy to absolute reality so let's take a look at some of these so-called rules which even during my preview I'm beginning to wonder why they should even exist.

Call Infrequently

This is one of the first levels of this game and while this is a preview, telling you about the game's structure in this fashion won't even act as a spoiler in the slightest.

When you find that person to play the game with you and you've done that first pre-game part of getting that number, you're asked not to sound too desperate.

Big ask for a geek like you or I, I know, but just bear with me while bludgeon the semantics of this game together. Bludgeon it bloodily while confused.

By not sounding desperate I mean that when he or she asks when you wish to see them, make an excuse that you're busy to make them want you more.

Okay, allow me to pull out one of my dreaded Weapons Of Reviewer Doom. This is The Mace Of Severe & Pointless Points.

Now this might come as a surprise to some people, but somehow I don't quite understand the whole idea of "beating around the bush". Masturbation aside, "beating around the bush" just feels plain old dishonest.

If I want to get to know someone then lying to them about not being busy just makes me look like an ass, or in my mind anyway. So why should it be necessary that I stall and make excuses to stave off the meeting with someone I might eventually fall for?

I'm told by not doing it I will be seen as desperate, but how does desperation present itself when you desire the chance to see someone whom you like?

*beats living hell out of this point with his mace until it's well and truly bloody*

Well, what next…

Don't Compliment Too Often

Women like compliments. In fact, the sexism of that last statement can be damned: everyone likes compliments.

But do it too much and you might be seen as the obsessive-compulsive freak that you know you are but is hoping no one else will pick up on.

I find this odd so I'm unsheathing my Courageous & Careless Compliment Cannon.

If I find someone beautiful, I'm going to say so. Being a man who prefers to write rather than speak, I tend not to know anything really to say so if I say that you're beautiful or some word like it, I'm saying it because I want to. Surely that shouldn't make me any worse than what I am.

*…and with a loud blam, a hole is blown through part of that level*

It just seems odd. Why is there a set of limitations imposed on how many times I can issue a compliment?

*…and with another huge explosion, the rest is blown to smithareens*

These levels don't get any easier. Still, we're now going to take a gander at the next level in this constant game…

Pick Up On Body Language

It's important to know what your opponent is doing in the heat of a battle, even if that opponent is someone you'd like to sleep with and the heat was the sort of heat you hoped would happen as two lovers became entwined.

One way to make sure you know what's going on is to develop skills like ESP and know what they're thinking. For those of us who lack the higher brain wave function that we're unlikely to have for years to come, there's always "body language".

Body language requires the ability to interpret actions and gestures that your gaming partner is making. It can be hard and if you're anything like me, you were born without the ability to interpret this strange and mystical skill.

But you must master this skill to move onto the next level as there are no cheats.

Well, none that I’ve heard of anyway.

Patronising Only Makes You Look Like An Ass…

…and that's fine if you happen to be wearing a wife-beater and you're both currently engaged in a life-long pursuit to see which of you is the greater irritation but for the rest of you, try to resist.

When you're finally in the game, making yourself more of an ass than you normally are is only going to be like lobbing a frag grenade at your genitals.
Sure, it might help to get you laid from someone who likes it when you call them bitch (now smack them, yeah, yeah) but ultimately, behaving like the ass that you is ill-advised.

Learn to be nicer.

I haven’t gotten to play much of this game. I’m hoping to quite soon though I must tell you, the thought of not being myself just to play cat & mouse in the hopes that I can satiate my love & lust desires doesn’t appeal to me. It’s not the sort of game I can see myself playing.

It’s just too… ridiculous. Even for me.

Sort of.

Click on the image to get a slightly bigger version!

It was a fashion show per se as there was a designers wares (clothing) being shown off… but the primary intention was models walking down a runway holding laptops… fanning themselves with laptops… doing stuff with laptops…

Click on the image to get a slightly bigger version!

The highlight came at the end when the models were walking off of the runway with the laptops and planting them on the tables that those of us press people were sitting at. One of the girls came over and planted a Qosmio, the big and powerful one on the table I was seated at. She opened it up and we were greeted with… a blue screen of death. Go Vista, go!

I seem to have connections up the wazoo in the fashion industry and I have no idea why. I have a nice hat; people like my hat. I can teach people photography. I've also always had a thing for Texan girls. We're getting ahead of ourselves or rather, I'm getting ahead of all of you.

I'll just start where it happened.

Bowie was having a one year birthday party at The Strand last night. He wasn't turning one year old as that would have just been stupid; his store was turning one year old. The celebration — which wasn't as populated as I'd originally anticipated — came complete with gift-bags (filled with a scarf, cd singles, and Mentos among other things), happy & tall models, and Tempus Two wine. Sweet wine. The wine really should sell itself as "fizzy lolly water for rich people who don't actually like wine."

Anyway, Wendell was there by the time I'd gotten there. He introduced me to a friend of his named Kim who is a make-up artist. She's a nice girl. 

Wendell and Kim later on that night. You can tell it was me who took the photo because Wendell's flicking me off.

Now, people who know me or read my blog will have figured out that I'm not exactly the best socialite and ordinarily I'll just stand in the corner thinking amongst myself until someone comes over to talk to me.Well, last night Kim and I both stood and chatted from the best corner of The Stand. I'll have to reserve that corner the next time someone has one of these things as it really was a nice corner. Throughout the event, we even had people come up and talk to us. Model friends of Wendell's came up and chatted and Bowie — friend and client of mine — dropped by a few times too. Kim's a good person. That much I can tell from the few hours I spent with her last night. Wendell's friends are nice too.

Mind you, I'm still not used to the height of models. It's a bit jarring knowing that you have to crane your head up to see beauty. 

Anyway, I stayed with Kim and Wendell's friends the entire two hours that the event was on.

People there seem disjointed socially. In a way, it's like a school or uni event all over again with groups arriving and staying in their only little bits. The rich with the rich, the old friends with the old friends. The photographers all weave in and out of the groups for photos like bees bouncing from flower to flower looking for pollen. The models are all as free as the birds that normally hunt the bees, only that the models aren't hunting the photographers and are all about having a good time. It's interesting.

The birthday event at The Strand was set to end at around 8.30. It pretty much died at around 8.30… that really would be the best way of putting it. By then, it was Wendell, Kim, the models, myself and the crew from Cream Magazine drinking wine and chatting it up. It was time to retreat. Drunken retreats and whatnot back down Pitt Street Mall and to the Cream building… or at least the floor with the Cream office in it.

As we walk down Pitt Street, Lauren grabbed my hat and did some posing while Wendell snapped. Photo by Wendell Teodoro.

That's where the party went for a while. Mind you it wasn't late. I kept checking my phone thinking it was because, well, I was a bit tired having come straight from work. In my head, it was later than it actually was. But I stayed on because seriously, how often do I get to go out? And further, how often do I get to go out with people who don't want to throw me out of a window?! You think I'm kidding, but I think you shouldn't.  

It's hard to describe what being at a fashion party is like. The people are beautiful, but where you'd normally expect them to be up themselves they actually don't seem that way at all. Maybe it's a Cream thing. The people there seem like really good people.  Antonino, the editor, is a really nice guy. Very warm and friendly. Michael is cool as is Rachel. Rachel's also hot. Very hot. I could fall in love with those eyes forever. I think I already have, mind you.

Anyway, the party at Cream HQ consisted of a lot of vodka, Red Bull, and anything else that contained a lick of alcohol in it that the party as an entity could pretty much get its hands on. I guess that's an unusual Tuesday, a unique Tuesday, but a gorgeous Tuesday all the same. At one point Wendell went off in one of the clear rooms and was taking pictures of Lauren (a model) and Assia (another model, I think that's how you spell her name) doing… you know… stuff. Not THAT sort of stuff, but stuff in general. It's posing. I don't know what you write it as. I'm barely a journalist as it is and I'm tired as so I'm doing my best here at the moment.

Kim looks hard into the camera so she can take a picture…

…of these two together…

…which looks like this!

Not long after that random shoot was done, we went back to the office and there was more drinking followed by the decision to head to the editor's place for the continued party.

Remember that the group wasn't that big. Really it was maybe 10-15 people, and probably 12. I can't remember entirely and I didn't count so I really am guessing, but it's not a large amount of people. They're good people though.

We piled into a few taxis and made our way to The Cross. I was in the Cream Crew Taxi… that has a nice ring to it so I'm going to use it. I was in the Cream Crew Taxi — the CCT as I'm calling it for this particular moment in time — and headed for The Cross. What can I say about a taxi ride. Nothing. Geeze. Let's move on. 

We got out and Kim, Wendell, Lauren and I waited for the rest of the group. And as we waited, Lauren did spontaneous modeling. It attracts attention, but she seems to know how to get over the random guys driving buy who seriously think they have a chance with her. Seriously, if there are any guys who think this when you drive by in you pumped up piece of shit with your mates looking sick, mate, sick… do yourself a favour and just go home and jack off to the image you got when you drove by her. That's as close as you're going to get.

Nothing to see here. Move along people. Nothing to see here but models posing for no apparent reason in Kings Cross. Move along…

Try telling this guy to move along. He had his camera out and just– oh wait… that's Wendell. Nah, he's fine.

When the rest of them got there, those of who now existed and weren't up in the party clamored into the elevator and made it a sardine can comparatively speaking. We got up to the level and rushed out into the arms of awaiting party friends. Shit seriously, I've got no way of writing about this sort of thing. Really, if I thought
it was hard to describe a fashion party before, you have no idea the hell I'm going through right now in trying to twist and mangle words to make them fit how I need to describe this.

Antonino and Assia in the bathroom. What are they doing? Fucked if I know. Looks ciggy related. Why don't you ask them? Photo by Wendell Teodoro (and very Nan Goldin Wendell… good work).

Let me try it like this: there was dancing, drinking, holding, touching, grabbing, smoking, talking, photographing, laughing and that was only what I saw. At points, the bathroom was locked with a few people in it doing who knows what (well they do, but I'm working with what I got here) and at one point I swear I saw breasts in the kitchen.

"Breasts in the kitchen! Breasts in the kitchen!" the reader of this blog says wildly. "Why the fuck didn't you invite me if there were going to be breasts in the kitchen?!" Well geeze, how was I to know. I didn't even realise there were breasts in the kitchen when there actually were breasts in the kitchen.

Cut me some slack here and meet Rachel. I think I'm spelling it right. I've got no idea so I'm winging it but Rachel isn't a model but she is gorgeous. She's a Dallas girl… which is a brilliant coincidence for where I lived in America. She's a North Dallas girl, but she's not a Plano girl. And she's gorgeous and stunning and she's got a brain which is great too. I quite liked talk to her.

And then there was this guy (he's the non-blurry one):

I never got his name, but I have his mobile number and he has mine because he wanted me to teach him photography. So I showed him some that night with Wendell's camera. He got some basic camera operation, some flash bouncing, and some composition lessons that night. And he used them when Rachel and I were kissing. She's wonderful. Like… fuck, I hadn't kissed anyone in ages. Not by choice, just because people don't generally want to kiss me… and she is a breath of fresh air. Great lips to go with the already stunning eyes. 

Anyway, I've now got a sort-of-crush…!..!…..!– THIS BLOG IS BEING INTERRUPTED BY LEIGH'S SCHIZOPHRENIC EVIL CONSCIENCE — Fuck Leigh, who the fuck are you kidding. "Sort-of-crush"… shit man, don't make me beat you with my schizophrenic evil conscience bat motherfucker, cause I'll do it. And then how the fuck are you going to explain that one, biatch. You walk into a wall, motherfucker? That's what I thought–

*Leigh flicks his schizophrenic evil conscience into the oblivion that is the dark recesses of his untouched soul… or at least to the PM's residence…* 

I didn't think I'd escape a blog without a visit from the evil… whatever it is…

Anyway, yeah. So there was that side of things. I heard there was other stuff going on as well.

There was also a sweet lady by the name of Melissa who is a fashion designer. Nice lady… wanted me to dance… but I don't dance. She persisted and persisted and eventually I had to go because… FUCK! It was late and I have a day job that requires me to do a lot of writing and is in a part of Sydney that requires an early get up time and what not. So I said goodbye to the nice people, the warm Antonino, the gorgeous Rachel, the friendly Michael, and anyone else in the main bit of the room that was there. I didn't say goodbye to Kim or Wendell. They were in one of the other rooms doing something… who knows what (well yes, they know what, duh) and once I'd started to leave, I didn't want to make a big thing out of it because really, it's just me and my hat that's leaving.

I had fun. That's the aftermath. I did enjoy myself. I didn't actually expect any of what happened to happen so it was a nice change from what normally happens on a Tuesday night for me: go home, dinner, surf the web, do whatever it is I do on a Tuesday before I try the mind boggling task of falling asleep.

I would like to do it again. I'd like to meet up with Rachel again if I could. I'd like to meet up with a lot of them. They're nice people.

Maybe we'll do it again soon and this time I won't have the responsibility of work the next day to keep me from getting slightly more tipsy.  

More photos in the "continued reading" bit… 

Wendell gives Emily a nice kiss on the cheek. Photo from Wendell Teodoro's camera, but who took it… no one knows…

Assia and Lauren come out of the bathroom. Photo by Wendell Teodoro.

Assia and Lauren pose on Ikea furniture for Wendell. Photo by Wendell Teodoro.

…and Michael joins in on the action. Lucky bastard… Photo by Wendell Teodoro.

Drink up, Wendell! The night is young! Image by me! Yay!

Assia and Kim makes faces. Yeah. That's hot. I even remember taking this image. There were 3 or 4 or 5 I had to do of em… 

The gorgeous Ms. Rachel live… err… well… in a photo anyway

And now for some more crappy images from my phone camera…

Back at Cream HQ…

Lauren! Wave your hands like you just don't care! Yeah baby, yeah!

Months of hoping, wishing, and waiting for the right time to see if I could eventually ask her out and be taken a little bit more truthfully than the joker and "good friend" that I am… gone.

Not gone, but not like they were.

How life progresses for those of us whom are good to everything but ourselves is unkind itself. People don't flock our way. They don't look towards us thinking how nice it would be to talk to that person for more than the ten seconds it takes to find out what they need before buggering off. We get but a few people who take an honest interest and don't exist purely to take, take take.

I'm not thoroughly surprised, mind you. One of her friends had told me that I had no chance. She's my best friend but like the best friend in the 80's John Hughes movies, surely I can hope for more. Regardless of this, I love her. That's not going to change whether the love is of a "yearning for" nature or "loving like a best friend" nature. 

If she reads this blog (which she probably won't since all of 9 people read this blog) then she'll know that I love her. I don't know how I love her. I can't explain "love", not really being exposed to it per se. I've never really been exposed to "love" with anyone outside of family. People don't normally give me that chance. Even if she reads this blog, I hope she doesn't let it change what we have, the friendship that none of her boyfriends — past or future — can really touch. She's a great girl.

Still, the bullshit that people like myself go through makes me wonder whether anything we choose to do makes a difference. I sit here with Live's "Freak" going on through my over-sized headphones staring at the tacky off-grey paint in the train cabin wondering if I can really do anything to help myself. 

Is there anything that I can do to save myself from the bottom less lack of luck that I seem to have or am I just a child of circumstance?

It seems silly to ask — especially in knowing that 9 people are reading my blog — so just deal with me as I try to use the blog as a means of venting the frustration that builds up inside of me because really… there isn't any other way for me to release it.

I already act out of character from what most people expect from me. I have a dark sort of smile, facial hair, and I wear a hat. People probably expect me to be more shadowy and I've been accused of stalking before, but the reality is far from what people seem to think. I'm quiet unless provoked or I have something to say, and at the moment I write all day with my hands so speaking isn't exactly the first thing on my mind. I stand inside the cabin of the trains as they make their way home, headphones over my hat. I listen to the music of people with passion and love for a craft… and I listen to people who only exist to make money. It doesn't really matter in the end.

I'm zany. Insane. Eccentric. Fucked up. In fact, you'd be hard pressed to find someone who displays eccentricities like mine. That's my ego talking, and it rarely does. Talk that is. I give others room to talk.

And even with that, people don't seem to want to approach me. Sure, I have a few friends and they're good. She's a great friend. I hope it stays that way. It's been brilliant the past few months when she was single. It was like having a really close friend… something I haven't been able to really have for ages… I don't know why. Outside of my brother of course.

This isn't one of those pity stories. I don't want pity. I want friendship.

Regardless, I'll get down to the point of it.

No matter what I try to do, no matter who I seem to meet, who I seem to like, who I seem to be kind to, talk to, think about, and fall for… I can't seem to win. It's not a prize, though it is in a way. Machoism in men presents itself in nightclubs when guys go out with mates and they all try to head home with a girl. Those that don't are the losers. This is similar in this way. I'm not trying to go home with anyone, but in attempting to befriend someone, I tend to go home the loser.

And I don't feel sorry for myself. I'm so sick of random people telling me that you'll get people liking you if you stop feeling sorry for yourself. Those people need to pull their heads from their arses and come up with a slightly more interesting answer that doesn't reflect the only situation they've ever thought of. I don't feel sorry for myself. I more feel sorry for people who look at me expecting something that I'm not going to give them.

Still, in cases like the macho guys (who generally have about as much intellect as an M&M), they have people they can go out with. They're the guys who they can go to clubs with and talk to each other and try to pick up people, make friends, lovers, enemies, whatever. 

I don't have that. I don't have friends that want to go out with me. Does this make me a child of circumstance? No matter what happens in my life, the events are circumstantial because every time I try to exert any force over them, nothing seems to take shape. Am I child of circumstance?

For the past few weeks, I've had a strange thought going through my head. While I've been waiting at Town Hall station for the train back to Bondi, it's always the same thought over and over again.

As the train approaches, I wonder: what would it be like to throw myself in front of it? 

It's not so much suicidal as it is curiosity. I wonder what the freedom of free air underneath my body as I make the jump right before the tons of steel and glass smash into my body and shatter the bones like a sledgehammer to a majestic ice sculpture. The blood would spray against the windshield alarming the driver and spattering a few specks of red on the few passengers who choose to wait to sit in the emptiness of the front cabin. It's empty there in case the train crashes because people seem to fear death, but what if someone crashed into the train? The splash of red might give the dismal and miserable dark grey wall of Town Hall a nicer tinge. 

It's a lot about the freedom, to know that for a split second before my death and right after I jump… I'd be free. I wouldn't have to think about being a child of circumstance nor would I have to worry about the world and all of its problems. There's a car bomb in England. A boat leaking oil in Newcastle. A family member's car has been broken into. All of it would go and for one second — maybe not even that much — I wouldn't even have to worry.

It's probably not worth thinking about. I should probably just go and get myself a few-month membership and RedHotPie and see if that helps the whole lack of friends and lovers thing. I just hope my curiosity doesn't get the best of me while I'm still working out if I'm a child of circumstance.

Must be one of those sort of nights. Full moon and all. 

Good luck to me and may I have better luck for the near future for my quest.

Don’t worry. You read that right. It doesn’t make any sense, and I’m not entirely sure whether I’m capable of making sense at 2:22 in the morning.

A Friday morning, for that matter.

How long will it be before the Saint of monetary values, St. George, sends me a message by way of the great wireless tin can telling me how little of that monetary amount I have left in my account.

That might be one reason as to why I can’t get the womens: no money.

That doesn’t matter to this chick.

She’s happy to share her room in Japan with any white guys under the age of 35 provided she can have sex with them. Well, yeah… sure… I mean, sex is a very depressing thing and surely I should leave parts of myself at the lobby in case an ethereal nun floats on by and wants to beat me with a bible… but you know, what the fuck! In fact… let’s just get rid of the “what the” altogether, Keiko! Let’s just fuck!

Her fascination with people’s kidneys and waking up in a bath-tub without one concerns me slightly.

I mean sure, if I were to sleep with a hot Asian lady and get room & board included in the price, I’d expect to have to pay for something… but a kidney is worth far more than 25 bucks (that’s 2,245 yen for you, Keiko) so in my mind… I’m getting ripped off.

I mean hell, for a kidney, I’d want to be getting my money’s worth. A blowjob and fucking for the price of a kidney should at the very least come with a video of the event and a shirt to let people know[/url] that you did the deed and all you got was this lousy fucking t-shirt (and one less kidney).

Seriously, short of this whole thing being one big joke, where are the girls in Australia that advertise like this?

You don’t see advertisements in the classified section of the Sydney Morning Herald saying “20 yr old law student seeks roommate she can fuck the brains out of” do you? I mean, I’d have no chance with them, mind you.

Oh no, it’s not that I doubt myself in that way.
With an ad like that, I doubt I’d be able to get through over the phone… the lines would be packed and I’d have to see her in person, and if I tracked her down, I’d be considered a stalker, and shit… I’m just too lazy for shit like that.

Plus, being a stalker to a law student wouldn’t be all that fun.
If she’s a lawyer who gets her rocks off putting crims like yourself away, you’d only get to hear about her orgasm ten minutes later after you’re sentenced to prison sitting in lock-up waiting for a decent meal.

Then you could try to put a similar ad out based on conjugal visits.

All… two or three of you, that is.

Well… anyway, last night I went to The Strand as there was some fashion thingy on celebrating and advertising and encouraging many people with larger wallets than mine to spend, spend, spend on clothes they probably didn’t need but bought anyway.

So there I was… mostly bored… waiting outside Bowie’s store… while otherwise hot women walked by dressed in things that cost more than parts of my computer… and I was playing on my Nintendo DS. Well, you might ask why I didn’t join in on the festivities… well what the bloody hell am I to do? I’m just a techie! I don’t know about social situations any more than I know about trapping wild buffalo with a staple, a steak knife, and an Atkins diet book. Go ask Macguyver. Don’t pester me about it.

Anyway, the night was ending and I’d already talked to Wendell and met the beautiful Ida (who I’m working with at Bowie basically) as well as finally knowing the store manager’s name (Joey, another beautiful girl) and meeting various other people I’ll probably never meet again. Models… designers… hair stylists… random single serve people who are all well and good and very nice but knowing my luck or lack of logic, very few will even see me again and if they do, are unlikely to remember me.

Ok. Moving on.

Ida, Joey, myself and a new fella named Alan Saunders get into a taxi and head to a bar that I probably can’t even pronounce: Kirketon.

The place kinda reminds me of Wine Banq, except without the live music and wine racks lining the walls. Unlike Wine Banq, it did have jazz — real jazz — coming out of the speakers that weren’t exactly inconspicuous. Sorry owners of Wine Banc (Jonathan Zchwartz???) but your place ain’t all that jazz.

Right, well anyway… Ida seems to want to pay for all of the drinks this evening at Kirketon… Kirketon… Kirk-e-ton… it doesn’t even sound like a word. It’s an uncomfortable name. It doesn’t even roll off of the tongue. It’s more one of these names that requires a forklift and a heavy machinery license to remove from an oral cavity before it can be said.

Right. Back on topic, Ida seemed to want to pay for the drinks that night. I’d already said to Alan Saunders — a nice chap (did I just say ‘chap’?!) who’s a restaurant critic with a design show on ABC Radio — that even though he’d offered to buy me a drink, he shouldn’t since with me being poor (I didn’t word it like that) that I’d be unable to buy one in return for him. He was fine with that, and off he went to get me a Scotch on the rocks.

When he came back, it seemed it was Ida who paid.

I’m not sure why, honestly.

Ida is a beautiful girl who seems very smart but I can’t quite figure out why she’d want to pay for all of our drinks.

Anyway, there was talking and low-lit rooms and stuffiness since the room didn’t seem to have the world’s best ventilation and martinis and all sorts of stuff.

There was Wayne Cooper… someone who seems like a decent bloke and a fashion designer to boot. Upon returning home, it actually dawned on me that I had a Wayne Cooper shirt… and probably one that didn’t sell all that well, knowing me.

There was Alan Saunders, who I’ve already mentioned. He’s a restaurant critic, it seems, and has a radio show on ABC about architecture and design. We both agreed that Mexican in Australia is severely lacking and Azteca’s is probably among the best we have.

There was Bowie Wong… who was laughing and… drunk, probably.

There was Ida and Joey who both drank gin martinis.

There was a guy on the other side of the room who seemed like he’d be a model. At one point, I heard a conversation saying how he was supposed to be or how he was going to be the new face of Hugo Boss or something for David Jones. His name was James. I only met him as he was leaving.

There were other random people I probably won’t remember after going to bed in 15 minutes.

And then there was me… stuck in the middle of this and confused as hell as to why I was here.

I mean… this is me… the guy without any real degree of success in his life sitting amongst people who obviously had some… what the hell?

Surely there’s something wrong with the lunar alignment or something. Perhaps there’s someone more suited to this part who’s supposed to be sitting where I am in these terribly uncomfortable leather seats that look so plush and inviting and are about as comfy as sitting on a stone bench.

Less, actually. Less comfortable than that nice stone bench.

And at one point, I started paying attention to the incredibly hot waitress.
It was probably the same time both Ida and Joey started paying attention to the incredibly hot waitress.

There were some short conversations as the waitress cleared up some of our glasses and as we all (Ida, Joey & myself) commented on how pretty she was, I told her that the guy across from me was someone named Wayne Cooper and had she heard of him. I had to check it with Ida, but yes, that’s who he was… and her eyes lit up.

I tried to make a little conversation with the gorgeous waitress, even with how hard it is for me to make conversation with anyone.

I asked her if she was a uni student: she was. Where did she go, etc, etc… and it turns out, she’s interested in film-making, too.

Ida then wrote her email on the back of a card to get her into the guest list for Bowie as well as writing my email on the same card.

I don’t actually know if the waitress — whose name I later found out was Genevieve — will ever actually email me or what-not, but I have a feeling that was Ida attempting to help me in talking with a girl who might actually have something in common with me.

Thank you Ida.

Really.

It might not actually happen and nothing will probably eventuate from it, and by that I mean just friendly conversation, but the effort is always appreciated.

The night started lessening with more people leaving and with only a few of us left, those that were left seemed to want to go to some bar that wasn’t all that spectacular… but I’ll get to that in a moment.

As we left, I walked up to the waitress and said that I hoped she’d have a brilliant night. I don’t know why… I just did.

Seriously, if I knew why my brain gets me to do half the shit it gets me to do, I’d know more about myself than what my cat knows.

And he knows a lot. That cat ain’t one to be fucked with.

He’s got claws. Don’t fuck with someone who has claws.

Not unless you’ve got some mutant vision.

I’m getting off-topic, I know, and it comes from being tired, which I am. And I should go to sleep soon since I have an interview at Paxton’s in the morning, which I should probably be fresh for even though I won’t be able to bring my business jacket because…

…after getting into that craphole of a club we moved to after the Kirk-e-ton… some dickhead spilled beer all along the back of my jacket. Yay! A need for dry-cleaning!
Thankfully, it missed my DS. Phew.

However, Ida didn’t come into club nor did Alan. I’m not sure whether they weren’t allowed in or whether they didn’t want to go in or not.

Me, someone who normally isn’t a fan of clubs, went in since Joey said she’d like to have someone there who’s like family, I think.

Having only known Joey for a day, this made a lot of sense.

(If only people understood my brain… the world would be a more confusing place… and I might actually attract girls instead of deflecting them with a weird wavelength aura or something… who knows…)

It didn’t take me long to be bored.

I was beer bathed in a place filled with loud music and hot girls dancing in an environment where I’d look like such a wanker even attempting to dance with them (and I’d probably slip and break my back on the beer that didn’t soak into my jacket when it was dropped on me).

I told Joey I was going to leave within about 10-15 minutes of feeling like such an out-of-place wanker just standing around and doing piss all trying to blend in.

A guy in a donkey suit would have blended in much better than I did.

Joey tried telling me that I should stay and make contacts and talk to people and do all sorts of things like that because that’s the industry I was in.

But that’s not the industry I’m in. It’s just the industry I occasionally do work for.

And I’m not usually a club person. They have to be playing music I like… which they weren’t… and I have to be with people I want to dance with or know… and I was pretty much alone in terms of surviving that place.

Joey kissed me on the lips. Why, I don’t know. It wasn’t a kiss that you’d think “well, Leigh finally got with someone” so put away those notebooks, children. You ain’t winning a prize today from finding Leigh some lurve.

Nope, it was just a kiss, I guess. Not knowing what “just a kiss” is, I can safely assume that after finding out that Joey has a boyfriend, it was exactly that: just a kiss.

Weird that I put so much stock in just a kiss… I need to get kissed more often, I guess.

So I left. Caught a bus home. Had a shower. Wrote this blog.

Weird night.