I think I kinda hate bars

Well, no doubt I'll be in one again inside of 72 hours. But I just had a realisation that even while fetishising the best kind of bar, my long love affair might be souring. Sydney is supposed to be undergoing a much-vaunted 'renaissance' of its drinking culture. Clover Moore has made it easier to get a licence, and entrepreneurial groovers have responded by setting up these Melbourne style "small bars" - complete with hard-to-find unmarked entrances. Apparently, the grown up approach to sharing a bevvy with friends is supposed to make us more responsible drinkers too. That, or the prices. So I've been to Pocket Bar, Shady Pines Saloon, the recently re-furbed Flinders Hotel, LL bar in the Cross, Libertines, Grasshopper Bar where they serve cocktails in jars which is frankly GROSS and reminds me of a disfunctional student sharehouse, The Falconer, Madame Fling Flongs and probably some others.

I thought I really liked them at the time. I did. The warm glow of the candles/bordello lamps/ironic chandelier, the retro-funky stuffed animals, the background chatter, paying the best part of $20 for a martini and sucking up the meaninglessness of existence while talking about how great it is that they have all these small bars in Sydney. It just hit me like a brick, that they are all just rooms with tables, stools, glasses, some form of paint on the walls (or wallpaper if you are in the so-groovy-it-hurts ones), women with their best makeup and shiny frocks, and guys who are spending more on drinks that than they can afford. A limited number of permutations to the above. But I guess we keep going because these dens are usually central, the ritual of getting a bottle and some glasses is known, and you can generally catch your friends for a couple of hours and get back on a major public transport route.

Maybe I'm inspired to write this post by seeing a minor trend amongst women with small children, who may feel a bit like they are missing frocking up and going out. I think perhaps I have been racking up the hours in these places on your behalf. I've hit the limit. I'm experiencing low-level rage at the people in these bars. I can't really hear the person I'm talking to so I tend to tell stories and monologue too much. I spend money I'd rather go on holiday with. Mums: you can have some hours back - I'll take a couple of shifts with the ankle-biters. (Especially if we can go see Despicable Me, or the Dinosaur Gallery. Yeh).

As the well known poets regurgitator put it - right now, I'd rather dance in daggy pants to the funky music playing on your stereo. Oh. Oh. oh-oh.

In the meantime, see you at the next awesome new place. You know, the one with the wood panelling taken from a vintage Holden Station Wagon. The one with the stencils and the egg cartons on the walls, the one with the rooftop sculpture. The cactuses. Yeah, that one.

Fitting in

From this week's astrobarry

Do you really give a rat's-ass how 'other people' (in quotes because, at its base, it's an abstraction) are apt to judge you? Seriously, Pisces, this whole notion of fitting in—or, its identical twin, purposely not fitting in (so you'll, of course, fit into a different sort of reactionary niche)—is terribly junior-high. And yet, at the same time, I want you to acknowledge how profoundly your psyche has been impacted by past experiences of rejection or incompatibility… if only so that you may understand why your adult self may still censor its distinctive individuality at certain moments, in order to gain supposed favor from that same cool older-sibling or trendy schoolyard clique reimagined with today's cast of characters. We've all hit up against our protrusive oddness through such exclusions. The difference in your case? You're so sensitive, they might've felt like mortal wounds. Before you automatically assume the role of outsider, pause to consider whether you have now become the preemptive judger (of yourself, of others, of others' judgments of you)… instead of leaving open the possibility you actually do belong somewhere, based on who you really are.

Wow he's really convinced Pisces are the true outsiders.

I got a little golden oldie tip for living from a date, of all the things, the other night (no laughing in the back). Ascribed to the Dalai Lama, but probably off the back of a conflake packet: "Happiness comes when what we think, what we do, and what we say are the same".

Yeah baby, missy b# is on an integrity jag.

Rat rat ratty

I appear to be playing chicken with a rat in the kitchen.

Unbeknownst to me, I appear to have a primal fear of the little fucker. He ran out when I went in, then when I went out he ran back into the kitchen and under the fridge. I am absolutely goddam starving because I just got home at 9pm and am trying to heat up some curry I cooked last night, but the thought of mr ratty underfoot while reheating is making my stomach turn.

But I live on the 2nd floor, so I don't know how to encourage him out. Too late go and buy rat traps and the thought of emptying one tomorrow is disgusting too.

This is a moment when I could really do with a goddam husband. And I don't say that too often.