My Friend Gave Me Crack for Xmas - Last night, I headed over to J's, where, with him and M and G and D, we went out for dinner in the name of Xmas. We went to a Japanese/Jazz place, which was quite nice, actually, though for the life of me, I cannot remember the name of it. It's a block up from the Gaelic Club, if you're in Sydney. I've always been bad with the names of restaurants: they inevitably become That-Japanese-Place-Near-the-Gaelic-Club and That-Indian-Place-Near-the-Pizza-Place (which is That-Pizza-Place-is-Near-the-Train-Station) and so forth. At any rate, the restaurant was very white, tables and chairs and floors, and very sparse, with old jazz records in glass cases along the walls. I must say, I liked it. The food was nice, as well, so as all things good, it was a nice night. But before this, before we left J and M's place, before we got into D's car, before all of that, gifts were exchanged while J played that awful fucking CD of old crooner Christmas Songs he bought for a couple of bucks years ago and drags out, despite (or perhaps because of) our protests every year.
And there, there, with Frank Sinatra in the background and J with a smile on his face that said, finally, finally you have finished your PhD and have no excuses--