Anyway, Sunday was fucking weird. I got up whenever, acted out my subconscious violent fantasies on the playstation for a while, then phoned Pete because I wanted someone to smoke pot with and had a vague inkling that he'd be keen. Deliberate understatement is a subtle form of sarcasm. Scootered over to 156 Beaumont in a mist of rain, stopping on the way to buy the ISO 9000 Standard Munchies Remedy (one strawberry milk, one chocolate bar) and walked in to find him watching cricket with a ton of Voyager videos stacked on the floor. He doesn't like cricket, so we watched it for ages. He's got a new stereo, it's very stylish; just a minimalist box with little cubish speakers that look wimpier than they sound, and a transparent remote control. He was listening to Bowie. He told me Shaun rang him from the US earlier that day.

I chopped and rolled and licked and stuck and we smoked it. I, of course, transformed into my probably dull potself, fully believing that I was stringing impressive words together more fluidly and lucidly than any man alive, and probably confusing or boring Pete along the way. We talked shit for a while, then played Bond and Mario Kart Battle.

Matt rang to say that he'd be at Hamilton station soonish to see Kate off, did I want to come? (Kate was catching a bus up north, she's working at Hamilton Island for a while before going back to England.) Scooting along the wrong side of Beaumont, I see PC (affectionate name for Emma's car, adopted from its numberplate) coming towards me: Matt pulls over and I jump in to hear that the station was empty of both buses and passengers and Kate. We drive to Broadmeadow station, ditto. With minutes left, we head up to Newcastle station, just in time to see the coach pull off with Kate and Amanda in the frontmost seat. Fuck. We'd sort of promised we'd say goodbye, and were just seconds too late.

Apparently both the girls are accustomed to riding in a bus while a crazy dickhead hangs out the passenger window of the car in front of them waving like a frantic shark victim, because it's the best part of an hour before they notice me. (I didn't say it was nearly a whole hour, but it was the best part of that hour.) Eventually they start waving back and blowing kisses, just before Matt's skills at tailing a vehicle from a position in front of it fail him, and the bus makes an unexpected turn behind us. Cars go faster than buses though, so for the next twenty minutes we went on a crazy journey where we intercepted the bus several times and attempted stupid pseudo-mime communication through the window at the girls. Down Maitland Rd Matt matched speed with the bus and sat just to the left of it for a minute or two. I saw a Jaguar parked at the kerb flash by millimetres from the passenger window; Matt was like a cat whose whiskers are singed off, so that thereafter he can't accurately judge which narrow gaps he can safely squeeze through.

Went home, had a bath, played more Quake on the PSX, got pissed off with it and put High Fidelity in the VCR. One of the things I love most about that movie is how very accurately it captures the essence of what nerds are like; those guys who work with John Cusack in the shop are carbon copies of every computer geek I've ever met, except they're obsessed with music instead. When John Cusack asks Dick how his weekend was, and Dick immediately starts talking about the obscure vinyl he managed to track down, it sounded exactly like Monday morning in the office when the nerds recount their weekend adventures of video card reconfiguration or operating system performance tuning.

Mel got home, we went to get videos and food, and through the miracle of commercial radio (I think she secretly listens to it all the time while driving alone) heard that tickets to Jebediah and Magic Dirt were, surprisingly, still available at the door. So we went to Fanny's and drank and sang the wrong words loudly and jumped up and down on the spot and others' toes. It was only when the encore finished that I realised how sweaty and breathless I was. ALTERNATIVE MUSIC REDUCES HEART DISEASE.

Mel slept soon after we arrived home. I sat up with Matt and smoked another joint and somehow got into an hour-long argument about the definitions of simple words like "no" and "everything" and "anything" and "and" and "or". It all started when I quoted Moe Szyslak: "Old people are no good at everything". Now, my interpretation of that sentence is this: "no good at everything" is grammatically incorrect, because "everything" is a plural whereas "no good at..." should pertain to a singular. But colloquially, "no good" can just mean "bad"; so given the singular-plural mixup, we're forced to interpret the sentence as "old people are bad at everything". This is different to saying "old people are no good at anything", which just means that there's nothing they're good at, but not necessarily that they're _bad_ at everything. What do you think? Do the sentences "I am no good at anything" and "I am no good at everything" mean slightly different things? Matt thinks they don't. But then, he ain't no good at nothing.