It's
summer, that's right. “Thirty-seven today”; the opening line of
every work-conversation I've had this morning. “Fuuuuuck! I'm
definitely heading to the beach!”
“Lucky you mate! That's what I'd be doing!”
“Yep!”
“THIRTY-SEVEN! They say...”
Yep... the weather sure is interesting.
Yesterday I woke up at 8:30am to the sound of my phone buzzing and ringing through the still, hungover air at Thomas McMahon's lovely apartment in East Melbourne – I had no idea where I was. On Saturday once I'd finished work, I'd forgotten to take the keys for the venues I clean and put them in the PO Box for the next person to use, so now I was being rammed upright and forced out of bed. Three hours sleep. Still drunk. Acid Hangover. It was already hot, but I bustled out of the house and onto the tram, down to Meatballs, put on No Woman No Cry over the speakers, and started cleaning until Kim got there, I realized I wasn't needed, and dazed, headed back to my room in Richmond. I was in far too good a mood.
By the time I got back it was getting hotter, my hangover was kicking in, I remembered a sandwich (realistically, it was two pieces of bread with a bunch of cheese in the middle, chucked in the sandwich-maker for thirty seconds until I said “I HAVE TO GO!”) that Tom's girlfriend made me, and realized I would need to brush my teeth. I did that. I had a shower. I watched a bunch of South Park episodes – drifting in and out of sticky consciousness... Phil called, “do you wanna go to the 007 Exhibition?” In truth, at that point, not particularly, but I had to do something, so I agreed.
A few hours later and the 007 Exhibition plan was off, I waddled down to the air-conditioned pub to see what was going on, 4:30pm. All the regulars were hanging around, playing pool, drinking, smoking out the back. Andrea told me about a party in the park to farewell some Scottish chick who had been denied a long-term visa and had to go home on Monday, “I have NO money” (-$60 on the bank balance). We bought some 'John Smith Extra Smooth' beers – a case – that had passed their 'best before' date in March – they cost $30. I owe Jake ten dollars from that purchase. The beers, as promised, were Extra Smooth, and although being extra warm as well, proved the hit of the party once we got there. I shotgunned one, some old guy (he was forty, whatever) shotgunned two... or was it three? Jake did one. We played drinking games with cards until the sun set at 9pm.
On the way home after being abandoned by our lift without notice, we (Jake, Brett, and I) ran across the train tracks and were stopped by police and our details taken down. “Look mate, at this stage, we're gonna have a talk about it, but you'll probably be getting a fine in the mail.” Cunts. As one text correspondent put it when I told her the news,
“I hate that, say yes or no don't be a tease!”
Don't we all? Well I know a fine is coming, even if neither of our valiant Mr Protective Servicemen (not even real fucking cops, just chumps, with chump titles) could decide for us. I like to imagine that as they went back to their posts to consume the pizza that had arrived for them while they were fighting crime, they were struck simultaneously with a crippling sense of shame in their pointless actions, and so when their steaming-hot cheese-covered treats touched the rooves of their respective mouths and the skin sizzled and gave way, they knew, in that moment, that justice had truly been done.
The three of us got back to Station 59 just as Stiff (Steff, she's a Kiwi) was closing the bar. Macca was there too, and we all sat out the back and drank Mountain Goat until the jug ran too low for Stiff to top my drink up while I wasn't looking, and I went upstairs to bed. There's not much of a point to this story, other than to let you all, who care so so much, know about how I spent my Sunday. Solid experience overall, full of the trappings of any exciting or woeful day, but gladly it was neither. I don't know what else to say, or what I could say even, to polish the memory of my first day of summer 2013/14 so that when I look back it might stand out amongst all the other days that shine and blend into a radiant, sepia-lit history. There is nothing else, so I guess that day will just fade in as the distance grows, lost in the rear vision mirror.
Peace, Taco.
“Lucky you mate! That's what I'd be doing!”
“Yep!”
“THIRTY-SEVEN! They say...”
Yep... the weather sure is interesting.
Yesterday I woke up at 8:30am to the sound of my phone buzzing and ringing through the still, hungover air at Thomas McMahon's lovely apartment in East Melbourne – I had no idea where I was. On Saturday once I'd finished work, I'd forgotten to take the keys for the venues I clean and put them in the PO Box for the next person to use, so now I was being rammed upright and forced out of bed. Three hours sleep. Still drunk. Acid Hangover. It was already hot, but I bustled out of the house and onto the tram, down to Meatballs, put on No Woman No Cry over the speakers, and started cleaning until Kim got there, I realized I wasn't needed, and dazed, headed back to my room in Richmond. I was in far too good a mood.
By the time I got back it was getting hotter, my hangover was kicking in, I remembered a sandwich (realistically, it was two pieces of bread with a bunch of cheese in the middle, chucked in the sandwich-maker for thirty seconds until I said “I HAVE TO GO!”) that Tom's girlfriend made me, and realized I would need to brush my teeth. I did that. I had a shower. I watched a bunch of South Park episodes – drifting in and out of sticky consciousness... Phil called, “do you wanna go to the 007 Exhibition?” In truth, at that point, not particularly, but I had to do something, so I agreed.
A few hours later and the 007 Exhibition plan was off, I waddled down to the air-conditioned pub to see what was going on, 4:30pm. All the regulars were hanging around, playing pool, drinking, smoking out the back. Andrea told me about a party in the park to farewell some Scottish chick who had been denied a long-term visa and had to go home on Monday, “I have NO money” (-$60 on the bank balance). We bought some 'John Smith Extra Smooth' beers – a case – that had passed their 'best before' date in March – they cost $30. I owe Jake ten dollars from that purchase. The beers, as promised, were Extra Smooth, and although being extra warm as well, proved the hit of the party once we got there. I shotgunned one, some old guy (he was forty, whatever) shotgunned two... or was it three? Jake did one. We played drinking games with cards until the sun set at 9pm.
On the way home after being abandoned by our lift without notice, we (Jake, Brett, and I) ran across the train tracks and were stopped by police and our details taken down. “Look mate, at this stage, we're gonna have a talk about it, but you'll probably be getting a fine in the mail.” Cunts. As one text correspondent put it when I told her the news,
“I hate that, say yes or no don't be a tease!”
Don't we all? Well I know a fine is coming, even if neither of our valiant Mr Protective Servicemen (not even real fucking cops, just chumps, with chump titles) could decide for us. I like to imagine that as they went back to their posts to consume the pizza that had arrived for them while they were fighting crime, they were struck simultaneously with a crippling sense of shame in their pointless actions, and so when their steaming-hot cheese-covered treats touched the rooves of their respective mouths and the skin sizzled and gave way, they knew, in that moment, that justice had truly been done.
The three of us got back to Station 59 just as Stiff (Steff, she's a Kiwi) was closing the bar. Macca was there too, and we all sat out the back and drank Mountain Goat until the jug ran too low for Stiff to top my drink up while I wasn't looking, and I went upstairs to bed. There's not much of a point to this story, other than to let you all, who care so so much, know about how I spent my Sunday. Solid experience overall, full of the trappings of any exciting or woeful day, but gladly it was neither. I don't know what else to say, or what I could say even, to polish the memory of my first day of summer 2013/14 so that when I look back it might stand out amongst all the other days that shine and blend into a radiant, sepia-lit history. There is nothing else, so I guess that day will just fade in as the distance grows, lost in the rear vision mirror.
Peace, Taco.
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