Saturday, November 15, 2008
For me, he's like custard.
Delicious but makes my skin crawl.. just a little bit. Not sure why custard has always had that affect on me. But can kind of understand why Tim Freedman does, might has something to do with the fact that he's old enough to be my father, but I think it's more than that.
There's something about his singing voice that just makes my hair stand on end, not in a bad way, but not necessarily in a good way either. In a way that makes me feel slightly....... sick.
No freaken idea why. All I'm sure of is the only other time I felt sickly attracted, 'custard feeling' was when I was bout 8 years old and sleeping over at a friend's house out in the bush. We got up [see: I made her get up) to go for a bike ride at 2am. We rode for maybe 10 minutes before she wanted to go back to bed. Instead we crashed in front of the TV in the lounge room and started to watch whatever was on. It was a very cheap animation of a Gulliver's Travels story. And something about Gulliver made me ill, maybe it was the pony tail, maybe it was the shitty storyline, or the almost crudely drawn cartoon itself..... but I'm still not entirely convinced. I felt that curious ill/fascinated feeling round the moment when Gulliver yelled at his companion, a young boy for some mistake he made. Maybe there was something about that that struck me as unnaturally, disturbingly sexual, or frightening, I have no idea. Whatever it is/was was a pretty sickening feeling that I also got on the rare few times I ate custard (even though I like the taste, I just hate the way it looks and feels in my mouth).
How the hell has that feeling become entwined with Tim Freedman? Might be something to do with that fact that he's clearly a good looking (older) man who has something.... something kind of not quite right, I guess, about his eyes. Either way the weird arse feeling is there and maybe one day when I start seeing a shrink again I'll get them to elaborate (will probably just open a whole other suppressed kettle of fish memory though).
But I like enduring that uncomfortable 'custard feeling' if it means looking at him and hearing his voice. *shiver*
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Yeah... that shit has gone stale in my brain now... there's some stuff I know you kids would've gotten a hoot out of.. stuff that happened that I should blog. But I can't be arse-fucked.
There's just a little something I think I need to address, seeing as I seem to be getting so many more hits these days (used to average a couple a week if i was lucky, now average that on most days). I began this blog to serve no other purpose to me but to act as my punching bag on which to both vent, but also to practice. Practice the writing I was told I had potential in but would end up in a gutter somewhere if I didn't work my tits off at it.
Since I've been about 14 years old I wrote pretty much everyday; it began as my only way to vent the hell that was eating away at my insides. Soon it was my only coping mechanism; pages became the only place I could scream, cry, laugh and dream. While my exterior gradually closed further and further in on itself by interior was still able to clutch onto some small aspect of feeling alive even though I felt so dead.
The journals from back then I still have, but I can't read them. I get a childish joy about flicking through the pages and seeing my young self's writing scrawled across every square inch of paper, but I can;t read the words. I don't know how that wound can still be so raw. I believe that time can heal all wounds, but I wish there was some kind of manual on how much time is needed for the intensity of each traumatic experience.
But through that shaky start I started writing as a habit. A habit I needed to be able to function in the everyday world. Using the paper as a means of feeling the opposite of how the world and the people in it made me feel. Writing was the only thing that ever gave me a voice. I'd be able to sift through my torrent of thoughts and extract an articulation of things that astounded even myself. The paper showed me what I was capable of, gave me hope of something bigger than what I currently was. Through the writing and no other aspect in my sad life I ever so slowly grew.
But the more you write the more critical you seem to get of it. Critiquing the words before they're even on the paper. Some days wanting to write so badly but being haunted that what you have to say isn't good enough as though you are writing for someone else.
That is a downfall of blogging. What begins as a means of writing, showcasing what you have to an indifferent audience to gather unbiased, honest views slowly deteriorates into writing for the audience. Thinking about them in every word. Thinking about how many hits you'll get for this post, how many comments. Whether this will be the post to launch you into blogger stardom (aka being on a lot more blog rolls).
I admit that I fell into that trap for a short time. But I think I've successfully shaken it now. I like my blogs to ramble and make little sense. While I don't necessarily want Rusted Gumption to sink into the endless black hole of forgotten blogs, I don't like having a big readership. I can crap on till the cows cum (Pun Fun!!!) about 'writing for myself, not caring what anyone thinks, yada yada yada', but the truth is, while I might generally think that now, some time down the track on a lot more 'favorite's' lists I'll be more aware of my popularity and shy from the raw honesty that has made Rusted Gumption what it is, what I'm proud of.
So to sum up, what I'm getting at, I think, is this. If you are looking for some examples of intelligent, finely crafted, planned blogs, check out my blog roll (yes that includes you Bo), because what I write here I don't write to fit into any of those categories. I use this blog the same way I used those pages back when i was 14. To waffle, ramble, spurt and practice fucking practice. To vent the fucking shit out; being blunt as a brick and as raw as a fly-blown sheep's arse crack.
I don't expect many people to read what I write all the way through, because if they did it'd mean I was doing something wrong (by my own standards anyway).
So I guess that's what I was trying to get out, I think. Or was it? Yeahh.... bugger that thinking too hard crap, I've me some brain cells to go waste.. *runs away*
Monday, October 13, 2008
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
As for money.... yeh, well, can't afford to throw much of that away. I'm scared to look at my bank statement. I know it was nudging at 3 grand before I left, but now I'm just hoping it can reach to 3 dollars so I can buy myself the coke to put the bourbon from my flask into (go me for managing to save it- puked up quite a lot on the ship though. Bloody sea sickness. blahh).
I hit the mainland's shores again on Sunday morning, but have been up to my perky lil titties in school work since then. Had my last SAC for the week today, which I could've used those brain cells for that I threw away at sea, but meh, they are at the bottom of the Bass Strait now which is the same place that that blasted SAC is going to go once I get it back. Ohh... unless I surprise me fine self and get a top mark, which has happened before because my talents can surprise even my fine self by their sheer.....ahh......... awesomeness. Yehh..
I was in TassieMania for a week and me Gawd, it was freaken awesome!! To sum the whole thing up a few words... I'll have to go with: beer, camping, driving, farting, laughing and..... ahh..... ghosts. That's right! Ghosts! More on that later...
But those few words don't do my exciting-fan-tabulous-awe-freaken-some expedition to TassieLandingStripMania justice. So reckon I had better run you kids (both of you) through the highlights (briefly though brew).
Despite using sea-bands and taking tablets I was still sick as a dog on the ship and by 3am I was saying fare-thee-well to everything I'd eaten that day and pulling chunks of roast beef out of my nostrils. I'll pause here just so you can truly get a mental image of that.
Great. I'll continue.
Our ship sailed into Davenport at 8am on the Monday morning and the first thing we laid eyes on was the McDonald's across the road, so once on shore we made a bee-line for the cultural tassie dishes of Bacon and Eggs McMuffin and Hash browns with chocolate thick shakes. Once we'd overcome the shock of the chairs in the tassie Maccaz being red we settled down and read the newspaper that informed us of the mighty Hawks being in Launceston that very day. A quick discussion later and we on the road to Launceston cracking open our stubbies of Carlton and trying to figure out where all the tassie devils were. I had expected to see people walking them around on leashes, but alas, what locals were up at the ungodly hour of 8am were walking their mothers on leashes. Paa-poo!
Launceston was only an hour or so down the road and by the time we got there the sun was a-burning our skin through the window of Prick-Poo (my mate's Camry). We hit the caravan park, set our tents up on the hill and proceeded to drink more. The boys went into town to get a tarp and a torch while me and Cint lazed in the sun keeping our cameras at the ready for tassie devils.
A few beers later and I suddenly noticed how steep the hill was that we had mounted our tents on.
"Hmm?" came her reply from beneath the shade of her hood.
"This hill *burp* may just prove to ahh..... be a bit of a hazard *burp* later"
More beers later and the boys came back.
"We should go down to the oval soon"
"I wanna get my ball signed by Buddy"
"When we gonna go?"
"After this beer"
A few more beers later.
"We gonna go soon?"
More beers. More sun. A sleep or two.
"Shit we need to go get more beer"
"There's still a couple left and there's a bottle of Bundy, a bottle of Smirnoff and a bottle of Jimmy in Prick Poo"
More beers. More sun. A sleep or two.
"The Hawks would've left the oval by now"
"Ahh don't worry. We'll still get your ball signed. I'm sure they're in a nightclub in town somewhere trying to rape someone."
The air became nippy and we hopped inside the shelter of the big tent onto the small fold out table. More drinking, laughing, farting, smoking, sleeping and bullshitting and there was a crack.
The chair beneath Big Pat snapped in half and the entire table collapsed and we were sprawled on the floor.
"Let's go to the pub"
Later that night with a carton of VB split between us we were singing and dancing down the main street of Launceston and ended up at Maccaz. I had a burger (apparently), forgot i had it so had another one (apparently) and then forgot I had that one so had another one (apparently), by which point my fellow cow-punchers decided they'd be rolling me back to the caravan park at the rate I was going. So I was booted out the door of maccaz hollering "But I haven't had anything to eat yet!!". And somehow, we made it back to the park.
The others made it up the hill and climbed into the warmth of the tents and out of the freezing tassie night air while I and my portion of VB popped down to the toilets. I then proceeded to climb the hill to the tents and was croaking out "Cinta! Cinta! I can't get up this fuckin hill with these fuckin beers!!" when next minute I was rolling down it, leaving a trail of VB cans in my wake.
Cint stuck her head out the tent flap and found me at the bottom of the hill lying in a gutter of dirt, suspicious liquid and beer cans from that day.
"What are you doing?" she laughed.
I know i woke up the next morning in the tent so not sure what happened in between the rolly-polly time and the morning but I'm trying to stay positive.
Over a brekkie of beers we learnt from one of the thousands of brochures we'd taken from the ship that the Boag's brewery was in that town. We cleaned the dirt out of our ears and nostrils, packed up our tents then set off into town.
We payed $25 to do a tour of the brewery, which I naturally assumed we'd do with beers in our hands at all times or at least be able to stick our heads into the tanks and drink our fill, but this wasn't to be the case. We wandered up and down stairs, through corridors and out into the yards of the brewery all with the smell of hops, wort and wheat in my nostrils while I got gradually thirstier and angrier. By the end I wanted to kill the ugly tour guide and drink his blood just to see if it tasted like beer.
Finally we trudged back to the brewery office where there was actually a bar. I nearly fell over with exhaustion from the wait. The fridge was stocked with all of Boag's beers and I licked my lips, mumbling "Come on you rotten bastard" while the tour guide handed around cheese.
If we wanted fucking cheese we would've gone to a fucking cheese factory! Not a fucking brewery you skinny prick!!
We eventually were given a 'beer tasting' (who honestly drinks beer for the taste?) which gave each of us about one standard drink in total. I was fuming. A half bottle of Boags Premium sat upon the bar still once the other people in the tour group had wandered away so I guzzled it.
We went down to the pub for lunch and the other Cow Punchers sat in the beer garden while I chatted to the bar maid somewhat tipsily about being a bar maid. More beers.
Looking at our map of the Great Landing Strip we spotted a large lake in the National Park a few hours drive south where we could fish, camp, have an open fire and make nuisances of ourselves. Back in Prick Poo we headed south. More beers. Sleeping. More beers.
It was strange going through so many towns that looked like they were cut straight from British travel brochures.
"Who needs to go to Europe? Just come to tassie"
It was getting towards the late afternoon when Prick Poo began to climb the mountain that the lake was meant to sit at the top of when we were meeting four-wheel-drive after four-wheel-drive.
"Shit. Hope Prick Poo can make it"
"She'll be right"
Higher still and Prick Poo was growling under the strain.
"Carn Prick Poo" We all began to chant.
The tracks wove higher, became narrower.
"Carn Prick Poo!"
Then one of the four-wheel drives coming from the other direction slowed and wound down his window. He puffed on a ciggie through stained fingers and a dirty grey moustache and looked at me and Cinta in the back with a filthy leer.
"Get's reallllll steep" He slurred.
"It gets steeper?" Big Pat asked.
Filthy Grey nodded and rolled away down the mountain without a word.
We sat on the track and looked up the steep slope of the mountain.
"Reckon he's just being a cunt?"
"I don't want to risk it" Big Pat said firmly.
"He's probably just a cunt."
"All we've met so far are four-wheel-drives. That's a pretty good indication of how steep it is."
"We're come this far though."
Big Pat reversed Prick Poo back down the track and swung around on the elbow, "Well next time we'll bring your car and fuck it up on some mountain."
Spirits dampened we drove back down the mountain trying not to think of the wonderland that could've been waiting for us atop that mountain.
The light continued to gradually fade and and we consulted our map of the Landing Strip again.
"There's no more caravan parks till the outskirts of Hobart"
We cruised into the park at the last light of day and set up our tents in the semi dimness on the edges of a massive lake that supplied us with ducks everywhere.
"Duck for dinner anyone?"
A BBQ dinner and we retired to the semi warmth of our tent for more beer and card games, later finding entertainment in the drunken teenage lesbian show that was happening in the cabin a few meters away. They sang loudly and danced to bad country songs till the owners hurried over to bang on the glass door and yell at them to keep it down. We continued to be loud and drunk with our radio till someone stuck their head out the window and screamed at us to shut the fuck up.
And that's all for now kids. Study calls. By which I mean sleeping in the sun with the bottle of coke.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Trashy trashy slosh sister- I WANT MY BLOG AND I WANT IT NOW WOMAN!!!!!!
Capesh? You've run outta excuses girlie. Do it or I'll reveal to the blogosphere what you got up to with my 54 year old mum on this fine Spring night in a certain bar in Brighton.
Bahahahaha. That sounds seriously dirty.
Thank Family Guy (my god) that winter is over.
Bastard of a freakin' winter that sucked fat hairy black salty balls. (Not that I know what fat hairy black salty balls taste like...)
But I hear that you're rather talented at the ol' tambourine?
I'll be back in a week and I'll be expecting a blog waiting for me. Capesh?
*whispers* yay. *whispers* yay. *whispers* yay.
I really should go pack now and stop seeking attention from randoms on the interweb.
Oh yeah. And my mum just turned 54.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MUM!!!!!
Even though she doesn't actually read this type vomit.
Gonna stop drinking now...... and start packing.
Ahh.... who the heck am I kidding?
Frick........ where are my fishing rods? Hmm.....
This is complete bullshit.
I don't want it.
Is NOT how things are supposed to be.
Why is everything so fucked up?
Despite the sacrifices, the hardship, the endurance? All I've got for it....
In all its fiery, godless completion.
What I want. What I have only EVER wanted is this:
What I need. What I'd kill for.
And I've had enough.
I'm ready to spill the blood of the fuckers who get in my way.
The fuckers who get in between me and this-
You understand me now you stupid chauvinist bogan arseholes? You got that? No more. From here-on-in shit is gonna be done the right way. You fuckers are gonna give me fair go and just completely forget the fact that I have a vagina.
I work harder than you. I'm stronger than you. I'm tougher than you. And you don't want to fuck with me anymore. Cause I've had enough. ENOUGH
If I don't get this lifelong dream, than I'm getting your testicles with a side of gravy. Fucking delicious.
On the god damn fucking edge bitches.
Yeahh.... that was totally the wine speaking.
WOOOOO!!! going to tassie tomorrow!!
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
The official guests begin to arrive around 7/8pm, while the close friends and family have been drinking/setting up since late in the afternoon.
Everybody screams when someone new arrives. People work out whose driving and who isn't. People ask each other what they got the special 21ster. They eat, drink, complain about the music, drink and gravitate towards a socially safe corner of the room before getting out their phones to text and look important and popular.
The more guests that arrive, the louder the music gets. The food starts to disappear and it becomes gradually harder to find your favourite beer or wine as the guests may take a step or two away from their own safe corners to attempt mingling with a larger proportion of the other guests.
People are standing up more by 10pm and maybe even one or two are attempting a-deranged-boot scoot, stepping from side to side and blushing when they miss a beat in the song.
Guests who were in the safe corners have suddenly realised how much they need to piss so wander off to find the toilets and end up in front of the collage of photos of the 21ster. "Ohh look at her/him there! Sooooo adorable!"
Then there's the endless "So how do you know [insert 21ster's name]?"
"Oh! I go to work/school/uni/cat-flinging competitions with him/her. What about you?"
"Oh! I used to live/play footy/masturbate with [insert 21ster's name]"
*both drink and look around*
"Oh there's Kate/Joel/fat tosser I hate but rather talk to him then endure this silence with you. Nice meeting you."
"Oh yes! You too"
Around 11pm a shout rings out and a thick murmur settles over the party as everyone seems to instinctively know that it's speech time.
Mum/Dad/brother/sister/perverted uncle stands up and raises their voice, kicking off the introduction to [insert 21ster's name]'s life.
The family tells the story about the time the 21ster ate a bug when he/she was a tot, ran away from home when all the ice cream ran out, shitted on the neighbour's cat, etc and everyone laughs.
The friends get up and tell the story about the time the 21ster got drunk and vomited in a taxi before taking a dump on Mr Lawson's front lawn, the time he/she lost their shoes on a night out, the time he/she got a flat tyre out near whoop whoop and was stranded for three hours, etc and everyone laughs.
It's pretty much a night of showcasing your entire life at 21 to everyone whose opinion you give a shit about (or are meant to give a shit about).
I mean, what do people that have no piss/shit/vomit stories do?
Do they just wake up a week before their 21st and go "right, gonna get me some 21st speech fodder today"?
Before getting drunk and heading out to shit, piss and vomit till their heart's content/camera memory card is full?
It's just so much pressure. I'll be 21 in less than two years and I'm already thinking about the bloody thing and stressing. ehhkkk.
If everything went to plan it would go like this:
Guests rock up to farm whenever the fuck they want to already find already find me smashed and riding my favourite sheep around wearing cowboy boots and some spanking hot expensive dress with a long neck bottle of VB in my grubby hand.
The old man has fired up a bonfire or two and thrown a couple of dead sheep into the flames and assures everyone that the fire will clean out the taste of maggot.
Other guests on sheepback are playing polo cross with shovels, chasing the rats that had been living in the ashes of the fire pit for the past few months across the paddock, screaming "Come up on the wing! He's headed for the fence!"
My best mates are in the wool shed that's been decorated with empty beer cans and drawing up the tally for the farm-to-pub horse/sheep race and arguing over who the favourite is. It's naturally me, but a rumour floating around says that dirty Wagga has been feeding his pony steroids for a week. The jury is out until Wagga rides down the driveway on a big Angus bull and he's tipped $1.25. I try to argue this infringement of the rules but Bode and Rod have taken my farm-to-pub horse/sheep race rule book and used it for rollies. Fuckers.
I then ditch my sheep, Woolly and go get my pony from the back paddock. He's firing from all cylinders after the redbull I put in his feed and before I can yell "ready, set, go!" he's cleared the top rail of the front gate and half way down the road. The rest of my guests soon follow. Some have a sheep as their ride of choice, some have a horse while others decide on riding each other in the machinery shed and skip the race entirely.
And I figure I've still got another two years to create the rest. Have a feeling I'm going to be disappointed by the real thing though.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
No, I'm not getting my genitals waxed (though I probably should......)- I'm going to Tassimania!!! That sweet little island that is the butt of every mainlander's jokes.
The cousin-rootin', hootin', babba-bootin', disconnected little strip of cunt ain't going to know what hit it this time next week when the Dirty Bar-Maid and her flock of pot-drinking, bourbon-snorting, Cow-Punching associates tumble off the ship and into TassiMania.
I've never been out of Australia before so am seriously psyched about crossing that little strip of sea to see how people outside my own grand mass of turd live. So far I'm picturing things to be a little something like this:-
Early Monday morning we tumble off the almighty Spirit of Tassimania amidst our shit-load shipment of empty whiskey, bundy and bourbon bottles with a backpacker or ten to be greeted by the natives of said TassieCuntMania.
Most of who will be the direct descendants of cannibal-convicts who were transported to Van Dieman's Land for napkin stealing or rooting a gutter rat or some trivial crime like that.
The small assortment of natives, after welcoming us with open limbs (hands, fingers and toes need not apply) will invite us through teeth-less gobs with green tounges to a delicious feast of TassieCuntMania's traditional delicacy of their father's/brother's/sister's eyeballs, to be washed down with a pint of fairy urine.
I and my fellow Cow-Punchers feeling rather seedy from this point from all the fairy urine will continue on to meet the native's leader- a giant Tassie Devil called Aaron with TassieMania natives suckling from his teats. We will pass on such an indulgent and insist that we really must be on our way. We had hoped to get in a spot of fishing and native-hunting before nightfall.
Now I'm not 100% sure on this theory, so decided I'd Google image cannibal-tassie-cunt-mania-convicts-incest-bestiality-hairy just to round of the final perfections to this insightful understanding of other cultures. And this is what I found-
Your search - cannibal tassie cunt bestiality incest hairy convicts mania - did not match any documents. Suggestions:
Make sure all words are spelled correctly.
Try different keywords.
Try more general keywords.
Try fewer keywords.
Ahhh I see. Second time is the charm then.
Google image search number #2 with 'cunt incest landing strip hairy' unearthed me this:-
Hmmm.... yehh that's kind of close to what I had in mind. The eyes so close together along with the dunny-brush tail are definite give-aways of inbreeding and cannibalism since 1788, but I've gotta say- the white fur really throws me. I can't seem to put that down to any logical explanation connected to the Tassie-Cunt native's lifestyle. Bathing in cum since 1788 maybe?
The Spirit of Tasmania should make that their motto. If the ads showed cum-bathing as the cultural highlight of this grand island instead of clearly homosexual husbands dancing with their wives on the ship's deck in the sunset I would've booked myself a ticket to Cunt-Mania the day before i was born. Or even worse, Poxy the fat Coxy telling us how the 'sea view is amazing'. Is it? Cause we can't see it with your fat arse, gut the size of Uluru and even bigger head in the way Poxy Coxy.
The marketing fuckers behind this advertisement and Poxy Coxy's humungo gut need to go back to MAWDTM University (Manipulate and Achieve World Domination Through the Media).
But any who, back to my Dirty Bar-Maid holiday to TassieMania.
I think I may have a serious problem. Did I mention that? Because after weeks upon weeks of listening to Kid Rock's sexual assault of 'Sweet Home Alabama' all I want to do is sit by the campfire, drink whiskey out the bottle (even though I don't even like whiskey- make that shizzle Bundy the bloke's best mate Polar Bear), 'smoke funny things, trying different things and sing Sweet Home Alabama all summer long'.
True talent right there- rhyming 'things' with 'things'. I was about to say that if the incest rumours about Kid Rock are true then he must be TassieMania's poster child...... woooahhh.. was that too far? I mean Tassie is still part of Australia after all, well kind of anyway.
[Rusted Gumption is not responsible for any politically incorrect statements and by viewing this blog you understand the terms and conditions of things being all fun and games till someone (i.e- a Tassie native) looses their self-esteem.]
So I Google imaged 'whiskey bottle campfire things things' to once again try and carve out some sort of image of what to expect on my grand expedition and this came up:-
So now I'm scared and am thinking that either the said Tassie Natives are terrorists, Kid Rock is a terrorist or *gulp* I am a terrorist. Which according to Bush means I can't trust myself and should go out and buy lots of guns and locks and be terrified of my own shadow because any minute my own shadow could rise up from the pavement wearing a turban, speaking Farsi and telling me to go get a Qantas plane. So I think it's just easier to decide on Kid Rock being a terrorist and being the Western World's enemy number #67864356 so must be set on fire- not because he's some how responsible for that note, but because he sexually abused Sweet Home Alabama. Fucker.
*takes medication now*
I'll try to bring back all my blogger friends tassie souvenirs. A Tassie Native's tail for the girls and and a Tassie Devil's turd for the boys. Don't say I don't think about you.
But I hear the whole Afro/electrocuted look is in right now.
Monday, September 15, 2008
I glance up at the distant growl of a diesel engine and spot a large truck trundling down the track straights towards me and the weatherboard pub.
This outsider's movement makes my skin prickle despite the pounding heat as I suck in my breath. Eyes down again I continue on my bee-line for the pub, trying to shake off the anxiety that tightens my cracked lips.
My feet baulk slightly as they leave the red dust of the track and step onto the hot rutted concrete of the pub's verandah. The shade slices through the glare and I look upwards, my eyes locking onto the darkened green window of the pub's heavy door-making explicit to my sticky flesh the coolness that lay on the other side. A long desired oasis.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
(1) Charles Darwin was right- only the strong survive. While the weak mightn't necessarily perish in today's modern urban society where any disease-riddled, quarter-brained excuse for a life form can still technically exist, that's all they really do- exist.
(2) Dogs generally have more class, intelligence and are better looking than the people at over 28s' nights. Ohh...... and actually have some imitation of etiquette. (i.e- dogs may sniff every other dog in the park's arse but they don't end up paying for a lick from the dog having 'gender issues').
So it doesn't seem to matter how privileged, wealthy or sheltered a person has been, if your core is weak you're gonna fall. And if you show your weakness to others they will most often than not take advantage to assume a higher place in the pack than you.
The only defence for this seems to be is to fake it. If you're scared, act like you're brave. If you're nervous, act like you're confident. If you feel uncertain, say everything aloud with conviction.
Because the strong really do like using the weak as stepping stones.
And stepping stones despite earning a shit load of money (which they love showing off to bar-maids half their age) can grow out of their youth, but not their weaknesses, not their insecurities with people's perceptions of them not changing. And when the people around you develop an assumption, it can eventually spill over to completely engulf your own self-perception.
So throughout your life you have to maintain that iron inner strength and become nobody's doormat. Face the humiliation, the rumours, the cruelty with the inner strength of knowing. Knowledge is more powerful than any doughy pay packet.
Otherwise you just become another old balding stepping stone at the over 28s night flashing the Mercedes car keys to make the Vietnamese prostitutes flock around and eat greasy 5 cent spring rolls out your palm. A bit of social lubricant here, a grope from a Vietnamese professional's hand there and the stepping stone has cast off the darkness from his lonely, empty weak of being the doormat. As he winks slyly at the barmaid and takes his Gordon's gin and tonics with the beer soaked lemon, telling her to keep the change.
While I watch these weak stepping stones I doubt and fear for the human race. Then I remember that the stepping stone that just grabbed my arm, winked at me, stuck out their tongue was someone's father, someone's mother, someone's uncle, brother, daughter, aunt, sister or even someone's grandparent and I feel sick.
And just when I think I'm going to scream because I can't take these stepping stones anymore! I can't take their weakness! The stench of the life long fear that has rotted them to their flimsy cores is making me gag. They are all victims. Shuffling in. Shuffling out, not fighting, not questioing, folding folding folding. Accepting their circumstances, their fates, their place at the bottom of the steps, the dregs of the dog pack hierarchy. They come every week and sing 'Jessie's Girl' and 'Run to Paradise' all night long, screaming everytime the songs begin as though they have never heard them before.
Then at closing time they won't leave.
"The bar's closed" we repeat over and over again to their deaf/drunk ears as they give us heart breaking looks as we tell them to go home. The lights turn on, silence consumes the club and the bouncers move in, but they still won't leave. I clean the bar, pick up after them and don't look at them as they stumble and fall as they are mustered out like sheep while their notes and coins nestle curled up in my pocket.
The stepping stones crumble out onto the cold wet street and later I drive home to my warm bed and dreams of the life ahead of me that won't settle for any bottom step.
The graveyard shift is getting to me.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
What I am thinking about:
Totally gonna ace my exams.
With hands tied behind my back.
With Jensen Ackle's tongue in my ear.
While Miley Cryus songs blare to Japanese Karaoke.
Doing it without the above stimulation could prove a challenge though.
Well I am doing my year 12 at two shitty tafes so I'm sure the weekly bomb threat evacuation will rescue me. Yay yay yay to Government schooling.
Oh and one more 3am final thought-
Mmmmm........weapons of mass destruction found.
I love days when all you need is a strong cup of coffee and Jimmy Barnes playing in The Uterus to get you somewhat motivated.
Today he told me about driving wheels.
How I can be like a shooting star across a desert sky if I so choose. That all I need is a wheel in front of me and four beneath me to venture on out in that unknown beyond and follow the broken miles, live on borrowed time and leave only hotel rooms and broken hearts in my wake.
That there is nothing wrong with going up and down the same road many times, that there's nothing wrong with searching for something you're not really sure you will ever find (or even what that something is).
The highway is your friend. It won't desert you, it won't break your heart or let you down. It will always be there; right over the suburban highway, behind that old roadhouse or calling to you through the window of your house while you lie in bed not prepared to sleep when that highway is calling to you.
The searching will always keep you moving, because that highway stretches forever, linking the bright lights of the city to the emptiness of the outback where only the bravest tread. Patience is a virtue in such a life, but the dreams and adrenaline of not knowing what's coming up on the next 50 km of black bitumen will propel your wheels ever onwards.
Because only the road can tame the rebel within your soul, and it knows that, your wheels know that so they keep driving.
For it's the rhythm of the highway as it rolls on by, city lights as they fade from sight with nothing but blackness ahead and that open road. And however cliched that may be; only you understand how it makes your heart pump and reminds you how you are not going to just be another brick in the big ol' wall, because you belong to the highway. Your highway.
Jimmy tells me about the rodeo, about riding hard and never letting go and I see the flash of the coat of some crazed bronco bucking in the heavy swirl of dust of some outback corral and I can almost smell the danger but am thirsty for it.
Dust so thick it grows like scabs all over the sweaty skin of the people's bodies, they squint out from beneath the shades of bloody, beaten and almost shredded hats, have little materialism to their name, but the smile on their faces is to be envied. Exhibiting their iron courage in literally a heartbeat in the pounding haze of that dusty madness; never to be questioned again with the grave lurking only a heartbeat away in such a blood-fueled moment.
The toddler amongst them is more connected to this grit, this earth, this truth than the businessman in Collins Street has ever been his whole life. He fills his void with long hours, money, superfluous possessions and still has to boast for your validation.
With the testament to a life stewing in ignorance being the satin pillow in his coffin, nursing the head that won't even be truly connected to the earth till it lies beneath it.
That is something I'm prepared to wander through the twilight of my life for. Gamble safety, security, money, friends for. I'd have a home, out on the blue horizon because the rebel will always pound in my soul.
Chasing southern stars in the distant sky, roaming the open plains with mountains high, following the road that goes forever.
In this world of push and shove, I'm terrified of loosing the freedom in my blood.
This is the rhythm of my highway.
Thanks to Barnsie for the fuel......... and the lyrics.
Friday, August 29, 2008
"You are very independent."
I nodded, "Kay"
"You are stubborn, you dig your heels in when you are told what to do, but if you are explained something you will go along with it at first before doing it your own way."
I could feel the heat rush to my cheeks as the other bar maids at my side stood listening while they worked.
"You bottle up emotion. You don't let yourself feel. Then eventually it just explodes."
I thought about this year, about the breakdown and winced, beginning to feel like I was naked to him.
"But you are also very optimistic and have a very positive outlook on life. The world would be a better place if there were more people like you in it."
I think that that is true; and it is true because I'm unrealistic, and even when I am being negative (which you would've seen some shinning examples of on here) I'm only doing it as a way of venting anger and frustration or to get attention from the people around me- yeh, I admit it- I can be an attention whore.
"At school you enjoyed analytical subjects that questioned life and the world. You have a fascination for how things began, with history, with foundations."
I continued to watch him as he talked, stunned, not daring to admit to anything.
"And at the moment you are deciding something."
My mouth tightened.
"For the past month or so you have been seriously considering something and your mind isn't quite made up yet."
After he had walked away Jess shook her head.
"Geeze he's lost a lot of weight"
"He used to come down to the movies in Chaddie every week for years when I worked there and do all our readings."
"Was he ever right?"
She shrugged, "I'm a cynic. It always seems like very general stuff that he says. Was he on the ball with you?"
I gave a small nodd, "Yeah. Pretty much."
I only wish he could've told me what I should do. I'm still hanging out for some sort of sign and had he given me the slightest one I would've taken it and run with it.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
If you live in marvellous freakin' Melbourne you would've no doubt seen the 'Let your imagination guide you' advertisements on tv at some stage.
But for those who haven't I'll run you through it.
A visitor to the city is met at the station by a 12 foot giant who looks like he's just stepped out of the Phar Lap film (well a giant version of it anyway), and from there they proceed to explore the city. Visiting numerous spots where they meet two other people who also appear to have visible imaginations as 'guides'. One girl has a fairy, which is yeah, passable as fitting into the fantasy, imagination category, along with the giant from the Phar Lap film. But the other person that the man and his giant run into has, wait for it, a giant fish.
Okay, I get the fairy, I get the giant. But a fish? A fucking fish? What sort of a person has a fish as their guide, their inner imagination? Probably the same sort of person that has a blog dedicated to scrap booking and photos of their cats- which you'll see many pongee specimens of just by randomly scrolling through blogger.
I can just the imagine the creators of this ad sitting around the board room (all of them no doubt with their own blogs about scrap booking and their stupid snarly cats).
Heads grin and nod in unison when the giant is suggested.
Same goes for the fairy.
Then the smiles fade, the heads stop moving and the faces grow blank again as the noise from the street below can be heard again. They all look at each other empty of ideas.
Someone suggests a dog. "That's not imaginative" one pigheaded suit snarls.
How about a cat? More sneers.
A horse? Same response.
Blank faces look at each other in silence.
A small noise yanks one young buck's head upright towards the direction of the fish tank where a small gold fish has blown a bubble in defiance of not being fed yet.
A gasp, a suggestion and the heads are a-nodding and grinning again as 'fish' makes the list.
And another thing! Isn't it funny how of all the people shown romping through the city, only three of them had imaginations as guides? What the hell is that meant to insinuate? Only a tiny, minuscule majority have imaginations? That the rest of us are brain-dead bores who consume, fart then go to sleep to rest up for another day in conventional society that is giant, fairy and even fish free? I want answers!
If I had been in that board room I would've suggested one beast of a guide and one beast alone that wouldn't have sprouted from some inane object in the room (no offence to any fish reading this. Rusted Gumption- the fishes' friend), but from my very own imagination where a happy little guide lurks and comes out to play often.
I call him Gary the No-Nonsense Unicorn. (Gary the No-Nonsense Unicorn in his natural habitat before he was evicted for indecent exposure. How does a Unicorn naturally naked indecently expose himself you ask? You'll have to ask Gary)
Why is he No-Nonsense? Well it's his middle name for a start, and you'll have to ask his mama, Cheryl the Obnoxious Unicorn regarding that.
Gary the No-Nonsense Unicorn comes out to play often and doesn't just bound in to guide me, but lead me completely astray; he is solely to blame for everything bad I have ever done. Bad Gary, bad!
And he doesn't just meet up with me when we have made prior arrangements, as the people meeting up with their imagination guides quite clearly have, he comes the fuck over whenever the fuck he wants, leaving a path of destruction and overall unicorn poo in his wake.
But having said that, Gary the No-Nonsense Unicorn is more than just a horse with a rock-hard dildo on his head, he's my inner spontaneity and a ball of fun if you catch him just before he gets stoned/drunk. Despite my hating him when he rears his fat, obnoxious head at incredibly inappropriate times (i.e- at a funeral, telling me to do "Stax On" the coffin).
But everyone needs an inner imagination beast, otherwise you're just some zombie going through the motions of life and not really getting kicks out of the simple pleasures with dreams and ambitions; regardless of how mental your inner imagination beast may be (and no, a fish doesn't count).
But, back to the ad. If not Gary the No-Nonsense Unicorn, then why not Boris the Croc?
I'll assume you have all seen the brilliant four-wheel-drive ads with Boris the croc with attitude, "Fetch Boris", you know the ones.
Imagine if he was set loose as some person's guide in the city.
"No Boris! The Asian tourists aren't food! Yes I know it's an all you can eat Chinese restaurant."
What is with advertisers today?
A fucking fish for christ's sake.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Last night every gulp of grog-a-log was searing pain through my chest and throat, so I kept at it till the pain was numbed to a gentle roar (Rusted Gumption- the oxymoron's friend). At 3am this morning in the pub toilets, while most girls were drunk and crying about guys giving them grief, I was nearly hurling from the frickin acid volcano in my chest in between thinking about the big media SAC I had the next day (today).
Mum said, with what seemed like with a touch of glee that it was probably a stomach ulcer. Frick.
A Frickin stomach ulcer!
So I'm off to the doctor's today (where I can now tell you the name and date of every magazine on their coffee table) to once again run my doc through my ailments for more drugs! Yay! Drugs!
But right now, my head hurts and I'm farked so reckon I better sleep. I've had something like 9 hours sleep in two days. Oh yeh, and there's the little matter of studying for the big SAC I've got later.
This has been a carnt of a year. blahh.
Friday, August 15, 2008
I do a lot of crazy shit, yes. I drink to excess, yes. I have no respect for authority. I can be pretty rude, obnoxious and a downright bitch when the mood/ fellow bitch strikes me (sometimes literally) so. But 'rebel'?
I don't say this to be boastful. I don't think I'm a boastful person. My small-country town mentality has always taught me not to talk shit with the possibility of the shit being extracted and pelted back at you always being present.
That term 'rebel' has always had a pretty pathetic stigma attached to it for me.
'Rebels' were the kids back in secondary school (according to them anyway) that talked loudly, threw paper at the ceiling fan when the teacher's backs were turned and decided who was 'cool' and who wasn't. It goes without saying I was never a 'cool' kid. I hated all their guts because I saw them as a lame form of authority that were going to try and break me like the rest of the fucked up system and I hated everything about them. Though back then, pretty sure I hated everything and everyone.
But I was a quiet objector, I went about my dark days with a drooped head, staring at the scuffed toes of shoes, thinking about how much life sucked.
After the cattle station, after the year of drifting that followed from suburban cake shop to Agriculture course to horse training property in Northern Victoria, I was 17 and working like a dog with every second weekend off.
In those two days I was granted every fortnight to do as I pleased, I did just that and embraced the fucking fantastic thing of grog that made all my problems, pain and regret go away. My first weekend off from that job I went out to a country fundraising dance in the Victorian High Country. I drove to the dance in "Little Shit", my crappy little manual corolla car at the time that had a habit of unexpectedly rolling backwards when it was in a particular foul mood at me (which seemed to be all the time).
I borrowed another girl's clothes and didn't give a shit that a large percentage of my bra was showing to the whole township of Strathbogie (a handful of elderly people and their dogs aka 'daughters') as I used my fake ID to buy UDL (what was I thinking? Weak as fucking piss), dodging an accusation or two that the photo didn't look like me.
A guy ten years older than us from Perth wandered over to start buying us Passion Pop (the devil) and that's when the fun really started. In a far from glamorous state we were introduced to the actor Tom Long (Sea Change, Two Hands, The Dish, etc) and started betting which girl could have him pin her against the outside of the brick hall by the end of the night with only the horses in the paddock as witnesses, completely disregarding his wife that stood beside him.
When he asked Sarah and I what we did we replied, "Work at the pre-training horse farm."
"We don't ride though, we save that for weekends" I spluttered, thankfully inaudibly.
Three bottles of Pashion Pop later and we decided to head back to Sarah's up in the bogies. It wasn't till I was behind the wheel of Little Shit and weaving my way up a steep narrow mountain road in the pitch dark that I realised how completely wasted I was. To this day, I don't know how I didn't die. I was 17 years old driving on a New South Wales licence that I'd only had for a couple of months. But this still isn't even one of the worst things I've done.
After a few more bottles of Passion Pop I staggered to my makeshift bed and passed out cold and thank god I was lying on my stomach because I woke up spewing my guts out. Sarah, a girl I'd known for less than a week helped me mop myself up, smiling to hide her horrified and disgusted expression (and she worked with me picking up horse shit).
That was the first in a long long line of messy weekends to come that have lasted to this day- until I started working in the nightclub all Friday and Saturday nights to start combating my grog-spending, saving brain cells for year 12 study and piecing back together some sort of a semi-savable-reputation that wouldn't even have been put on life support if I still lived in a country town.
I'd like to think, that while I'm still not 'back on the rails' yet (though, I'm not really sure if I was even born 'on the rails'), now I can do the whole sloshed rebel trashbag with enough class to charm and disarm and enough savvy learned the hard way to control my self-destructiveness.
Luckily my friends aren't the judgemental sort and my family wouldn't notice if I died my hair black, got a tattoo saying "Saturn" smashed across my forehead and joined a blood-drinking cult, so I think I'm safe to keep up the trashbag lifestyle for now with one eye still firmly on the future and my goals.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
My dog is the only member of my family that I actually like and the only one I come close to resembling.
This morning eating breakfast, quietly minding my own business my wanker brother stormed into the kitchen in one of his many many many many dirty moods. I had triple J playing on the radio, and at the the time, I admit the song on was pretty shit. "You listen to this because people tell you to?" This from the guy who has practically grown up in the shadow of his friends and can't buy a chocolate bar without getting their approval of it. But I luckily came to terms with this fact and the fact that he's a wanker a long time ago so my response didn't intellectually extend beyond "Piss off dickhead".
But he wouldn't relent. He was on his way to work, in which he stands around a pool all day and tries to tell me that it's harder work than rousing in a shed. Dickhead. So maybe that's why he was so shirty, though his moods don't usually need a reason, a point or are predictable when they'll crash down and snow you in in utter bullshit.
"Why the fuck do you listen to this shit?"
I got sucked in. I know I don't have to answer to him. I normally don't. He's a dickhead, and arguing with with a dickhead is like sharing a needle with someone that's HIV positive- the shit inside them once released is contagious. And while I can think independently and remain steadfast when having their shit pelted at me, I still don't want to even risk contracting one drip of their lame little intellectually stunted wave lengths.
So shrugging, not looking up from my fruit bowl I said, "No ads".
The song ended and the morning DJs started talking, they must of mentioned something about some product (I couldn't hear it over the loud squirting of his verbal diarrhoea) and he almost shouted triumphantly, "There! An ad!!"
If the stereotypes of this society are true then I should kick him in the groin and see if he screams, I bet he won't though, the most I'll do is push out a bit of hot air from his arse which needs to be done anyway. Though I'm still prepared to test the experiment..... just to be sure. Fucking idiot.
My dog is so awesome.
Friday, August 8, 2008
He was only middle-aged. He was only in his forties. He was healthy. He was fit. He didn't drink. He didn't smoke. He was strong, incredibly strong.
How could this happen?
"I've got some bad news" Dad said on the phone yesterday morning. I thought I would choke on my own breath as I held it, waiting for the next words.
"You know how Grant had looked crook last time we saw him?"
No. No. No. No!
"Pauline just rang me."
NO! NO! NO!
"He's passed away."
I don't remember what I said. I dropped to my knees on the kitchen floor as I heard something about 'heart valve' and 'fucked'.
I started to weep. "How could this happen?"
He had seven kids below the age of 16 years old. His youngest was born last year. With another two girls back in New Zealand.
Dad said something about Pauline coping, being financially sound. Having just sold their fat lambs, having their farm debt paid off. "She's coping" He said. "She's coping"
"He worked himself to death." He said. "He was never going to make it past 50"
Grant the work horse. That's what we always called him. The best shearer in Western Victoria, possibly all of Victoria. Shearing 220 a day on average, 250 on a good day; solo; without a word of complaint.
In Southern Queensland I'd peer over at each of the shearer's counters at the end of the day. None would read above 200. Even the fittest, the youngest, the strongest of them didn't make Grant's numbers.
"What do you reckon of Queensland shearers?" I was asked over smoko with a smirk one day. I shrugged. "You oughta come down to Victoria one day and see how it's really done."
Since 1988, before I was even born he was out shearing at our place. I don't remember when I first met him. Probably a tot, maybe even a baby. Wandering into the shed amongst the burr of the handpiece, the pong of the lanolin and the clatter of hooves upon metal grid to see the big shearer with sweat pouring from his brow weaving his handpiece over the wool, shedding it as easily as peeling a banana.
When Dad finally let me in the shed to start rousing I'd never tire of watching Grant work. Into the pen, flip a sheep, pull him out, position between legs, yank cord and the handpiece would buzz into life, start on foot, shear belly, legs, butt, head, neck, work down back, first side, second side, finish on tail, push through legs and down the chute, yank handpiece off, wipe sweat off on towel and back into the pen for the next one. It was like the perfect steps of a dance. Never changing, always the same. He'd rarely nick them either. They'd be white as snow, rarely a slick of red would intrude on such perfection in his work.
Sometimes when he couldn't come out he'd send a replacement. Some leering pisspot who'd cut the sheep half way to their grave, whack the handpiece over their jaw every time they kicked and could never, ever reach Grant's numbers. 170, 180 or 190 a day.
As their battered, dirty vehicles would disappear in a cloud of dust up the drive way, Dad would spit into the dust and grumble, "Gonna tell Grant to not send me out anymore of these fuckin' ferals. Full of shit."
He wasn't a gossiper or a pryer either unlike most, but he'd look up occasionally when Dad would be giving me a hard time. I'd rouse, pen-up, do the bellies then skip smoko to go drench and brand the sheep in the yards, all with Dad breathing down my neck, hollering out insults; taking out on me the lice in the sheep, the fly-blown, the failed crops, the lambs coming too early, the rain that drenched the sheep a day before shearing, the rain that didn't come, the broken-down machinery, the flat tyre, the plummet in wool prices, the sheep getting in and ruining the hay, you name it.
One day, while I slogged it out in the heat and the flies, trying to drench old ewes that knew the routine and knew how to jump at just the right angle to knock your teeth out, with Dad as usual screaming from the doorway of the wool shed while I lost concentration and got trampled by a ewe and scratched my arm on the corrugated iron sheet lining the race, Grant said something.
It wasn't much, it wasn't forceful, it was in his usual soft but seemingly indifferent way- "She's a good girl".
Dad didn't say anything else for the rest of the day.
Maybe a year later when I was 16 years old and working on the cattle station in North-West New South Wales, not coping with the abuse, falling apart, Mum told me over the phone what Grant had said, what Dad had told her but not me.
My jaw dropped, "He said that?". Words could not express how much those four little words meant, the strength they gave me to carry on, knowing that the toughest, strongest man I had ever known thought I, despite all the cruel, hurtful things Dad pelted at me in front of him, was a good worker, a good girl.
They empowered me to hold my head high, to let the cowboys' and manager's harassment and cruelty slide off my back, not affect me as much as it should, knowing that back home, a true man, a true worker, a truly good person thought highly of me, in his own way of course. If he could recognise my worth then so could I.
And now he's gone. Never again will I walk into the shed early in the morning still munching on piece of toast to see him squatting on his haunches, in his usual, quiet but dignified way setting up his equipment for the day.
Never again will I be able to giggle at my dog's expression and cautious snarl at his snoring as he naps upon the board at smoko time.
Never again will I be able to watch such true shearing talent and expertise, all from such an incredibly quiet, un-boastful, commanding and proud bloke.
The last time I saw him, only a month or two back, for the first time I had ever known him, he couldn't shear. He said something about gastro, something about eating a Kiwi-dog at his son's footy match the day before that didn't agree with him. He was pale and hunched, but as he sat out quietly on the wool shed step he peered off into the distance and as usual gave little away on his worn face as he softly spoke, "That a lama out there?"
I started laughing, "It's an alpaca. Dad's latest hair-brain scheme and complete waste of money."
He just nodded and continued to stare into the distance.
Last night, or rather early this morning working in the nightclub, a sad song caught me off-guard, rendered me vulnerable from the Dirty Bar-Maid front and I disappeared out the back to the silent toilets, to a cubicle where I sat down on the toilet seat and wept. Wept for my lost mate.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Worked all day. Found myself not working that night for the first time in many weeks so went home to drink red wine and not do school work and scream at the TV for playing the sequel to Bridget Jone's Diary. Was thinking about how much Hugh Grant reminded me of my annoying, wanker uncle when the annoying wanker uncle rang.
"What are you doing with yourself?"
Me: "Mm.. not much. Working, studying."
"What are ya going to do next year?"
"Mm.. dunno yet. Might go travelling."
"Go to Europe. It's all happening in Europe. C and D are over there."
Me: "Yeah. Nah. Rather go around Australia first."
"No, don't do that. It's going off in Europe! Go to Europe."
At 3am I was awoken by a familiar scuffling, munching noise. I cursed, I knew that sound all too well. I switched on the light and surveyed my pig sty of a room till I found the source. A little brown mouse sat on my desk nibbling on a week old sandwich wrapped in foil. I gasped before attempting to grab it as it jumped at me and I couldn't help yelping with fright.
It disappeared under the mountain of shit on the floor and I went back to bed, laughing myself to sleep.
Worked all day in my favourite part of the Hotel- the sports bar- where super sexy bartender works who I had seen little of in the past few weeks and was going crazy about. Felt my knees crippling beneath me every time he called me 'Larnzy', poked me, pulled my hair, put his hand on my back or spoke to me in a voice that felt like it was dripping with sugar. Had to tune him out just so I could concentrate, just so I could hear the patrons' orders when he'd be at my side poking my hip. Had to refrain from ogling his butt when I walked past with racks of glasses just so I wouldn't drop them.
Then- bang. Heard it.
Bar maid number 2: "Your girlfriend is a lesbian!"
My head whips up from the till, "What?"
She grins, giving him a sideways glance as his head is bent over the till. "She's not!" He mumbles out of whack with his usual charm.
I have to clench my jaw shut and advert my gaze, hide my intense interest.
She smiles at me, "The girl he's seeing is a lesbian"
My jaw drops. "What?"
Hot Bartender: "She's bi!" He protests, "Can't tell you anything!"
This banter went on for a while, while I stood there, laughing as well, pouring beers, working the till, taking money and talking to the drunks. Hiding it, hiding it, hiding it.
Then Kaz sidled up to my side and slipped a wad of notes into my pocket, "What the.....!" I began as she hushed me, "It's from Charlie." I stared, bewildered.
I countered the notes- $400. I gasped, "Oh My Gawd!!"
Kaz: "He gave us all the same". I continued to stare at her, not noticing the customers anymore.
Hot Bar Tender laughed and walked behind me to start rubbing my shoulders, while I tried not to pass out.
Eventually I regained my Dirty Bar-Maid composure and was back at it, guiltily enjoying it when the old drunks called me beautiful in front of Hot Bar Tender. Wanting to start dancing around.
Did you hear that? Did you hear that? Validation! Yay!
But instead kept mopping up the beer and working the taps with complete Dirty Bar-Maid respectability, until HBT would touch me again or ask whether I needed his help. bahhhh!
Later that night, drunk in a bar, sitting on a guy's lap I text Fungy: 'I'm in love! But he has a gf! But she's bi-sexual! So maybe I can fix my lil dilemma!!! Make the dyke chick fall for you so she leaves him and I can strike while he's vulnerable and lonely!'
Then later, drunker, I text The Canza: 'Drunk message. Just made out with 2 guys- one is a mate. Going to party at his house now. Hmm.. might try to be not a complete trashy now. Want HBT's babies. Need him like a big mac. Speaking of which- at maccaz now. Tehehehehehe xx'
I'll leave out the next five hours after that, still rather ashamed. But in the morning I woke to a message on my phone saying my brother had been hit by a car and two large bruise like hickeys on my neck. Cursing over the hickeys, I quickly checked my brother wasn't dead before applying make-up to the hickeys before I was due in to work at midday.
The make-up didn't conceal the hickeys or the hungover expression on my face.
Around 2pm I dropped a whole stack of plates and cursed the explosion of noise they released as they shattered onto the tiled floor amidst chips, meat, veggies and salad.
I found my composure and walked out of the kitchen to the whole bistro laughing at me.
And that was my weekend in a nutshell.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
The "they" were men who were roughly 50 years old, the patrons of the over 28s' night, out to desperately pick up whatever they could get; whether that be woman, trannie or stale whore that had staggered up the road from the brothel (seriously) that was after any loose change.
It didn't matter that most of us girls behind the large concrete bar weren't 20 years old yet; we were fair game too in their eyes. On my first night I was watching the glasses pile up on tables when I asked whether I should venture from the post to get them and I received the instruction, "Stay where you are. There's dirty old men out there."
When I received my first tip ($5 in the first 20 minutes) I started giggling and holding it up and was told to put it in a glass above the beer fridge otherwise my pockets would be overloaded within minutes. And sure enough, coins and notes began to fill that glass and I looked upon it like a proud mother of her child.
That week I smiled nicely, apologised as I spilled drinks, dropped glasses and had to ask people to repeat their orders again and again and again, straining my already sore ears over the roar of the pumping music.
Last Saturday night I tried a different method from the Be-A-Bitch-Get-A-Tip.
Two wog guys who looked like the only patrons to meet the 28 mark that had obviously rocked up to pick up girls below 30 were standing by the bar looking disgusted as they surveyed the crowd of 50 year old grandmothers in short sequined skirts and high heels and hookers who looked much the same except they could barely speak English.
I sidled up to them with my Dirty Bar-Maid grin.
They were turned away watching something on the dance floor. I followed their gaze and saw one of the regulars; the little, bald, Harry-Potter glasses Evan already grooving his plump little stature amidst the Vietnamese call-girls and Supre-clad mothers as they giggled like school girls and patted his shiny scalp as though he was a pet.
The two wogs snickered things that weren't quite audible, but I got the jist.
I lent over the bar, turning the Dirty Bar-Maid charm on full-bore, "Don't Laugh!" I shouted, "That'll be you in 20 years." They turned around and seemed surprised for a moment before finding their bearings.
"See that old girl over there sculling that wine?" The tall one said with slight indication of his head.
I grinned and rolled my eyes, "Yeh"
"That'll be you in 20 years!" And they started cackling.
"Yeah, good on ya. " I laughed, "Now you fellas gonna stand around admiring the scenery all night or are ya gonna start kicking ya nights' off?"
They asked for bourbon and coke.
Then Jager Bombs.
I was handed a $5 tip.
Then two more Jager Bombs.
I was told to keep the change- $12.
As I rushed up down the bar I continued the banter with them, grinning and pretending to slip like a kid's entertainer in the puddles of beer on the tiled floor, making them roar with laughter. Challenging them to out drink each other, taking the piss out of the loser before asking what they wanted next with a raised eye brow and my lips parted in that oh-so-Dirty-Bar-Maid-way.
"Two more jagers!.....And two more Johnnies and coke!" The tall one announced as he threw a 50 dollar note at me.
I made the drinks, handed them over then stood waiting for them to finish. "Come on!" I teased. "What are you? Girls?!"
Down went those drinks and four more drinks were ordered. I was told to keep the change again- $13.
Now a bit more worse for wear they stood over the bar, swaying slightly.
"What's your name beautiful?"
"Lana" I smiled.... (I've considered coming up with a Dirty-Bar-Maid alias but just haven't got around to it yet).
"You single?" the tall one leered. I was saved by another boozer who came to the bar and ordered 3 pots of Carlton.
After that they moved away.
Shortly after I looked over to see Tall Wog trying to chat up another bar-maid. She was trying her Be-A-Bitch method and I was tempted to go tell her that that didn't work with these guys, but he hung around her for over an hour.
Eventually I got a chance when Tally's bladder was probably almost bursting after all that boozing and standing in one spot and he disappeared. I skipped over to her, "How much did you get?"
She shrugged, "$6.50"
I gave her my secret (there's a Dirty-Bar-Maid sisterhood) and wished her luck then hopped back to my part of the bar just as short wog sauntered over for another drink and he handed me another big tip, telling me I was stunning and my face exquisite, gesturing his chubby hands over his own face to emphasis his meaning. I laughed. Man I love drunk people, especially when I'm the one that has gotten them drunk.
Tall Wog came back again though, bringing a job offer for me at 'his' bar in Richmond along with the same question of whether I was single. I've never been so grateful for ear-piercing music in my life as I sidled away to serve another patron.
At 1.30am I finished for the night/morning and finally stuck my hand in my pocket and gaped at all the paper my hand met. $45 in tips!! The easiest money I've ever made!
I laughed all the way home and on Monday morning I proudly announced to my shrink that part of the money I was handing over to her was 'tip money', which saw her raise an eyebrow and I knew I was going to get a lecture next session.