Maybe it was the celebrity filled class at Bikram yoga, the bitter cold chill outside or my body’s desperate lack of electrolytes; whatever it was, it lead to Judy and I having our first fight the Friday night before last (or should I say, a partial disagreement….gentlemen who lunch do not raise their cuffs). We have known each other for almost four years and in that time we have become firm besties. Strangely and nicely, we’ve never fought and I’m not sure whether that is a good thing and a bad thing. As much as I detest and dread confrontation (how on earth I ended up being a lawyer is beyond me), my closest friendships have had the required confirmation of a mutual moment of not being amused. I think Judy and I have successfully avoided such a moment due to the fact that we are quite similar. We were both raised by dominant mothers who taught us that there was simply no excuse for the absence of a happy face and witty conversation regardless of whether one was confronted by war, famine or boring company. Combining this social aptitude with an amazingly well attuned shared sense of humour, Judy and I get on very well.
We met upstairs at the Shift through Christopher. It was November 2004. I’d just got back from being in INDYIAA for six weeks and was still offering every second stranger 20c to carry my bags and buy me packets of cigarettes. It didn’t seem to work in Australia the way it did in India. I mentioned this to Judy and he snorted vodka and soda all over me. We had an instant connection. It is of course through Judy, that I got the nickname Colin (and he, the name Judy) after we discussed our dream dinner party invite. It would be from the acting couple, Judy Davis and Colin Friels, to their Balmain residence. We met the week that Colin Friels had appeared in court on an AVO (restraining order) preventing him from harassing and/or abusing his wife after a dinner party they had went a little pair shaped.
“That was a very expensive vase Colin,” Judy would scream.
“Fuck you Judy,” I would scream back. We’d fake slap, pretend strangle and order more vodka. The routine lasted all night and well into the next day. Patrons didn’t know whether to clap or call the police. It was all crazy wild and so much fun.
Since Judy met Colin, there have been a gazillion more of these crazy wild nights, lapsed boyfriends, lost jobs, pointless affairs, roots to remember and plenty of “where the hell is my life” goings. We share not only the same sense of humour but a similar passion for books, theatre, politics, film and the hope to be one day chased by the paparazzi. We’re both waiting for our own reality TV shows, book deals and subsequent ranges of linen at K Mart. In the mean time we will drink, smoke and do yoga.
Which leads me back to last Friday night. It was freezing. Judy and I decided to do the 5.30 yoga class. I was about to leave work at 4.45 when I had a couple of “5 o’clock specials” come through. Once I sorted those, I didn’t get to leave work until 5.10pm. The walk to the Bikram school normally takes 20 mins. So I sprinted from my office. At lunch time I’d purchased a new winter double breasted overcoat from the Myer sales. It is spectacular but not that conducive to running. By the time I got to the school, I looked like a cardiac arrest. I ran in, snap changed and went into the class with my towel a couple of minutes before it began. I got a position next to Judy. There was something missing but I couldn’t think what. I was so relieved to be there in time that I was just happy just to lie there and catch my breath. The floor did seem harder. It wasn’t until the instructor came in and turned on the lights that I realised I was lying on my towel sans my yoga mat. This is the yoga equivalent of turning up to a swimming lesson naked. I quickly ran out of the class, grabbed my mat and returned.
Judy and I were in the second row where you are allowed to practise if you can touch your toes but can’t yet remove your underwear with your teeth like those in the first row. The back row is for those who have not done bikram before or are on their ten day introductory pass. They generally look terrified and as the class progresses with the 40 degree heat intensifying, they resort to spasmodic moments of collapse and utterances of “you’ve got to be fucking joking.” Of course I am so in my yoga zone that I don’t notice such cries for help and I certainly never find myself smirking at virgin yogis’ pain. I am too busy watching the blood disappear from my right big toe, as it turns black and falls off.
Friday night the back row was awash with celebrities…..d-class….but celebrities all the same. There was the bookie son of a well known racing identity (lets call him J), some reporter from Channel Nine (lets call her L for Legs), an African American guy who is on MTV (lets call him MTV) and a former Cleo Bachelor of the Year, (lets call him G), who also works for Channel Nine and according to the tabloids, changes girlfriends like I change songs on my ipod. I’ve always thought G was quite dishy in a pretty boy way and he still ain’t bad in real life but like all television and movie stars in real life, he looked like he’d been put in the microwave a bit too long and consequently appeared to be a fraction of his size. He was still quite pleasant to have in my rear view though. What was more amusing, was watching poor J famboozle his way through the class. J is in his mid twenties and is quickly becoming one of Australia’s most successful bookies. What he makes up in finances, he loses in looks. With the body of Pinocchio and the face of a dropped pie, poor J is about as sexy as cat food. And he was about as co-ordinated as an earthquake. It didn’t help either that he happened to be standing next to the hottest and most flexible person in the room. If L was any more flexible, Channel Nine wouldn’t bother flying her overseas for stories, they would just FedEx her there instead.
J begged to leave several times. Trying to leave a bikram yoga class early is like trying to defect from East Berlin in the 70s; unless you can dig a tunnel, it ain’t gonna happen. The instructor blocked J’s every request.
J: I don’t think I feel very well
Instructor: J just sit down and breathe.
J: I feel dizzy.
Instructor: J just sit down and breathe.
J: Can I go outside and get some fresh air?
Instructor: J just sit down and breathe.
The humiliation you have to endure in order to escape the rest of the class, you are better to simply grit your teeth and tough it out. J took this view until about half way through the class when finally all the stand up poses were completed. This is normally the psychological turning point for me. If I can make it through all the stand up poses, then I can finish the rest of the class. Even though all the back and spinal stretch poses are actually more intensive and a harder work out; because you are lying on the ground doing them, psychologically they are not as taxing. J didn’t think this was going to be the case and had enough. This time without asking, he jumped up, grabbed his bottle and mat and made a cartoon dash to the door hoping to avoid the instructor’s bullets. He took several but managed to get out much to the envy, but also relief of the rest of the class. L had enough as well and quickly followed suit. Ironically there was no protest from the female instructor as L’s fliptop body exited the room.
Mr MTV was by far the hottest man in the room but was the only one wearing his shirt. Considering there were some men in the class who should have been wearing a sports bra, Mr MTV’s shirted torso was more than a little ironic….it was downright cruel. If this guy had any more pull, he would have formed his own constellation. The air pressure in the room changed every time he moved a limb. Meanwhile it soon became apparent to me that Cleo’s Bachelor of the Year was wearing no underwear which if God had given him an arse, would have been quite appealing. But God didn’t; yes, he had an old man’s arse flappin’ in the breeze like mamma’s curtains. Attached to his drapes were a pair of very lazy boxer shorts riding lower and lower by each sit up pose. It was a whole bag of wrong.
Apart from all these obvious distractions, I quite enjoyed the class although as per usual I felt absolutely exhausted once it finished. You are supposed to have a teaspoon of celtic salt in a glass of water after the class to replace all the electrolytes you’ve sweated out in the 40 degree conditions. It’s like drinking gravel. I skipped my dose of it and headed straight to the showers.
I met Judy in front of the school. It was bloody cold. We watched Mr MTV leave and decided immediately that we were starving. Neither of us felt like Japanese at Don Don’s where we have been going regularly. We decided to walk up the strip to see what was on offer. I suggested the Court House Hotel Bistro (upstairs) which does a great steak and barramundi. Judy didn’t seem fussed.
Judy: Yeah doll sure. Go where you want to go.
Me: No well, where do you want to go?
Judy: It doesn’t worry me. I don’t love it and I don’t hate it (the court house).
Judy has a remarkable way of sometimes getting his point across by not making a point at all. Normally I don’t care but in my electrolyte starved frame of mind his indifference was quite frankly starting to give me the shits.
Me: what do you feel like then?
Judy: Well what about that place over there.
Me: Steak, seafood and pasta…yeah ok….although the pub would be just as good.
Judy: Yeah okay well if you like that, lets do that.
Blind Freddy could have sensed that he wasn’t keen on the idea but I was determined to have my barramundi and eat it too. We went to the Court House. My growing agitation joined us as well.
The bistro on a Friday night is always full of your “dinner and a show” style poofs. Generally they are in their late early 50s; they like a ‘noice’ meal and a crisp dry white and perhaps a flutter on the pokies and a bit of a dance at Palms afterwards. They always wear a collar and a nice firm trouser. Conversation is usually littered with polite laughter and many “and remember whens”. There is an atmosphere of a pre-sms era when people picked up the telephone to ask someone on a date and at least cooked them breakfast the next morning if the date was a “success”. The place was sensibly busy.
“ Good evening gentlmen….just the two of you is it?” said the waitress.
ME: Yes please can we grab that table next to the window ?
Waitress: No problem
She took us to my preferred table, gave us menus and requested our drinks order. I was so thirsty although I was determined not to have a full strength soft drink. Soft drink is my weakness and since I’ve started bikram yoga, my thirst for “lolly water” has been insatiable.
ME: I’ll have a diet coke.
Judy: Have another soft drink John.
ME: It’s a diet coke.
Judy: Only fat people drink diet coke.
ME: What do u want me to order….tea?
The waitress gave us that polite screen saver smile that wait staff often do when patrons are about to have a domestic in front of them.
Judy: You could have water. I’ll have a soda water thanks
I was furious. Receiving dietary advice from Judy I thought was like receiving dietary advice from Patsy Stone. The last thing he ate was a kettle chip in 1974 and even that gave him constipation. I picked up the menu to alleviate my worsening mood but it was too late. My temper had control of the switchboard and it was quickly turning all the lights off. And there was no switching them back on. Judy could have turned his soda water into wine and cured random cripples; regardless, I was still going to be rather pissed off.
The waitress cautiously returned with our drinks. Judy ordered his salad like he was Gidget and I ordered my barramundi and chips like I was Roseanne Barr. We both looked outside down on Taylor Square hoping for some inspiration to refresh the mood. It didn’t.
Judy (spotting the Batman billboard): I can’t wait to see Batman Begins
Me: Yeah it looks good.
Judy: Heath Ledger is supposed to be brilliant.
Me: Yeah he’s getting pretty good reviews
Judy: He’s such an amazing artist.
Currently there is a television advertisement in Australia for a cereal where two men are sitting in an open plan office eating this cereal. One of the men says “This All Bran is delicious”. A very tall woman then pops her head above the petition and says/asks: “Tall Jan is Malicious?”. Both men protest. She reacts angrily. “I heard what you said. Tall Jan is Malicious.” She then storms off to file a grievance. I had a similar reaction to Judy bestowing such an artistic honour on our Heath.
ME: I don’t think he was an amazing artist at all. People only say that now because he is dead
Judy: Well he was. He was a very talented actor.
Me: That doesn’t make him an amazing artist!!!!! An amazing artist doesn’t spend 33 thousand dollars a week paying for an empty Manhattan apartment and get a housekeeper to come and clean it!! If he was true to his art, he would be doing community theatre back in Perth or busking on the streets of Paris.
Judy: So an amazing artist you’re saying is someone who shouldn’t have any money or have commercial success? What about Brett Whitely and his paintings? That’s a ridiculous thing to say.
Me: No…you’ve missed my point!
He’d missed my point because I’d missed it myself which only made me more furious. As a result I resorted to yelling jumbled words.
Me: You know he wasn’t an artist!….you know….if he was ….you know….he’d be in Paris!….or in street theatre!
What was with Paris? Or street theatre? What on earth was I trying to say? My embarrassing inability to put forward a reasonable argument in the negative against Mr Ledger being an amazing artist was now firing my temper to amazing levels, not to mention starting to cause an amazing scene at the bistro.
Judy: Can you not raise your voice at me? You are yelling at me.
I was losing the argument and I couldn’t stand it. I was so angry I couldn’t even maintain eye contact. If he said another word, he was gonna wear his bloody soda water. I heard myself think this and realised what I had to do.
Me: I’m sorry Paul I’m going have to go. Sorry I’m not in the right head space.
Judy: What? You’re going? Ok go.
Me: I’m sorry. I will cancel my meal. I will call you tomorrow.
Judy: Don’t bother. Bye.
It was the only option. My blood was boiling and I was worried that I was going to completely lose my temper and start screaming. It wouldn’t be pleasant and certainly not funny in any respect. I cancelled my meal with the waitress who still had her screensaver on. I picked up my new jacket and exited the bistro like Joan Crawford. All I needed was a pillbox hat and a bottle of Pepsi.
Once I was downstairs, I sent Judy a text immediately apologising for my behaviour. I was still angry but it wasn’t because of him. I was just in a post yoga rage.
Judy sent me back a text straight away:
Nothing to forgive doll. One must storm out when one has a new mink.
C
We met upstairs at the Shift through Christopher. It was November 2004. I’d just got back from being in INDYIAA for six weeks and was still offering every second stranger 20c to carry my bags and buy me packets of cigarettes. It didn’t seem to work in Australia the way it did in India. I mentioned this to Judy and he snorted vodka and soda all over me. We had an instant connection. It is of course through Judy, that I got the nickname Colin (and he, the name Judy) after we discussed our dream dinner party invite. It would be from the acting couple, Judy Davis and Colin Friels, to their Balmain residence. We met the week that Colin Friels had appeared in court on an AVO (restraining order) preventing him from harassing and/or abusing his wife after a dinner party they had went a little pair shaped.
“That was a very expensive vase Colin,” Judy would scream.
“Fuck you Judy,” I would scream back. We’d fake slap, pretend strangle and order more vodka. The routine lasted all night and well into the next day. Patrons didn’t know whether to clap or call the police. It was all crazy wild and so much fun.
Since Judy met Colin, there have been a gazillion more of these crazy wild nights, lapsed boyfriends, lost jobs, pointless affairs, roots to remember and plenty of “where the hell is my life” goings. We share not only the same sense of humour but a similar passion for books, theatre, politics, film and the hope to be one day chased by the paparazzi. We’re both waiting for our own reality TV shows, book deals and subsequent ranges of linen at K Mart. In the mean time we will drink, smoke and do yoga.
Which leads me back to last Friday night. It was freezing. Judy and I decided to do the 5.30 yoga class. I was about to leave work at 4.45 when I had a couple of “5 o’clock specials” come through. Once I sorted those, I didn’t get to leave work until 5.10pm. The walk to the Bikram school normally takes 20 mins. So I sprinted from my office. At lunch time I’d purchased a new winter double breasted overcoat from the Myer sales. It is spectacular but not that conducive to running. By the time I got to the school, I looked like a cardiac arrest. I ran in, snap changed and went into the class with my towel a couple of minutes before it began. I got a position next to Judy. There was something missing but I couldn’t think what. I was so relieved to be there in time that I was just happy just to lie there and catch my breath. The floor did seem harder. It wasn’t until the instructor came in and turned on the lights that I realised I was lying on my towel sans my yoga mat. This is the yoga equivalent of turning up to a swimming lesson naked. I quickly ran out of the class, grabbed my mat and returned.
Judy and I were in the second row where you are allowed to practise if you can touch your toes but can’t yet remove your underwear with your teeth like those in the first row. The back row is for those who have not done bikram before or are on their ten day introductory pass. They generally look terrified and as the class progresses with the 40 degree heat intensifying, they resort to spasmodic moments of collapse and utterances of “you’ve got to be fucking joking.” Of course I am so in my yoga zone that I don’t notice such cries for help and I certainly never find myself smirking at virgin yogis’ pain. I am too busy watching the blood disappear from my right big toe, as it turns black and falls off.
Friday night the back row was awash with celebrities…..d-class….but celebrities all the same. There was the bookie son of a well known racing identity (lets call him J), some reporter from Channel Nine (lets call her L for Legs), an African American guy who is on MTV (lets call him MTV) and a former Cleo Bachelor of the Year, (lets call him G), who also works for Channel Nine and according to the tabloids, changes girlfriends like I change songs on my ipod. I’ve always thought G was quite dishy in a pretty boy way and he still ain’t bad in real life but like all television and movie stars in real life, he looked like he’d been put in the microwave a bit too long and consequently appeared to be a fraction of his size. He was still quite pleasant to have in my rear view though. What was more amusing, was watching poor J famboozle his way through the class. J is in his mid twenties and is quickly becoming one of Australia’s most successful bookies. What he makes up in finances, he loses in looks. With the body of Pinocchio and the face of a dropped pie, poor J is about as sexy as cat food. And he was about as co-ordinated as an earthquake. It didn’t help either that he happened to be standing next to the hottest and most flexible person in the room. If L was any more flexible, Channel Nine wouldn’t bother flying her overseas for stories, they would just FedEx her there instead.
J begged to leave several times. Trying to leave a bikram yoga class early is like trying to defect from East Berlin in the 70s; unless you can dig a tunnel, it ain’t gonna happen. The instructor blocked J’s every request.
J: I don’t think I feel very well
Instructor: J just sit down and breathe.
J: I feel dizzy.
Instructor: J just sit down and breathe.
J: Can I go outside and get some fresh air?
Instructor: J just sit down and breathe.
The humiliation you have to endure in order to escape the rest of the class, you are better to simply grit your teeth and tough it out. J took this view until about half way through the class when finally all the stand up poses were completed. This is normally the psychological turning point for me. If I can make it through all the stand up poses, then I can finish the rest of the class. Even though all the back and spinal stretch poses are actually more intensive and a harder work out; because you are lying on the ground doing them, psychologically they are not as taxing. J didn’t think this was going to be the case and had enough. This time without asking, he jumped up, grabbed his bottle and mat and made a cartoon dash to the door hoping to avoid the instructor’s bullets. He took several but managed to get out much to the envy, but also relief of the rest of the class. L had enough as well and quickly followed suit. Ironically there was no protest from the female instructor as L’s fliptop body exited the room.
Mr MTV was by far the hottest man in the room but was the only one wearing his shirt. Considering there were some men in the class who should have been wearing a sports bra, Mr MTV’s shirted torso was more than a little ironic….it was downright cruel. If this guy had any more pull, he would have formed his own constellation. The air pressure in the room changed every time he moved a limb. Meanwhile it soon became apparent to me that Cleo’s Bachelor of the Year was wearing no underwear which if God had given him an arse, would have been quite appealing. But God didn’t; yes, he had an old man’s arse flappin’ in the breeze like mamma’s curtains. Attached to his drapes were a pair of very lazy boxer shorts riding lower and lower by each sit up pose. It was a whole bag of wrong.
Apart from all these obvious distractions, I quite enjoyed the class although as per usual I felt absolutely exhausted once it finished. You are supposed to have a teaspoon of celtic salt in a glass of water after the class to replace all the electrolytes you’ve sweated out in the 40 degree conditions. It’s like drinking gravel. I skipped my dose of it and headed straight to the showers.
I met Judy in front of the school. It was bloody cold. We watched Mr MTV leave and decided immediately that we were starving. Neither of us felt like Japanese at Don Don’s where we have been going regularly. We decided to walk up the strip to see what was on offer. I suggested the Court House Hotel Bistro (upstairs) which does a great steak and barramundi. Judy didn’t seem fussed.
Judy: Yeah doll sure. Go where you want to go.
Me: No well, where do you want to go?
Judy: It doesn’t worry me. I don’t love it and I don’t hate it (the court house).
Judy has a remarkable way of sometimes getting his point across by not making a point at all. Normally I don’t care but in my electrolyte starved frame of mind his indifference was quite frankly starting to give me the shits.
Me: what do you feel like then?
Judy: Well what about that place over there.
Me: Steak, seafood and pasta…yeah ok….although the pub would be just as good.
Judy: Yeah okay well if you like that, lets do that.
Blind Freddy could have sensed that he wasn’t keen on the idea but I was determined to have my barramundi and eat it too. We went to the Court House. My growing agitation joined us as well.
The bistro on a Friday night is always full of your “dinner and a show” style poofs. Generally they are in their late early 50s; they like a ‘noice’ meal and a crisp dry white and perhaps a flutter on the pokies and a bit of a dance at Palms afterwards. They always wear a collar and a nice firm trouser. Conversation is usually littered with polite laughter and many “and remember whens”. There is an atmosphere of a pre-sms era when people picked up the telephone to ask someone on a date and at least cooked them breakfast the next morning if the date was a “success”. The place was sensibly busy.
“ Good evening gentlmen….just the two of you is it?” said the waitress.
ME: Yes please can we grab that table next to the window ?
Waitress: No problem
She took us to my preferred table, gave us menus and requested our drinks order. I was so thirsty although I was determined not to have a full strength soft drink. Soft drink is my weakness and since I’ve started bikram yoga, my thirst for “lolly water” has been insatiable.
ME: I’ll have a diet coke.
Judy: Have another soft drink John.
ME: It’s a diet coke.
Judy: Only fat people drink diet coke.
ME: What do u want me to order….tea?
The waitress gave us that polite screen saver smile that wait staff often do when patrons are about to have a domestic in front of them.
Judy: You could have water. I’ll have a soda water thanks
I was furious. Receiving dietary advice from Judy I thought was like receiving dietary advice from Patsy Stone. The last thing he ate was a kettle chip in 1974 and even that gave him constipation. I picked up the menu to alleviate my worsening mood but it was too late. My temper had control of the switchboard and it was quickly turning all the lights off. And there was no switching them back on. Judy could have turned his soda water into wine and cured random cripples; regardless, I was still going to be rather pissed off.
The waitress cautiously returned with our drinks. Judy ordered his salad like he was Gidget and I ordered my barramundi and chips like I was Roseanne Barr. We both looked outside down on Taylor Square hoping for some inspiration to refresh the mood. It didn’t.
Judy (spotting the Batman billboard): I can’t wait to see Batman Begins
Me: Yeah it looks good.
Judy: Heath Ledger is supposed to be brilliant.
Me: Yeah he’s getting pretty good reviews
Judy: He’s such an amazing artist.
Currently there is a television advertisement in Australia for a cereal where two men are sitting in an open plan office eating this cereal. One of the men says “This All Bran is delicious”. A very tall woman then pops her head above the petition and says/asks: “Tall Jan is Malicious?”. Both men protest. She reacts angrily. “I heard what you said. Tall Jan is Malicious.” She then storms off to file a grievance. I had a similar reaction to Judy bestowing such an artistic honour on our Heath.
ME: I don’t think he was an amazing artist at all. People only say that now because he is dead
Judy: Well he was. He was a very talented actor.
Me: That doesn’t make him an amazing artist!!!!! An amazing artist doesn’t spend 33 thousand dollars a week paying for an empty Manhattan apartment and get a housekeeper to come and clean it!! If he was true to his art, he would be doing community theatre back in Perth or busking on the streets of Paris.
Judy: So an amazing artist you’re saying is someone who shouldn’t have any money or have commercial success? What about Brett Whitely and his paintings? That’s a ridiculous thing to say.
Me: No…you’ve missed my point!
He’d missed my point because I’d missed it myself which only made me more furious. As a result I resorted to yelling jumbled words.
Me: You know he wasn’t an artist!….you know….if he was ….you know….he’d be in Paris!….or in street theatre!
What was with Paris? Or street theatre? What on earth was I trying to say? My embarrassing inability to put forward a reasonable argument in the negative against Mr Ledger being an amazing artist was now firing my temper to amazing levels, not to mention starting to cause an amazing scene at the bistro.
Judy: Can you not raise your voice at me? You are yelling at me.
I was losing the argument and I couldn’t stand it. I was so angry I couldn’t even maintain eye contact. If he said another word, he was gonna wear his bloody soda water. I heard myself think this and realised what I had to do.
Me: I’m sorry Paul I’m going have to go. Sorry I’m not in the right head space.
Judy: What? You’re going? Ok go.
Me: I’m sorry. I will cancel my meal. I will call you tomorrow.
Judy: Don’t bother. Bye.
It was the only option. My blood was boiling and I was worried that I was going to completely lose my temper and start screaming. It wouldn’t be pleasant and certainly not funny in any respect. I cancelled my meal with the waitress who still had her screensaver on. I picked up my new jacket and exited the bistro like Joan Crawford. All I needed was a pillbox hat and a bottle of Pepsi.
Once I was downstairs, I sent Judy a text immediately apologising for my behaviour. I was still angry but it wasn’t because of him. I was just in a post yoga rage.
Judy sent me back a text straight away:
Nothing to forgive doll. One must storm out when one has a new mink.
C
3 comments:
Remind me NEVER to catch up with you for a bite after bikram dear :-)
Oh, I soooooo want to catch up with you after yoga...sounds highly entertaining!!!! :-)
You sound like the classic Jack MacFarland and Karen Walker from "Will & Grace." And that's meant in a good way. :-)
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