A More Traditional Wet

“Look at what I won at the carnival, mom. Algae!”

My neighbor asks me what’s in the bag, so I tell him. Slimy wet rotting fucking algae. It’s what we call a field trip. I suppose the more glamorous things like rainforests are a few weeks away.

I knew we’d be going down to the shore, so I brought my waterproof boots. They work like a charm, as long as the water level stays below the top. I slipped off a rock and went plummeting in. Luckily it stopped just short of my wallet. The cheap cellophane they try to pass off as money would be fine, but its still a fancy leather wallet. I don’t want to have to go back to Florence for another one.

We pluck seaweed, but it doesn’t really matter in the end. We’re supposed to be able to ID this shit, but I don’t listen when she teaches. However, I do discover that seaweed is in fact algae. It just makes me crave sushi a little more. Millions of import Asians in this country, and I can’t get a quality tuna roll if my life depended on it.

A pretty conical shell catches my eye. I pick it up, and rest it in my palm. After a few seconds, four legs come out, and it starts scuttling around on my hand. Hermit crabs, millions of them all over the place. A pack of girls converge around me; they think the little vermin is adorable. I play along, invisibly wincing to myself. Partially because of their grating cutesiness, but mostly because those little fuckers have sharp points on the end of their feet.

Only later did it occur to me that the shell I picked up very well could’ve been a coneshell. Resting it on my palm could’ve been the last thing I ever did, beside gasp for air as my lungs shut down. A desire to scuba dive and an instinct to pick up pretty things don’t go together in Australia. It’s no wonder some of my friends have a running pool over what stings me first.

After sloshing home in portable water balloons (waterproof boots also keep the water in), I try to dry them out with a blow dryer. I only succeed in creating foul-smelling smoke. Artificial fiber isn’t supposed to light. Instead, I place them out on my balcony (yes, I have a personal balcony. Fear me.) to slowly air dry. They’ll probably be done just in time for the fungus unit.

It isn’t lost on me the most common way people encounter venomous Redback Spiders around here is by putting their shoes outside. They love the cold, dark, and damp. Ladies, time to ante up.

Bracelet Lost

It’s another weeknight, so drinking continues. Again, 40 bucks in a night. I can’t keep this up.

Anyway, my story. We’re at a night club, and it’s a traffic light party. I bought a tool-like hoodie for this occasion. I figure I’ll return it the next day, though, should’ve bothered to read the store’s return policy first. But I came late. Had to race through my shower and getting dressed topspeed to make the next bus.

I’ve been drinking classy vodka tonics, and making my social rounds, when I decide to take to the dance floor. The girls we were with have been drinking much more heavily than us. In fact, the minute I go to the dance floor, one of our girls dramatically falls backwards onto me, scraping down my arm and spilling my drink in the process.

Something about my wrist feels amiss, in addition to spilled tonic. I look, and to my horror, discover my leather bracelet missing. Well, this puts a screeching halt to my evening activities. I scour the dance floor. I comb all the tables. I ask every bartender (girls in fishnet leggings, mostly), the DJs, and many of my new friends. No one has seen my missing bracelet.

Someone must have stolen it, I figure, as I pout in a corner. People come to talk to me, maybe cheer me up. One even tries to teach me to dance for no apparent reason. I was only on the dance floor for 30 seconds, was it that apparent?

My night is over, it seems. Yet, despite not feeling up to it at all, I follow my new dancing friend to another club. Union Jack’s. Last time I was here, I was amazed the Irish tour group didn’t start a fight. Considering it’s a British bar, I get myself some Guinness. First time I’ve ever had it. Everyone I talk to can instantly identify it from the color and the thickness, and they all turn up their noses at it. Is it that bad? Well it certainly wasn’t worth the six fucking bucks they charged me.

It seems everyone I’ve ever met in Australia is here. How has everyone condensed on Union Jack’s? It’s like an unspoken agreement. Everyone from the traffic light party is here. The other Americans are here. Hell, I even encounter the Swede, and subsequently avoid him for the rest of the night.

An American boy I know from a different school comes up to me, and tells me through a thick drunken slur that I look cute tonight. Suspicion confirmed, but I’ll deal with that bullshit another night. Minutes later, an Australian girl I met once comes up to me, and whispers conspiratorially in my ear something in gibberish. Fucking Australian accents. I’m pretty sure she wants me to fuck her fat ugly friend for some reason. Remembering a few minutes ago, I say “Sorry, gay.” The actual legitimacy of that statement is irrelevant, it works beautifully. Seriously, I’m not in the mood for this crap.

Guinness done, I make my way to the new dance floor. Popped collars sprawling for miles in any direction. The physical heat they give off is overpowering. Black lights illuminate everything, and I can instantly tell who’s bleached their hair or artificially whitened their teeth. An eerie green glow in their mouth. The other WashU kids dance together on an elevated platform in the middle. I watch from a distance. Vowing to associate with only Australians has cost a price. There’s a hostile undercurrent between myself and the others. I can’t tell anymore if they’re friends, rivals, or enemies. It probably doesn’t matter.

Eventually I get bored, and tag along with the next group to leave. Coincidentally, it’s the boy who tried to teach me to dance and co. I ask him if he has any pot. Again, I wonder why I crave drugs at these places. But he doesn’t have. I need to get myself to the Valley someday soon.

Arriving home, I flop on my bed. Turn and look at my desk. There’s the bracelet, sitting on my laptop. In my rush, I must’ve left it here, and wasted a good night and $2.50 drink specials trying to find it. I’m sure there’s some karma, some cosmic metaphor to be had here. But I don’t care. I just want some pot and a nap.

The Fight

Another typical Australia night. Drinking on a Wednesday evening. I write this as I get back. Still shitfaced, my fingers still feel like mud. But this night was a little different; it ended with blood and cops.

It was another solidarity evening. I got many reinforcing messages. “Come here, you’re one of us now” is a wonderful thing to here. However, that feeling of belonging comes with a price tag. I spent about 40 bucks tonight. And it’s only Wednesday.

One of my new friends, name withheld, implied he knew where to find things. I waited until we left the club to enquire further. However, when I left the club, and crossed the street, I was confronted with a bloody face.

A man lies on the ground, in a woman’s arms. My first instinct was to help him; I’m trained in first aid, and I’m always offering to help those in need. But my friends hold me back. They insist I don’t interfere. I don’t understand what’s going on.

But I’m hungry, and don’t feel like dying, so I go to the kabob shop next door, and buy chicken on a stick. By the time I return, it’s over. I return to the scene, and insist forcefully “What the fuck happened?” All I hear is “Wu Tang”.

It’s been a fight. A boy from Emmanual College verses a local street gang, Wu Tang. They tussled and both ended up with bloody faces but no major injuries. However, as we walked to our taxis to make a quick exit, 3 police cars came roaring in. They stopped us from leaving, and made us sit.

Being a natural lawyer, I told my friends to shut the fuck up. I told them to say nothing until asked, and answer honestly with minimal details. I told them if any were directly involved, that they should demand a lawyer before speaking. However, in reality, I know nothing about Australian constitutional law. I just spoke out my ass. They listened.

After waiting for about 20 minutes, they took my name and mobile number, and let me go. Playing the innocent tourist works, but frankly, that’s actually the case with me. I saw virtually nothing, and knew nothing of the events surrounding the fight. The police may call me in the future, but my input is useless.

Point is, my study abroad advisor warned me about walking alone at night. She said fights happen in Brisbane. Living in New York, I expected that, but I didn’t expect to be confronted with it in a little shit bar on the outskirts of town. The danger is there. Look at a street gang funny, and you can be knifed. Maybe I need to reconsider what I consider safe.

Giant Jenga

More O-Week bullshit. All the clubs on display. I wanted to get my scuba diving pamphlet, grab free food, and get the hell out of there. I ended up winning Jenga.

A group of Americans were just beginning to pull blocks out as I compared Nautilus and AllWays Diving. A bidding war, to see who can rip me off more. But somehow, the cute girl who seemed to be their ringleader, conned me into playing. I guess I was lulled into a false sense of security by the fact that they were Americans. The token Asians shouldve tipped me off.

They called themselves Student Life. For a moment, I was excited. I could continue to write for Student Life, while simultaneously denying Erin my wit. I’d call that a win-win.

Yeah, and Overflow is the student club for reservoir engineers. Shouldn’t I have realized that only a Christian student group would be playing Giant Jenga on the quad?

But it was too late; I was cornered and surrounded. They wanted me to join their cult. I prayed for Dave’s protection.

However, at this point, I was kicking ass in lifesize Jenga, so I played along. At least for the moment, I kept to myself the fact that I am a hostile atheist of purposefully ambiguous sexuality who’s studying evolutionary biology. Well, I let that last part slip, and they still had the balls to invite me to a lecture on Intelligent Design. I gotta give them credit for that.

As I pulled out one of the last blocks at the base, the tower swayed. I held my breath, and pulled slowly. It slipped right out. I gingerly placed it on top, and the tower leaned ever so slightly more, but held. Luckily, I managed to turn around before breathing my sigh of relief.

Now it was her turn. She got on her knees, like I’m sure she does when God isn’t looking, and gently yanked it. A block popped out, and the column held. But as she laid it on top of mine, it teetered, and fell right on top of her. I suppose God has forsaken her this time.

Lube Interlude

After the excitement of finding my first gecko, I decide to explore at night. See if I can see the reflected eyeshine of another gecko, a possum, a bat, or a spider. To do this, I need a light. So I dig around in my carry-on bag, because that’s where I threw all the little shit left over from home. I didn’t really unpack my life yet, except to make a new clothes carpet. I find my trusty mag-light, right next to the trusty Durex and lube.

Wait-a-fucking-second. How did that get on the plane? They scanned my bags going through security and customs. They pulled out my friend’s water bottle. They pulled out my bag of chocolate. They catch all liquids, but they couldn’t find a tube of fucking Wet?

Pathetic. I could’ve been a goddamn terrorist, and they’d have missed me. Its not like my socks are made out of lead. No, security is just that dense. But I suppose the new lack of security I feel is better than having that bulldyke customs lady ask me to explain what I’m doing with this oh-so-familiar bottle.

Joining the mile-high club, of course.

First Day

Christ, it’s 7. Tell me again why I was drinking until 3am.

Wake up, wash my face, walk to breakfast. I’m slightly limping, and I expect to hear why later today. Breakfast isn’t even being served yet, so I limp back to my room for 10 minutes. Pop an aspirin, and hope my stomach doesn’t bleed. Who has classes at 8am?

Somehow, my breakfast consists of spaghetti (but like spaghetti-o’s) and canadian bacon. The man next to me is actually consuming Vegemite. What the fuck?

The front stairs are being polished with an unnamed steaming liquid. I accept this as a fact of life.

My first class is botany. I discover that I’ll be doing two weeks on fungus. Makes cyanobacteria look glamorous.

In vertebrate biology, I learn to anticpate gutting a cow heart and fetus. Considering I missed out in high school, I’m excited, and the fact that I’m excited scares me a little. I’m also suddenly looking forwards to lunch.

Unfortunately, its only 9:30, and I’ve got a 2 and a half hour gap. I’m awake enough that I can’t sleep. I’m tired enough to not kill a kitten. And I don’t mean indirectly through masturbating. Maybe I need a new pastime, like wondering why the bakery smells like fish. A coincidence?

Standing in front of the Cajun Pasta, as far away from the bayou as you can get, the lunchlady is silent. Abruptly, she commands more than asks “Are you right?” I stand dumbfounded for a second, so she yells “CAN I HELP YOU?!” Because apparently in Australia, taking your order is the same as asking if you’re having a heart attack. Considering the food, I’m not surprised.

Outside, an ibis stares at me coldly. I suddenly would prefer nuggets.

Next class, Criminology. Our professor starts our lecture by spending no less than 3 minutes bitching about shampoo on airplanes. I should tell her what I found in my bag.

Towards the end, we’re discussion drug laws. And by discussing, I mean she’s talking at us. She vehemently defends drug use, telling us how modern drug laws break criminological theory. It’s comforting. If my professors are stoners, maybe they’re humans too.

Defending America

Did you know Septic Tank rhymes with Yank? Neither did I, until tonight. I couldn’t figure out what Seppo means, I just knew everyone was calling me that. Well, now you and I know. Wonderful little connection there.

This isn’t the first time this happened. Everyone I’ve talked to doesn’t like America. Lucky me, I know a few countries that start with U. I get asked that far too often.

Really, I love my country, I do. But even I acknowledge that some of my compatriots are dumbfucks. I’m glad Bush’s rating is 30%. I’m glad Dick Cheney shot an old man in the face. Its ammo to defend myself with. I feel guilty as fuck badmouthing America to fit in, but at the end of the day, I’m not lying.

Either way, between the pre-gaming to the party to the bar, I must’ve had to explain myself a dozen times. To my advantage, alcoholic cider makes debates much more civil. But I don’t get it. Its not like they have to defend themselves. John Howard (know him?) is a total douche, but he isn’t getting attacked.

But I’ve gone out of my way to integrate. Hell, I’ve abandoned my fellow Americans to socialize solely with Australians. I’m up till 2AM drinking with class in 6 hours (have I ever gone to an 8AM class?). But all they really care about is if you like Bush and if you can name capitals.

However, my hard work pays off. Time and time again, I’ve heard the same thing. “I usually hate Americans, but you’re the first American I’ve liked.” I doubt I’m some magically loveable person; in reality I think more people hate me than love me. But they don’t know real Americans. It’s like judging all of Australia from Steve Irwin and Paul Hogan. When you really get to know someone from a different culture, you realize they’re basically like you, but with a totally fucked up accent.

Case in point, I’m standing outside at a party at one of the res-colleges, and my pants are around my ankles. I’m not getting sucked off. It’s a song. Whenever it plays, everyone from St John’s drops their drawers. Considering I was just grinding to Günther (ooh, you touched my tra la la), this doesn’t strike me as weird. But as I swing without pants (no pun intended), they tell me that I’m now one of them. Being an Australian feels nice.

More Thoughts on a Boozey Evening

Australia got its ass kicked in rugby by New Zealand last night. I know this, because New Zealand had a higher score. I don’t know how this happened. All I saw was men with themed wardrobes beating the crap out of each other. But I do know it made American football look like a pansy sport.

A few hours later, Australia got beaten in soccer by Japan. I’m standing in the crowded bar, watching the big screen, and knowing that if a fire broke out, they’d have to look up my dental records. But I’m excited. It’s tied, and into overtime. Tension, near-misses time and again. Down to the penalty kicks. Australia misses. Japan sinks it. I’m chanting with the crowd a name I’m sure I’m mispronouncing. I’m yelling profanities at the Japanese team despite a lack of vested interest 5 minutes ago. It doesn’t matter. The crowd’s energy infects me. But we lose.

Since when is Australia my team?

Anyway, I meet three guys from my school at the game. I’d love to tell you their names, but a thick Australian accent becomes slurry under alcohol. I drink with them, because that’s all I ever seem to do around here. Drink against my will. Afterwards, they take me home on the ferry, and spoil the ending of Harry Potter. Not that I ever intended to read it.

On the way back to the dorms, one of them decides to run through the cardboard signs plastered on campus like the finish line of the Boston Marathon. He is promptly caught by campus police.

We also encounter a 3-foot bat circling a few feet above our heads. One of those little reminders you’re not in America anymore.

Back at their dorm, they lead me to their bathroom. Am I going to get lucky or mugged? They point to the roof. There’s a gaping hole. Naturally, we climb into it. The attic. Among the rafters are a pile of lifeguard hats and valve wheels. A sign on the floor says “Danger: Asbestos”, right next to a sign for “Sizzling Mongolian BBQ House”. In the corner is a bed. I wonder how many have fucked in it.

One of them decides to steal it as his new mattress, so we help him ease it out of the attic. But, we realize we’re being unfair. So we take the boy’s old bed, and cart it back up into the ceiling. We share a moment, bonded by the ancient cot. A pact is made: The first one of us to shag on the attic and leave proof gets his dinner and booze bought by the others. I wonder what they mean by leaving proof.

The Night I Loved My Hair

Abandoned on Queens Street. I was out buying something (more on that later), and seeing how it was almost 9, I decided to text my friends. The girls were having a girl’s night. The guys were on a double date. I was alone, and really wishing classes would start already.

I walked down two blocks to The Victory, the only bar I know. There weren’t too many people, but they were all in groups. I walk in, stand at the bar, and order a pint. A night of drinking alone? Sounds like my social life is buzzing.

A man comes up from behind me, and leans on my shoulder, in a typical drunken fashion. “That bitch stole my drink,” he says. He then, without waiting for any acknowledgement from myself, slurs on for a minute or two about how the bartender collected his still-unfinished drink. I listen with a blank stare, because this is apparently better than drinking alone.

His friends join me. “Who the fuck is this?” I only need to tell them my name before their arms are around me and I’m their new best friend. The three of them have a thick accent I can’t place. I also can’t remember their names, but they surely remember mine, because all three broke into spontaneous rendition of “Scotty Doesn’t Know.”

I finally realize, I’ve stumbled into an Irish tour group. Even if I’m not in their group, I’m one of their own. An Irish is a member of the family, no matter where in the world they’re from. I keep to myself the fact that there isn’t a drop of Irish blood in me. I just let the hair speak for itself.

Before I can finish my pint, they grab me by the arm and pull. I chug the other half of the pint, and regret it. Turns out I’ve also stumbled onto a pub crawl. I quickly become acquainted with the dozen or more drunk Irishmen and women who are apparently my new family. Before I can even say hello to them all, we’re at a British bar, the Union Jack. The music is bagpipes, the food is haggis, and the atmosphere is wonderfully stereotypical. I don’t think they notice.

One is particularly fascinated with me. Turns out, he hates America. Wonderful. I listen to him blather on for a few minutes about Bush and Religion. I agree, yet I couldn’t care less. I nod accordingly. He quizzes me: “Name a country that starts with U”. I could say Uganda, but I decide to be bold and say Uruguay. He hugs me tight, spilling a little of his beer onto my back. “You’re the first American I’ve never liked.”

The two of us are then hit on by two women plainly in their 40's, but desperate to hide it with facelifts and botox. I guess they have a liking for fresh meat or really strong cocktails.

On to the next bar, and another quiz. Name the country capitals. I apparently miss enough that I have to buy him a beer. How the fuck did I get roped into that deal? And why are they still singing “Scotty Doesn’t Know”? Why doesn’t Australia have immigration quotas or something?

As he quizzes me, the lush tosses paper coasters into the bar sink. One after another. Apparently, 5 is all it takes to get kicked out. I smirk, and I get kicked out as well. Plainly, this bartender has vestigial testicles. Atrophied from years of non-use. The fuck is wrong with this faux-hawked douchebag that he considers smirking grounds for dismissal? And why was the catalyst for our rejection complaining about conservatives in America this whole time?

Well, secretly I was glad. I didn’t want to keep chugging all night and have to deal with them at the end of the pub crawl. God forbid they ask me out again. Instead, the two of us walk aimlessly, and end up back at the Victory. Back where we came from. We go inside and up to the dance floor. I buy a vodka tonic, wishing I had an infinite bank account, and sip it slowly. By the time I’m done, so is he. Gotta be up early, and all that bullshit. I’m left again. Back where I came from.

Back downstairs. I notice how fucking common a pierced eyebrow is. The left eyebrow. I don’t know if I feel special or retarded. But that’s irrelevant to the story.

The bus is still an hour away, so I wander. I end up downstairs. I end up at karaoke. The crowd here is a little older, but its perfect. They sing songs from their teenage years. They sing songs from my childhood. I’m alone in the city. My friends may or may not have ditched me. But as I stand in the bar, kinda drunk, and belt out “Sweet Caroline” with Generation X, I decide Brisbane will be my home. And these strangers will be my family, at least for the next 5 months. I’d rather booze with strangers than cling desperately to home.

Pizza Interlude

I bought a slice of pizza in the city tonight. New York Style, like every fucking slice of pizza in the world claims to be. Except, this pizza was surprisingly rather authentic. Delicious too. But it was 6 dollars, just for that one slice. Cost of shipping or something. Was it worth it?

Fucking Ibises

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Realpolitik

People don’t tell you dancing is so political.

Being an American, I don’t get out to clubs that often; I don’t have a fake. Besides, I suck at dancing. I’m the whitest kid you know. So, when we decided to go to the International Bar, and I discovered there was also a dance club, I wasn’t sure how things would turn out.

Then again, who knows if this was a typical experience. Turns out we inadvertently showed up on Ladies Night. Which, in addition to drink specials, includes men dressed like girls and male strippers. One stripper took an Asian girl out of the audience, sat her on a chair, blindfolded her, and gave her a lapdance. Without actually asking for her permission or any advanced warning. . I’m sure some kind of law was broken here, but her look of shock blended with amusement was probably mirrored on my face.

We went rounds buying the group pitchers. I went with Toohey’s (please don’t hurt me). Chugging contests and Sambuka shots. I couldn’t do either. My dad loves sambuka straight-up, but it makes me feel vomit-ish. Considering we’d already pre-gamed with boxed wine (oh memories of freshman year…) we all felt healthy and ready to dance.

One of the girls had been eyeing this boy all evening, but suspected he was gay. I think it might’ve been his silver tie. Supposedly girls are good at noticing this, but apparently not. I suppose I threw the gauntlet first. When they went up to leave, I went up to him and started chatting. I would’ve very much enjoyed getting somewhere while she watched. It had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with how I appeared to her and those around us. Karma is a pain in the ass.

Straight of course, but I’d seen him with a girl beforehand anyway. I told you it was only to make her bristle. I sauntered back, leaned in, whispered “He’s straight. Go for it”, smirked, and walked off.

I went back for another drink, and ended up chatting with some Swedish guy. I guess he was waiting in line with me at the bar. He mentioned the stripper, and I suppose I nodded in agreement at something he said. Then he told me he visited The Beat the other night. The Beat is, as far as I know, the only gay club in Brisbane. In other words, the sketchiest place in Queensland. How Brisbane has fewer gay clubs than St. Louis is a mystery to me. Anyway, irrelevant. I figure maybe he’s prodding me for a reaction, but before I can respond in kind, he tells me he was sent there by accident, and its not really his place. I told him he should go back there and try to leverage some free drinks before ditching it for another bar in the Valley. Thanks Eric.

I’ve definitely noticed something strange about this place, but I’ll return to it some other day. I think before I can give you an answer, I’ll have to see The Beat firsthand.

Well, after dancing for a short bit solo at the fringe of the dance floor, it becomes time to pick. Dive in or crap out. I choose to take a breather. It’s too hot in here. I walk outside, and realized I’ve lost much of my ability to hear. I don’t care much. Instead, I walk next door, sit on the stairs, and fall asleep. 45 minutes later, the Swede wakes me up, apparently on his way out. Thanks, man. I return to the dance floor, in time to find half of our group going home. Against my better judgment, I stay.

Well, now I’m in the thick of things and dancing. But by dancing, I mean moving my hips and knees in a somewhat rhythmic fashion, while my arms are either down up, or one of each. Really, it’s a sad sight, but this is what alcohol is for. But at this point, I don’t want to be dancing by myself, so I just huddle into the group. Somehow I end up next to her, the one ogling earlier. She doesn’t notice me, as her back is to me. But the second she turns around, she moves across to the other side of the group. I’m confused, as I’m not even touching her. I guess she was angry. I think I guessed wrong.

Meanwhile, one of our other girls was getting harassed by a local. So one of our boys and I spent the next 20 minutes playing pass interference. Aren’t we there to enjoy ourselves? I looked at him with a smirk, essentially saying “We see what you’re doing, and you see we’re not letting you. Shoo.” Too bad he didn’t get the point.

More shifting around. I end up next to two girls. Again, they don’t notice me for a few seconds. Again, I’m not touching either. I’m simply swaying with my eyes closed. One sees me, motions to the other, and they walk away. Now I realize I was wrong.

My realization is broken by the return of the Swede. Didn’t he leave? Well, he comes up behind one of our girls, and puts his hand on her hips. But because he’s attractive, she’s ok. Yet, he spends his time looking at me. He could just be being friendly, as we chatted before and how he’s trying to mate with my friend. Or he’s interested in me, but is only with her to keep up appearances.

Is this what it comes down to? We spend our time watching other people, eyeing like predators. So its all about who you’re seen with. I thought the sketchy man was rejected because he was too pushy. I thought my friend walked away because I pissed her off. In reality, I think its just about appearance. She couldn’t be seen dancing with me. I’m not up to her dance standards. But he was ok because he was pretty and blond, even though I strongly suspect he’s only dancing with her to keep up appearances as well.

But I know I’m no worse. Isn’t that why I talked to Silver Tie before?

I take a step back, a step away from the harassed girl, the harassing boy, the protecting friend, the ditching friend, and the closet Swede. I close my eyes and sway. I’ve never wanted it before, but right now, I’d give my pinky toe for some Ecstasy.

Toilets.

I’d like to talk for a minute about toilets, also referred to in Australia as ‘loos’, presumably because of the state of your sphincter after using them.

You remember that old myth, about toilets in the Southern Hemisphere rotating the other way? Well, I had completely forgotten about it until I called my brother and he asked about it. Well, this was a mystery that couldn’t go unsolved. With elder brother in tow, I marched into the nearest building (the library), went into their bathroom, into the stall, and pushed the button.

“Fuck! It doesn’t swirl at all!”

Sadly, as I’d discovered (and screamed in the public bathroom stall), the water doesn’t rotate at all. It’s a water conserving toilet that pumps water in as it’s sucked down. It just goes straight through, no swirling. I was pissed.

Well, I just huffed right out of that bathroom and out of that library, and into the next building, which just happened to be having a faculty reunion. I found their bathroom, and claimed the stall next to the old man who had come in before me.

“Motherfucker! Why wont it rotate?!”

Seems all toilets on campus are the same conserving type. I must now find an old-fashioned toilet. I tack this on my list of things I need to do, after getting scuba dive certified and camping in the rainforest, but before climbing Ayers Rock in the Outback. I cannot allow this to be unresolved.

Still, I need to give my new school some credit. The toilet paper is way more plush. They actual splurge on real Kleenex brand, as opposed to the sandpaper issued on campus. I don’t leave the bathrooms feeling like I’d been riding a mechanical bull with a frayed saddle all afternoon.

And at least we have real toilets. That’s more than I can say about the bar I went to last night. They didn’t have toilets or urinals. Just a long trough on the floor. Water dribble down from an exposed pipe on one side, and I pretended nothing was wrong. I know Australians are friendly and big on sharing, but when it seems less like a bathroom and more like porcelain bukkake, I have to draw a line. So I did.

His Orientation

We discover most things by experimentation. Its one thing to be told, it’s another thing entirely to learn. I set upon myself to learn this campus and the city by exploring. I walked to nearly every building on campus, hopped on a bus to the city, walked around downtown by myself, and took the ferry home, all on the first day. So I certainly wasn’t looking forward to a 4 hour info session.

However, I’m pleasantly surprised at our MC, an attempted stand up comic who flew in from Sydney solely to talk to us on our first day. Or maybe more, but I didn’t think that yet. I was too busy wondering why a stand-up comic was telling us about bus passes.

According to the MC, Australia is not all about leather pants, boomerangs, whips, and Subarus. This is ironic, as I had just had a conversation about leather and whips the night before. He also acknowledged that Vegemite tastes like shit, but I still intend to follow through on Katie’s challenge.

We then went over who was from what country. Many were from the USA, but I was surprised by the variety. People were coming from countries I’ve never even heard of. I bet the guy from Vanuatu is having a helluva culture shock right now. And only one from Serbia and Montenegro… half each?

We discussed beer as well. For the connoisseurs out there, and you know who you are, I want your opinion. Try Toohey’s. Then try XXXX (Four X). Tell me which is better. Four X is brewed right here is Brisbane, while Toohey’s is brewed down in New South Wales. Personally, I think Toohey’s is a little better, but I’m afraid I’ll get beat up if I tell that to the wrong person.

Here’s where it started getting fishy. Our MC taught us how to perform a Tim-Tam Orgasm. It involves chocolate and sucking. Maybe a little biting. And we did it on our knees. Look it up. Then he told us about sports, but who uses the phrase “1 in 3 of us are chasing balls on a daily basis?” And he does seem to be rather well-matched and stylish… I don’t know if he’s 1 in 3, but I wouldn’t be shocked if he was 1 in 10.

For a short while, an Aborigine man lectured us on history. Really, what did he have to bitch about? We put our Native Americans on a Trail of Tears, and apologized by giving them smallpox blankets. Though, ironically enough, I also had a conversation last night with an Australian, comparing Aborigines to Native Americans. We were competing over who whose country was crueler to their indigenous. I won.

He also went through pains to emphasis that Australia is really flat and dry. Why does he have to compare the continent to a prepubescent girl (probably scarred by QAF)?

Bullshit finished, we finally got our reward: Free BBQ. Hot dogs and bratwurst. Yes, it was a sausage fest. I’m sure our MC approves.

Inefficiency

My advice to most people is to change currency before you leave. Nevermind that the exchange rate sucks. I listened to that bad advice, and took a flight with American dollars, expecting to change my cash in the foreign airport. But our driver warned us that there would be better rates in the city. I trusted his advice, without realizing he had no intention of taking us into the city. Not much beats the sensation of having 50 bucks in your wallet, and still being flat broke. God bless credit cards.

On arrival, my first experience of the university was being greeted in the Grand Hall. Though, maybe it only appeared to be grand because it was dark, angular, and empty. 7AM on a sunday morning; even the night watchman is gone. I suppose I could always just break my own door open. Instead, I call Ann, the study abroad liason. No answer. Eventually, I just banged on a few doors until someone woke up. The resentful young man went to fetch Old Man River, UQ's answer to the RCC. In the meanwhile, I grabbed my second breakfast, the first being on descent into Australia.

I dont know what Australian food is, but I didnt imagine it to be poached eggs and canadian bacon. I settled on a PB&J sandwich, which apparently horrified the only other living person on campus. God forbid I put jelly (not jam!) with my peanut butter. Limey fucks.

Two hours of no tv, no computer, and no real food later, I returned to the dining room. This time, I encountered Americans. And lunch. At 10AM. Nothing says Third Breakfast like the aborted lovechild of sausage and meatball. This is also where I grabbed dinner, as they thought it would be a clever idea to stop serving all food for the day at 11. Chilled Canadian Bacon, a la Aluminum Foil. Bon Appetite!

Ann's job is to help me when I'm in trouble, and teach me survival tactics in Brisbane. She does neither. I have come to the conclusion that I need a cell phone and soap, so I decide to venture into the city solo. Why do I need Ann to teach me about the bus system when I can learn by getting lost and wasting money on one-way tickets? Besides, she was too busy enjoying the Koala Sanctuary.

Fuck koalas. All they do is sleep, eat, and eat their own shit. And bite. They're like babies, if babies were rabid shit-eaters. How did this become the mascot for Australia?

200 dollars later, I have soap and a cell phone. Whoever invented the concept of pre-paid cell phones should go quail hunting with Dick Cheney. Pay 100 dollars up front for a phone, pay 50 a month for expiring minutes, and chip away at it daily by making local phone calls at 80 cents a minute. If this system was logical, you'd return the phone when you cancel your plan. No, its yours to keep. But its not yours to use; they've locked it to only work on their system. Its fucking highway robbery, and those brilliant cocksuckers have us transient visitors by the balls.

On my way out of the mall, I decide to have an early dinner in the food court. Where else besides Australia can you have fast-food roasted lamb and mint jelly?

20 minutes and one last bus ticket later, I'm back at my room. This time with keys. But before I can get in, I'm intercepted. I'm invited out to dinner by other students. Sure, maybe I just ate, but why not? Beer-batterd cod, calamari, crab claws, and french fries. Nevermind that I'm not hungry. I only eat the calamari and claws before taking the rest home and putting the box in the fridge next to the canadian bacon. Dinners 3 and 4 for later.

So really, I spent about 300 dollars today, and all I have to show for it is cold meat, animal fat, and getting porked by a cell phone company.

Tom Petty Saved My Life

Like most armchair criminals, I never actually commit any crime. Traffic violations don’t count, and I shoplifted those Pokemon cards back when I was 11. But I already know how I’d commit the perfect murder, and I had a beautiful plan to hijack someone’s laptop charger.

However, 2 days on no sleep makes a man tired. All I ever managed to do with this computer was watch one episode of QAF. Not with a prepubescent child this time, but awkward nonetheless. I have an aisle seat.

Anyway, all I really wanted to do was sleep. But if you’ve ever tried to sleep in a chair too small for your body, in an aggravatingly light-and-sound polluted airplane cabin, sitting next to an old Chilean couple who can speak nothing in English besides “Get the fuck up out of your chair and let me pass; my swollen prostate is leaking again.”

I tossed, I turned, tried in vain to find a comfortable position. Feet up, feet down, spooning the old woman next to me, nothing worked. Pop 3 times the recommended dosage of sleeping pills, and top it off with sparking white wine. I felt like a classy old woman in the throes of attempted suicide, but no sleep came.

I would’ve thought listening to music would lull me to sleep. In retrospect, I don’t believe the White Stripes or Smashing Pumpkins are the best lullers. Instead, they just made me want to break things. Luckily, my overmedicated body prevented rapid movement.

But, I found my salvation. I put my faith in the son of God: Tom Petty. I should’ve suspected classic rock would put me to sleep, assuming its not Eric Clapton’s life electric version of Layla. My consciousness was sinking before he starting Free Fallin’. I may have only slept 6 hours, but I cherished every moment I wasn’t aware things existed to cherish. There’s no way I could’ve gone another whole day of no sleep without freefalling off a curb and into an oncoming bus.

In this way, Tom Petty saved me. At least for the moment, he is my personal Christ. I wouldn’t be surprised if he could turn water into wine. It can’t be that hard to transmute water; my neighbor is a real pro at turning it into piss.

Con Air

While posted after the fact, I felt it's only genuine if I write it as I think it. So here, unadulterated, is the flight:

As I write this, a small child asks me, “What is the mile-high club?” I tell her its like First Class, only better. I have a reputation for corrupting youth that I need to uphold. You remember That Guy, the kid in elementary school who taught the others how to find internet porn? That’s me.

The child’s curiosity is my own fault. You those safety videos at the start of the flight? They talk about how smoking is forbidden in the bathrooms, but they never explicitly say that fucking is forbidden. This question has haunted me my entire life. I asked the little girl’s mom (kinda a MILF), but she was just as dumbstruck yet curious as I. If anyone actually knows, please tell me. I’ll honestly be grateful.

Long trips can get dull, and this is even longer than my drive to St Louis. Atleast there, I had my father’s antics to keep my company. My only company now is an alcoholic mother and her accidental spawn. Worst still, I’ve lost a day. (Fucking International Date Line). But more than that, this is the first time I’ve spent more than 24 hours either waiting on, waiting in, or getting on a plane. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll get off too. It’s better than first class.

Of course, I have survival strategies. For one, I’ve only slept about 4 hours in 2 days. I also enjoyed margaritas before my Physics final (believe it or not, it’s a grade-enhancer). If that fails, I’ve got a dozen sleeping pills. Maybe buy a few of those bottle shots over international waters. I’ll either be knocked out or go into respiratory arrest, but it’ll be a peaceful flight one way or the other.

There’s also stolen TV to watch on my computer: Weeds, Psych, Doctor Who (I’m not ashamed), and the entire series of Queer As Folk. Now would probably be the best time to watch, with 7-year-old girl peering over my shoulder. I’m sure her “Birds and Bees” talk never involved rimming.

Then again, I could be wrong. Her mom just offered me a beer. I declined, wishing to save my money for my future overdose, but confessed to her my desire to go shot-for-shot with my mom one day. I could so drink that lightweight under the table.

Anyway, I’m being a little bitch and I know it. It’s too early to be complaining. This flight from St Louis to Los Angeles is simply foreplay. The 16 hour trans-Pacific is where I’ll really need endurance. I suppose that makes Unisom my numbing cream. Then again, this is where it gets fun. My laptop only has 3 hours of charge, give or take. The power chargers are only available in First Class. Us cows in coach will just need to make do with Sudoku. I can’t accept that. I don’t even like Sudoku. The only answer is to slip into First Class. But you know those pricks in pressed pants exist mainly to keep us cows behind the curtain. Unless I can wow them with alliteration, I have about 16 hours to figure out how to perform the most insignificant crime of my life.

In the meanwhile, its just back to missing the good old days. When children were seen and not heard.

And Mom, if you’re reading this, I know I make you proud.