In Which in-class Blogging is Idly Experimented With

Mnemonic means “a mental trick for remembering something”. Pneumonic, in so far as it’s a word at all, means “characterised by pneumonia”. What I’m saying here is that the first syllable of mnemonic is pronounced “Neh”, not “new”, unless you’re an idiot. If you’ve said it wrong in the past, I’m not judging you, but now, now you know.

Ok, now we’ve gotten that out of the way, on to the business of the day!

So it turns out that it’s actually really difficult to write decent blog posts at the same time as paying a feasible amount of attention in lectures. Who knew? I certainly remember writing some pretty cool stuff (for a given value of “pretty cool”, obviously, maybe even for a given value of “writing”, who can say?) back in the day in my Psych lectures, but I’m almost sure that was because those lectures were considerably more interesting than Pharmacology. Not only were they easy to pay enough attention to, since even a lower amount of concentration ticking over in the background was enough, but it’s amazing how much easier it is to work with material (I say “material” and it makes me sound like I think I’m Jerry Seinfeld. I swear I don’t; I have much too high an opinion of myself) like “the value of having a theory of God is that he can mind your lemons for you” than stuff like “arachidonic acid mediates airway hyperresponsiveness in asthma”.

I’ve reread that paragraph three times now, and so right am I that that sentence is utterly uninspiring that it’s completely ground my writing to a halt. I didn’t even know that was possible except by iron self discipline or fatigue.

This Friday I have been invited to a thing (a birthday party, in point of fact) at The Loft in Darling Harbour, which I’m given to understand is basically like Cargo Bar only a bit classier. For those hypothetical readers among you who enjoy reading my famed “social anxiety” posts, I think we can safely promise a treat in store regarding such an adventure. This is hardly the social milieu in which I am at my best, so introspection ahoy! Ooh, there’s an antidote to the pharmacology-based lack of subject matter: in what social milieu do I believe myself (with whatever degree of reference to reality and accuracy) to function at peak performance, so to speak?

I guess it could be online, and certainly I have the advantage here of being able to be read at any pace you fancy (or not at all, if preferred) rather than at compulsory high speeds, but that seems pretty tragic, and I don’t think it can be right. Also, I suck majorly at “chat”, although maybe everyone does? That might explain it; it does seem sort of counterintuitive in a way, and makes pauses seem strangely unnatural. Maybe hanging around at house parties where I know the people involved, or am only expected to deal with small numbers of new people at once, leaving me spare operating capacity to do things like remember to talk slowly.

Actually, now I think about it, I do better when operating at a tangent to the task at hand. When the only task is “make conversation”, I get distracted, but if we’re supposed to be doing something, like walk along, or decide what the mechanism of wheeze is, or something, then I can happily procrastinate from that by chatting about inconsequential things for hours. Clearly, I’ve missed my calling in life and should be one of those dead-weight panel members on ‘Spicks & Specks’ or similar. How awesome would that be?

Anyway, the point of the Friday thing is that I hope that the lovely people I hung out with at the last party this guy threw will be there again. I assume so, but since at least one of them hasn’t got a Facebook account in any meaningful sense (you know that thing where you suddenly delete everyone you know or similar after freaking out like John Cusack in the backstory for “Grosse Point Blank”, except without necessarily becoming a hired assassin at all), it’s hard to know. I could probably check if Mame is going {that’s right, if I refer to you by name, you either get coded, like this, or referred to by full title, like my Insightful and Culturally Studied Flatmate Georgia. That way no one has to feel too google-able, and I maintain my moral high ground in re. the anonymity thing. Once I crack, I’m sure to start addressing imaginary readers by name (which is to say, people whom I image to be readers, not people who don’t exist except in my mind), which is not only alienating for other readers but also fairly seriously insane. Although I do sort of fancy unexpectedly addressing the Anonymous types by name/title in the middle of something else} –whoa, long parenthetical break, where was I?- either by asking her or checking Facebook. But since I have neither her nor the Internet available at present, my opportunities to do this are somewhat curtailed. Which is good, because I’ll go anyway, and somehow asking someone if they’re going to a party seems dreadfully Teen Movie. Although obviously would not be asking in spirit of I-think-his-name-was-Joey in ‘Ten Things I Hate About You’, which to be honest is the only instance of that that I can think of just at present.

Man, see? Even considering attending an event like this gets me into some kind of sub-clause- and allusion-choked lather of social fluttering. And I haven’t even started yet to consider the question of what one wears to a place like this. Will probably just do what I usually do when am unsure and pretend that there’s a theme and dress to that. Certainly I was happy with how it worked out when I went 1960s-chic to that dinner party that time. It’s great, because even if you haven’t got the dress right for the venue/occasion at hand, you can be damn sure you’ve nailed what you were actually aiming for. This is the secret of hipness, I believe. Certainly nothing else satisfactorily explains what one frequently sees worn in Newtown, especially recently. I think there may even be a quote to this effect in ‘Ghost World’, now I think about it. [Note: ‘Ghost World’ is a movie with Thora Birch and Scarlet Johanssen back when she was young, and Steve Buscemi in it. ‘Ghost Town’ is an unsatisfying and unsatisfactory movie featuring Ricky Gervais, who should stick to standup, Greg Kinnear, who always seems to end up like this, and Téa Leoni, who has the air of just vaguely hoping that no-one will even mention to her that she was in such a movie. ‘Ghost’ is different again, and features a threesome between Demi Moore, Patrick Swayze and a potter’s wheel, and another, tamer, one later with Whoopi Goldberg in loco potter’s wheel. Confuse these films at your peril.]

Ok! It’s after 5, so I’m running late, but I’ll catch you on the flipside (which, on second thought, maybe I won’t take up saying after all), cats and kittens!