Monday, January 30, 2006

Silly Reasons For Traveling

As amazing as Soulclipse is going to be, a thought occurred to me today. We're going to three countries. Sounds easy when you say it like that, but there is so much involved that it does my head in... and The Dreaded One is doing most of the detail stuff. It's a slightly complicated itinerary in that we're landing in Istanbul (not a phrase I thought I'd ever be saying out loud without the intention of screwing with someone's head), making our way down to Antalya, dancing to psytrance for six days, spending a couple more days in Antalya, flying to Barcelona, doing Spanish things for two weeks, then going to the UK. There are just lots of bits involved, like how, exactly, are we making our way to the party from Istanbul? Where do we stay? Given the amount of changes of clothing I am accustomed to each day, how many camels do I book to carry my luggage? 12? 18? See what I mean? Head-fuck city, man.

And this was the thought that occurred to me: we're doing it all so that we can experience three minutes of total darkness in the middle of the day... is there a more silly reason for traveling half way around the world? We could just stay home and eat a kebab with our eyes closed and it would be the exact same thing.

Also, I had my first butterflies today, because I have no job to come back to.

I did have correspondence with a travel editor and feel that that's a shoe in (whatever 'shoe in' means), and I had contact with a dance music mag in London, kind of London version of the mag I'm at now, who are looking for sub-eds and staff writers... now that would be funny. Mainly I just want them to pay me to write about the festival. Gonna keep pestering people, because I have no freakin' job to come back to...

Oh - my feature in the glossie has been out for a week now. Once it's off the newstands, maybe I'll post it here. I have mixed feelings about it. I hope it's seen as a good story. I think it might be. Hope it's the last one of its kind that I ever write.

Saturday, January 28, 2006

Blog Day Out

Australia Day. Big Day Out = Being at the Sydney Olymic stadium straight and sober and dancing to Loonaloop (who kindly offered me a ticket) in the sunshine at midday; wandering with friends among tens of thousands of others (something like 50,000 people all up); listening to Henry Rollins do a spoken word piece; going from Henry Rollins to Kamahl (old, kitsche Indian guy famous for singing about children and saying in a thick Indian accent, “Why are people so unkind?”); dancing in a cavernous night club room called The Boiler Room to Australian DJ legend Kid Kenobi; being high up in the stadium and being amazed at the size of the crowd (which ebbed and flowed like sea grass as people crushed their way to the front) in front of local band Wolfmother; wandering aimlessly and running into people I hadn’t seen in ages; realising at some point that I was less straight than before; being lead reluctantly back to the main stage to see Franz Ferdinand, who I am not a fan of but I seemed willing to enjoy anything by that stage; realising that my mind was wandering hopelessly and deciding that my body should wander too; leaving the others and wandering alone amongst all those people for hours, asking myself questions, thinking about the people in my life and realising that there is not all that much to worry about but that I will worry about stupid things anyway because as humans, that is what we have been trained to do; seeing some really weird shit and hearing some seriously weird music; not staying for too long in one place back in The Boiler Room because - being alone and apparently single - guys with their shirts off start checking you out and girls with wiggly bums dance too close in spite of all the room in front of them; wondering from time to time how the hell I was ever going to find my way out of this enormous complex; somehow wandering back to the mainstage in time for Iggy Pop and watching in awe as this freak of nature... this sinewy maelstrom of ferocious energy took the audience by the balls and did not let go; deciding that nothing was going to top that performance and that it was time to leave because I did not want to deal with an over-crowded train ride home in the state I was in, which was, as I told someone on my colourful, squishy, bendy breathy phone, “hilariously scootered.”

But earlier in the day... In all honesty, Henry Rollins started to bore me. He just did a lot of name dropping and told stories that didn't have much of a point. He was amusing and interesting enough for a short while, but I was expecting more energy and more anger. I liked his point about using your mind and as weapon and not taking the edge off your intellect with drugs and alcohol; that the audience cheered drunkenly at this was hilarious. “Yair fuggin’ right on you tell ‘em ‘enry faaarck yeah!”

As was going from someone like that to the surreal kitsche of the 70 year old Kamahl. He’s become some sort of icon of optimism over the years and kind of parodies himself, and weird as it was, his bouncy ditties had the audience singing along and I was smiling like a kid with a double ice cream.

Wandering, wandering. Looking down at what was happening before Wolfmother, I had to admit that my ongoing criticism about the lack of energy at rock gigs (compared to dance parties) was not always fair, because that place was seething with energy. The style of music Wolfmother plays is old school rock rather like Led Zeppelin, and at times it was easy to imagine that this was the ‘70s all over again.

Running across the large screen there was a ticker tape strip with text messages people could send in, and along with all the messages like “Happy Australia Day”, “Wolfmother rocks” and “I love you Angela – will you marry me” were some racist messages that had me shaking my head. As did the many guys wearing the Australian flag like a superhero’s cape and acting like fuckwits. Captain Australia? Captain Yobbo more like it. Too much booze, too much patriotism.

Still, overall the vibe was one of celebration and people were generally happy.

The hour or so of watching Iggy Pop was mesmerising. He’s 59 years old or something, and I could not believe the energy he has coiled up in that wiry body. I just watched, enthralled, and left at the conclusion as he swaggered from the destroyed stage, not looking back but flipping the bird to the audience. Very fucking rock ‘n roll.

I felt a little bad leaving the others hours earlier, and initially I was just going for a short walk, but then I found myself roaming all over the place and just felt really peaceful. I kind of wanted someone there from time to time to share some of the funny things I saw and heard, some of the random thoughts, but ultimately I kind of needed to be alone.

Made my way home, and The Dreaded One had had a great day with her friend. She was watching a movie about Oscar Wilde; I aplogised because I knew I was about to take up all of her attention and talk over the top of the movie to tell her in excruciating detail about my day, which I did. Then we watched Austen Tayshus, old school stand up comic, and he was hilarious. Kind of guy who chews up and spits out anyone stupid enough to heckle him.

A very cool day indeed.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006


There's this guy that I don't know who I really hate. I don't even know what he looks like or his name or what he does for a living or where he lives, but man I really hate that fucker.

I was standing in the queue in the supermarket, and he was this irritating presence right behind me. Like right behind me. The queue would move forward ever so slightly, and he was right the fuck behind me. What was the go with the tiny weeny personal space? The guy in front of me was about half an arm's length away, whereas Small Personal Space guy was breathing down my neck. Literally. The line moved forward three steps, but I didn't budge. Neither did SPS Guy. So I waited... and waited... and eventually I moved forward really slowly, just half a step... and fuck me if SPS Guy didn't immediately fill the space. I really thought I was going to lose it there for a bit and turn on the bastard. "JUST WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM YOU CREEPY FUCKER? WHAT ARE YOU - MY FUCKING SHADOW? ARE WE VELCROED TOGETHER? ARE WE SIAMESE TWINS? YOU WANNA HOLD MY GODDAMN HAND? OOH THE LINE JUST MOVED... WHAT ARE YOU DOING ALL THE WAY OVER THERE? COME ALL THE WAY OVER HERE YOU BITCH! YEAH, THAT'S BETTER, MOVE IN NICE AND CLOSE BECAUSE I WAS STARTING TO MISS YOU."

I just don’t get it. Was it me? Was there some kind of animal magnetism going on? Were my two upturned bananas giving out the wrong signals? Had someone secretly put a tattoo on the back of my neck saying, “Breathe here hotly if you are a creepy little SPS person”? Had someone sticky-taped a sign to my back saying, "“Stay right on top of this guy – he’s trying to get away.”?

I just wanted to buy my tin of re-fried beans. That’s all.

Fucking weirdo humans.


Sunday, January 22, 2006

Aqua Tribe

That previous post was... oh I don't know, crass? I think the more we use the c word the less impact it will have. It should not be the ultimate taboo word. But there was also rather a lot of scatalogical humour in there too. Bloody juveniles.

I'd also like to clarify that Michael Leunig comes across as a really nice guy, and his cartoons are some of my favourites, and the reference to him stealing the life shop idea was just a reference to the coincidence of us coming up with the same idea at the same time. He is the master of melancholy.

Anyway, check this pic. This is the rained-out doof called Solar Tribe. Solar? Hah. Should have been called Aqua Tribe.

It looks like pooh, but it was a serious amount of fun. If you put your ear close to the screen you will hear how good the music was. You might even feel some of the rain against your skin...

Saturday, January 21, 2006

Meet Bird

Meet Bird. She lives in Brighton. This is a chat we just had. It's kinda typical. Erm... fruity language warning. Also, anyone steals our story ideas, you know what to expect...

Lee says: yo dude
birdy says: yo dudina
Lee says: yo yo duderingo
birdy says: yo yo yo dudaloola
Lee says: yo yo yo dudalopalinadindong...
birdy says: anyway
birdy says: I am writing a story about a man who is so perfect no one ever notices him and he starts selling whitespace on the internet and gets totally obsessed with it and people start noticing his character but then he gets too obsessed with it and eaten up in his own whitespace and disappears leaving millions of dollars in whitespace stock and no one ever hears from him again
Lee says: that sounds kookier than my story called Two Shadows, about a guy who never ventures out in daylight because he has two shadows. Or if he does go outside, he is careful that he stays in the shadows. He is very lonely. Until the day he meets a lonely girl who also has two shadows.
birdy says: lol
birdy says: that sounds really sweet
Lee says: Yeah, I imagine it being a kind of Leunig type thing. It's been noodling about in my brain for a while now. It's gonna come out soon.
birdy says: I like it
birdy says: Leunig is a chartoonist?
birdy says: without the h
Lee says: yes. He's the one who stole my idea about being told to get a life and going to The Life shop. He's a cunt.
birdy says: lol
birdy says: he does the things with all the little guys with big noses
birdy says: ?
Lee says: Then he did the thing about Mr Curly going to Antactica and discovering the joy of penguins. Like, Penguins are my thing. Cunt.
Lee says: they have pointy heads.
Lee says: (and I called someone a pointy head yeeeeeeears ago. I think he's tapping into my brain).
birdy says: like being Jon Malcovic
birdy says: but Being Quick
Lee says: that must be it.
Lee says: I swear, if he does anything with two shadows I am going to hunt the fucker down and put shit in his eyes. Hmm... better write the story soon.
birdy says: human shit?
Lee says: yes... well I haven't thought this through very well. What I'm gonna do is hunt the fucker down and pay someone some good money to put shit in his eyes.
birdy says: you could just shit directly in his eyes
birdy says: hold him down and squat and poo in his eyes
Lee says: that's what I mean about not thinking it through. All right, so if that Leunig cunt does anything with two shadows I'm gonna hunt the fucker down, wrestle him to the ground, tie him up and shit directly into his eyes, which I have cunningly gaffer taped open.
birdy says: you can get those little things they use when they do laser eye surgery that holds eyes open
Lee says: ...if that Leunig cunt does anything with two shadows I'm gonna hunt the fucker down, wrestle him to the ground, tie him up and shit directly into his eyes, which I have cunningly lasered open with eye surgery lasery things.
birdy says: lol
birdy says: sounds perfect
Lee says: oh hang on - aren't the thinigs you're talking about just little tiny gaffer tape things?
Lee says: anyway. enough with shitting in cartoonists' eyes.
birdy says: yeah!
birdy says: down with pooing in eyes!
Lee says: Because then people would be all, "Michael, what's that offensive smell that appears to be coming from your eyes. It smells like that talented feloow Quick's pooh."
Lee says: (fellow)
birdy says: I prefer feloow
Lee says: also, I have a beard.
birdy says: !!
Lee says: actually, you were right. Most of his guys have enormous noses. Wonder what that's all about.
birdy says: it's a penis envy thing
Lee says: He's really very good. Looking at his new calender now. It's whimsical.
Lee says: Fuck. Wonder if I can get in touch with him and I can do the words for Two Shadows (thinking about calling the character T.S. Elliot) and he can do the pix.
birdy says: oooh
birdy says: right
birdy says: I hav eto go have a shower and meet Abi at Wagamamamamamams
birdy says: and wash my hair. Phase 1: new bird hair involves lots of washing. It's crap.
Lee says: ok. I'm almost thinking about posting this chat on my blog... I'm feeling lazy and it's pretty funny.
birdy says: It hink you should
Lee says: Ok. I'm gunna.

And I did. Apple Ogies for the typos.

Friday, January 20, 2006

Woops, We Did It...

Because I am taking the plunge, quitting my secure writing and editing desk job and attempting to go fulltime freelance, I read up a little the other day and came across some advice that basically said that in my position I should have a year's wages saved up to use in case things don't go right.


What I have is about a week's wages "saved" up (and which I can spend in a weekend without trying AND have nothing to show for it), and sitting here on my desk are two e-tickets to Soulclipse in Turkey which happens at the end of March. We've also paid for airfare to Turkey, Spain and UK. Then when we get back, I have no job. Seriously - no job. I quit a perfectly good job all because working in an office every day was driving me nuts. Like, that's what office jobs are meant to do, isn't it? What is wrong with me?

Excellent. Perfect. Yet again Quick does everything according to the book. Basically what's going through my head right now is what in the name of Sweet Jesus do I think I'm doing? What a fucking idiot. There was no real reason for me to quit, we've spent the last of our money on a trip to the other side of the planet to witness a total solar eclipse and dance for six days (yes yes and to see you, Bird)... and... wha...

Also, I had a dream while up the coast that when I left this job, they gave me a going away present which was a particularly dinged up and rusty old baking dish. What the hell is that all about?

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

Quick And The Dreaded One

Here we are on New Years Eve, taking a well-earned break from all that hard work. The Dreaded One naturally has to hide her dreads and shaved lightning bolt under her chef's hat.

I am wondering if it's unreasonable, now that I am leaving the mag, to consider food prep work because the chef outfits look pretty snappy.

And I would love to know what the guy (Shouty Chef) looking at us is thinking. Maybe, "Yeeeahhh... I'll bet it was you who was trying not to giggle like a girl at my shouting." Any suggestions?

Crocodile Hunter

The reaction of non festy goers to the fact that a dance festival goes for four days is generally something like, "Four days? Bloody hell."

Thing is, there's a lot of chilling and wandering and resting and dumb arse conversations. Like when The Dreaded One and I wandered back to our camp site to chill, and we were drinking and the drivel thing was happening with me and I was being a little silly and being caught up in the whole I'm-so-tanned-and-barefoot-and-unshaven-and-with-my-almost-mowhawk-hairdo, and I was waffling on and happened to catch sight of my reflection in the car window and interupted myself to inform anyone who cared to listen, which was basically no one except The Dreaded One, "My God look at me. I'm looking all tough and macho 'n shit. I look just like a hippie... only way tougher than any goddamn hippie... I'm more like a... a sinewy and cunning... crocodile hunter."

The Dreaded One had been watching this earnest exchange with my car window reflection, and after a couple of moments of perplexed silence, she lost it big time. Nano seconds later I realised how silly I was, and I lost it too. For about ten minutes we just did that thing where you stumble about pointing at each other and how much you are laughing, and you wipe tears away and the laughter becomes more about the laughter than the twatty thing that started it, and your face and stomach hurt and you spill things and tip chairs over and passers-by smirk to themselves, and it was great.

I would like a laugh like that each week instead of every couple of years.

Then again, us leathery croc hunters find laughter a pretty shitty survival tool. So you know, whatever.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

Solar Tribe & Exodus

Am back in Sydney now. Am very tired, so I'm copying and pasting a letter I wrote to the mag's letters section about a week ago. It kind of captures what the first part of the holiday was about (as my Grumpy persona... oh, and I might have to accept that Grumpy is my writing name because another mag wants to keep running my Grumpy column... may have to change this blog name), but it doesn't convey to the uninitiated that I am taking the piss, and that this was a brilliant holiday. The first rainy party was so cool, there was some tedious shit to deal with in Surfer's, some idle fun in Byron, then there was another party at Tenterfield called Exodus... man, that was fun. I can still hear the music, my skin is still tanned, the soles of my feet are still leathery... And my beard has trainer wheels, but it's all I can do.

I joked to a friend about the structure of my DNA morphing into hippie, but there is some truth in that. There were wanker hippies, for sure, but some cool ones too, some friends and new friends and... more in detail later. Exodus 2007 though... I am there.

Right, read this. I have to get some sleep, go do my job tomorrow and think about what I am leaping into in eight weeks or so.

Dear 3D,

What happens when you go on a holiday? It fucking rains like it's never rained before, that's what happens. The locals are on about being drought conditions until you show up, like somehow it's your fault. Hippies? Fuck off. Real hippies aren't so hostile. What else happens? You save a little kid from drowning in the river that has suddenly appeared, but does she say thanks? Fuck no. Then you dance for 15 hours in the mud, not because the music is pumping (which it was) but because if you stop dancing you start to freeze because you're soaked through to the skin. Then you get evacuated because if you don't get out now you may not make it at all. Then all your shit is wet and muddy and moldy and you have to drive for ages to the nearest town, and let me tell you... well driving on acid is kind of fun but not recommended. The police don't respond very well to, "Sorry officer, but can we make this snappy - the giant scorpions are right behind us."

Anyway, point is, you may as well stay at home because otherwise you may have to deal with floods and hostile hippies.

And those fucking giant scorpions.

Holidays are shit. Can't wait to get back home.

Byron Bay.

Friday, January 13, 2006


What is this 'holiday' shit? This is living. No office. No timetable. No deadlines. Wandering through Byron to a stunnning beach, nothing to worry about except where to go for lunch (probably the courtyard in the pub overlooking said stunning beach), feeling chuffed at having squeezed another couple of days of living in, certainly no Motherdrama to worry about (The Dreaded One's, not mine... hmmm... The Real Dreaded One?).

Biggest dilemma right now is how, exactly, we go about blagging our way into the three day party at Tenterfield. We were selling tickets at Psydeways but I didn't think we'd be up here for it. Usual deal is we get a couple of names on the door (tree) in return for selling tickets. We really should be thinking about heading back to the real world, but this party sounds amazing. And the one last week was washed out, therefore we deserve to go to this one, God damnit. The cosmos owes us. Gonna put those blagging skills to the test and see what happens.

But not until after lunch in the sun...

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

Melancholy In Paradise

There was a lunch on at the place I am staying at that I didn't want to be part of. The Dreaded One had no choice, so I wandered off by myself. I quite like doing that. Puts me in quite a floaty frame of mind. I think about all sorts of stuff, check out the surroundings and the people surrounding me. If I was with someone, no doubt my inner bitch would materialise and I'd be making all sorts of catty observations to get a few laughs. But in this near mealancholic state of mind I see everyone as being basically just harmless and good people going about their business, just trying to make something of life. Perhaps it's also becaue of some crappy family drama yesterday that I just can't be bothered looking for negatives and being critical, even if it is just for laughs. Life's too short to focus on the crappy parts and all that.

I wandered alone through Surfer's Paradise, and it was ripe and juicy with fashion victims, but I had nothing, didn't want to go that way. The city itself though, man, I couldn't help noticing that it's really lost its gloss. From a distance it still appears as glitzy as ever and there are still sparking skyscrapers going up bigger and brasher than before, but there are so many dull and empty arcades and empty shops. Raptis Plaza opened a few years ago and was the latest and greatest, but as I walked past there were workers chiselling off the words Raptis and Plaza. Cycle of life and death, huh.

And then at some point on this gorgeous sunny day as I sat looking out at the sea mist and the surfers and swimmers, waves churing relentlessly, my skin tanned and stinging pleasantly from hours in the sun, I found myself chewing this thought: I don't feel quite as immortal as I once did.

Then I thought to myself, "Fuck me, that's pretty good. Not quite Oscar Wilde, but not half bad."

And then I thought to myself, "Holy crap - that's exactly what I want on my headstone."

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Art Rage

Many details I forgot to mention in the quick rant below. One was the 'art' in the pub in Bangalow. Small room full of locals and travellers. Three walls were occupied by large paintings by a local 'artist', and I know beauty is in the eye of the beholder and all that, but I also know that that little axiom is complete rubbish. Sometimes somethinig is just so bad that you can do the lip service bit with the eye of the beholder thing, but the reality is that crap, sometimes, is just crap.

The guy calls himself 'an instinctive abstract impressionist', or something like that. Can't really remember because as I said, I was in a weird state when in the restaurant and I read the notes just before leaving. But that's more or less part of the description.

As for a description of the paintings... big, clumsy chunks of colour that were all just wrong. I know, abstract impressionism done by instinct, maybe it's not wrong, just unusual or unexpected yada yada. No, I'm telling you categorically that it was pooh. Purple and yellow and mauve, but pooh nontheless.

One was mean't to be of Mount Warning, an odd looking volcanic structure with a bent tip just outside Byron Bay. It's a pretty distinctive landmark, and he got the shape of it right, but really... it was just all wrong. It reminded me of vegetables. Broccoli and purple congo potatoes (is that what the purple potatoes are called?) and mashed sweet potato...

But the most fascinating thing about this abomination was the price tag. I really can't convey the amateurish quality of this thing enough, but he was asking $2,500 for it. For a long time I couldn't decide whether to be endeared by his optimism or enraged by his audacity. In the end I decided that I have never been so enraged by a painting in my life.

Gonna Google the bastard now and see if there's anything about him out there.

Monday, January 09, 2006

Sneaky Rain

Two things have gone right with this trip. One is... hang on, tree things. One was The Best Cup Of Coffee In The History Of Best Cups Of Coffee which was consumed with glee in Bellingen. The second thing was a dinner at a place in Byron called Olivio's or something. The third was a rad hair cut by a guy called Adam at a salon called Sweet & Vicious in Byron. That salon was spotted by The Dreaded One and it was a good choice. I look rad, man. Well my hair does anyway. The fourth thing... there were actually four things, but I've forgotten the fourth one.

Fucking rain all the way up the coast. Peak tourist season, didn't book accomodation because we intended to camp along the way. But the rain puts a bit of a dampener (sorry) on camping. Stayed in a shit hole sleazy shit hole of a shit hole that I wouldn't let a lonely and desperate rat stay in. Fucking hell. It had That Smell. You know That Smell. It's the smell of dingy. But the sheets were clean, there was only one cockroach and it was clearly insane and about to die anyway, so I took pity on it and encouraged it to escape Hotel Shit Hole via the door.

Oh... there was a baby bit before that. Screaming wriggler. At a restaurant. I really don't know how you breeders do it. In fact I said to the father of the wriggler, "I couldn't do it, the kid thing. Just couldn't do it." He smiled and replied, "You just do it, mate."

He was right. I could do it. I just would. I'd take the kid's shit and do the right thing because that's the only option. What I should have said, and what I meant, was that I don't ever want to do it.

More rain. Loads of rain. Arsehole truckies, torrential rain, the assurance that the doof we are heading to is inland and therefore somehow blessed with Dry. I wanted Dry. I also wanted Dry for the doof but made the mistake of buying a six pack of Steinlager instead of Toohey's Extra Dry, and that was a mistake, as I said. Bloody Kiwis. Best beer in the world? Pfft.

Headed out to doof in the rain. Sooo much rain. Reaaly crap crap rain. weird to go from a 45 degree New Year's Day in Sydney to soo much rain. Got to the doof site (there was lots more shit to deal with but I am in a hurry and am typing this as fast as I can because I know you are all worried about me and thinking, "Gee, wonder how Quick is going on hi road trip.") and it was beautiful and everything, but there was just so much rain. Set the tent up in the rain by the side of a dry creek bed with one or two shallow water holes. Hit the dancefloor when everything was finally set up. The rain eased and we even saw stars for a while, which gave us hope.

Then It really rained. The sky kind of went, "You think that was rain? Huh. Wait till you get a load of this." Then it really did its thing. It does its thing in spectacular style.

Lots happened involving dancing and water and mud and mayhem that was really an extraordinary amount of fun, but it rained all night and after something like 15 hours (gotta check on this, but I am sore enough) of dancing in the mud I realised that the dry creek was a rapidly-rising river of fast moving water. Party was suposed to go until 6pm whatever yesterday was, but the music shut down at 2pm, and there was a silent vibe (had gone back to the tent to thaw out, and I was getting very concerned about our close proximity to the ever-rising river). Word was sent out and yep, had to bail because the rain was going to continue and we had to get out while we still could.

Interesting drive back to a place called Bangalow where we were a little numb and dazed and strange having crossed rivers and driven through the hardest rain we'd driven through. This time three of us in ANOTHER shitty hotel room. No neurotic cockroaches to report though.

Slept like three babes.

Made it to the Gold Coast.

Rain is predicted until Friday, when it turns sunny for the weekend. We are leaving on Thursday night. Perfect.

Also, my 'recently updated blogs' thing is shit - it hasn't changed in months. And my profile check bit is still stuck, this time on 109 instead of 88. And I can't access this stupid counter site to see who has been visiting and what they (you) have been reading.

Crap crap crap.

Incidentally, I wouldn't have missed that doof for anything. So much fun and silliness. I have taken photos of my toes with mud on them. I also have photos of my weird new do. It's weird.

Can't be arsed proofing this. Gotta go eat things.

Also, it's not raining in Surfer's Paradise right now, but it's humid, and humidity is like sneaky rain. I don't like rain anymore. It's evil.

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

Get Your Motor Running, Head out On The Highway

Somehow I managed to pull an extra week out of my ass, so in a matter of minutes I am packing the car and The Dreaded One and I are heading up the coast to spend my ass week at and around Byron Bay. Two weeks in total.

Funny thing was, I had cut my holiday short out of concern for things going smoothly at the mag. Then I got in yesterday to overlap with the guy filling in, and to save a day's pay they told filling in guy to go home, somewhat defeating the whole point of me going in. Then, suddenly, I wondered if I really cared all that much. And the answer was no. I don't care anymore. I just wanted to be the hell out of there and using a bit of my time for me. So I asked if I could finish yesterday and if I could come back later.

So it's cruising up the coast for me. With no care in the world. Wind in my hair and all that. looking for adventure in whatever comes our way...

Pathetically, I bet I duck into an internet cafe to post something here. Geek.

Pity we drive a station wagon and not a chopper, but what the hell... boooooorn to be wiiiiiyyyiiiiild...

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

Shout, Shout, Let It All Out

That catering gig on NYE... it reminded me of when I was just out of school and I went to work on a building site. I threw myself into the work, thinking that I was strong and fit, and my god the work chewed me up and spat me out. I was hurting for weeks.

Same thing the other night. It was only 20 hours over two days, but it was a lot more physical than poking a keyboard. Damn solid workout that I am still in pain from.

Funniest thing was the shouting. Things started heating up as the guests arrived, and when it started getting a little tight holy fuck the tempers flared. Head waiter shouted at head chef who, as expected, shouted right back. Someone asked a stupid question at the wrong time and got shouted at. When there was no shouting going on, one of the shouters just had a random shout... seriously, when the chef and the (dick) head waiter were going at each other I thought I was going to lose it and start giggling like a schoolgirl. Have you ever watched someone really give a shout everything they've got? Have you seen the funny colour their face goes? They pull the stupidest face and their veins start looking like a relief map of some complex river system, and if you're really lucky they say some really silly shit in a really serious way... and if you get two of them going head to head it's an absolute scream.

I bit my tongue though and managed not to giggle. But it really was insanely funny - especially when The Dreaded One had told me that it's as regular as clock work. I could imagine them checking off their timetable and then, seeing that it was 8.45, saying, "Oh. Shouty time. Best get on with it then... "OI! KNOBFACE! WHADDAYA CALL THIS SLOP? AND IT'S TWO AND A HALF MINUTES LATE!"






Funny humans.