Con The Chancellor
I don’t know how Scott’s Travel Blog has become Scott’s Sex Journal, but stranded in boring old Brisbane, is there much else to do besides booze and gossip?
Well, my story continues on from the night of chalking. Being the master politico I am, I decided to take this thousand dollar fine head-on. And I knew how: In honor of the Vice Chancellor’s impending retirement, my res-college would be holding him an honorary dinner. He’s in power, he’s drunk, he’s putty in my hands.
Step One: Schmooze with the Vice Chancellor’s wife. Corner her, grab champaign for two, and find common ground. Just so happens, the old crow has been to America. Wonderful, time to recount my memories and invent some new ones to correlate to hers. Ski in Colorado? I loved it! And of course the fall foliage in the Adirondacks is breathtaking. So, where’s your husband?
Step Two: Talk to the Vice Chancellor about his wife. Talk all about the fun things they have in common, and about how good of a conversationalist the lovely woman is. Now, don’t get me wrong. The VC’s wife actually was pleasant to talk to. She actually is a thoughtful, well-spoken, and clever woman. But I make no claims that I was doing anything besides brown nosing.
Step Three: Seal the deal. When he’s had enough of his own champaign, ask him about how he feels social justice has changed in his tenure. If I’m right about him, he prides himself on a liberal campus. But no, my lesbian friend came up to me in tears yesterday, telling me how they selectively erased her chalk and charged an exorbitant fine that cuts nearly all of the Queer Collective’s budget. Which is all true, if you replace tearful lesbian with cynical queen. But I need to tug on the ol’ heart strings. He agrees, tells me to email him tomorrow, and maybe get in touch with the Registrar here tonight, the man in charge of levying fines.
Break time. An academic and professional dinner of course comes with dinner. More wine, too. Two steaks, mashed potatoes, mediocre string quartet recital, and nearly a whole bottle of white wine on top of three glasses of cheap champaign. I’m ready to take on the Registrar.
Step Four: Pull rank. Seek out the Registrar, pry him away from the Warden (lest it all be discovered), and relay the Vice Chancellor’s “orders”. I don’t need to. As soon as I mention the price of the fine, he says “That’s not going to happen. We don’t give fines that big, especially for something like this. If UQ Union or Security ever tried to levy a fine that big, they’d have to deal with me.”
So basically, I wasted my entire night, and risked outing myself to the entire college, on a meaningless attempt to feel like a hero? Basically. In the end, the President of the Queer Collective convinced UQ Union to drop any fine.
But there’s a twist to the tale. My exploitation of authority figures was not completely unnoticed. A boy I’d suspected was gay from the beginning comes up to me and strikes up a conversation. We continue to down wine shots of fortified Port. The boy unsubtly mentions an ex-boyfriend, but my ethanol-ridden mind doesn’t realize how obvious it is.
Before I can make any move, the Warden comes up and proceeds to do what he does best: Waste our time. He even has the gall to try and assign me a homework assignment, after learning I was a school paper reporter back home. We smile and nod, enjoying flirting and touching right under the Anglican minister’s nose. Upon which apparently rests a thick set of wine goggles.
As soon as the Warden wanders off to his next victim (or dog, but interchangeable), the subtle leaves. “How about you show me your room?” I hope he got a good look at the ceiling.
But this may have been a mistake. Hooking up within the college? At the Academic and Professional Dinner? Sure, that’s an accomplishment to gloat about, but at what price? Hedonism now, but it comes back to bite me in the ass…
Monday, August 20, 2007
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Chalk It Up To Coincidence
I was still pissed from Sunday. Seething from the chapstick outburst. But I didn’t have an outlet short of violence or outing myself to the entire college. So I just boiled silently.
Needing a place to vent, I went back to the Queer Room at the Student Union. My home school has something like that, but no one ever uses it. This one is actually popular, and where I met the guys I went clubbing with. I sat and talked. But halfway through my story, a new face popped in, a rather handsome one. Just for a brief moment, looking for someone. I decided this would be how I pass my evening.
Turns out, the boy is from Sydney, and this is his last day up here. He’s also part of some weird national coalition of queer rooms, and is came to critique UQ. Cute, well-traveled, and on a time limit. I love a challenge.
Except, there’s another layer of complication. He’s organizing a guerilla chalking expedition for his last night. This would involve running all over campus, writing gay things on the sidewalk. That’s pretty damn public, just short of announcing it on loudspeaker during assembly. But I committed myself to trying to get laid, so chalk I must.
We start at the bus stop, but I quickly develop writer’s block. They’re already starting to race ahead. So I try a little math:
“Your bus holds about 50 people. You’re probably standing next to a queer.” Or maybe just “Homo On Board.”
The dam broken, I quickly catch up. Scribbling across the Great Court, the Student Union, the parking lot, we spread around. Subtle messages, word puns, and occasionally something more graphic. The pedestrian figure painted on the ground is suddenly going doggy-style with a chalk man. But this isn’t activism anymore, this is just fucking around. The university can suck it.
It’s surprisingly exhilarating. It’s actually empowering. My rage at the day before is melting away onto the sidewalk. People are coming and staring, and I couldn’t care less. Until she comes.
One of the other Americans is coming back from watching an intramural basketball game. The girl comes up to me, asks me what we’re doing. I answer honestly, since she already knows all about me. Confused as hell, she begins to walk away, but not before giving me forewarning: The St. John’s College basketball team is only a few minutes behind her.
Against my will, I become nervous. I have yet to hear anything positive come out of my college’s mouth (except my very open neighbor), and all of a sudden, I don’t want to be caught here.
The Sydney boy must pick up on my sudden fear, and asks me what’s wrong. I tell him, so he tells me to go home. Somewhat taken aback, I tell him “Fuck you.” So he explains, somewhat gentler. “If you’re uncomfortable, or afraid of being caught, we won’t make you stay. Don’t do anything you don’t feel ready for, or will regret later. They’re coming, so you better hurry.”
But I can’t. I’m invested. Not in getting laid, but (ok, yes in getting laid, but additionally) in making a statement. They can come, but I won’t lie.
They walk by, chatting with each other. Not really paying our group much attention. But they look up and read what we write as they walk. Just by coincidence, I had my back to them at the time. I can’t say I wasn’t pleased, but it wasn’t intentional either. As they walk on past, I go back to talk with Sydney Boy. But I made the mistake of looking at the team. One suddenly turns and looks over his shoulder. It’s the college student president. We make the briefest eye contact before I turn away.
Am I busted? Will I wake up tomorrow with a swastika painted on my door? Right now, I couldn’t care less.
The night over, we go our separate ways. I follow Sydney Boy to his car, and put my cards on the table. “You know, I owe you. The only reason I went chalking in the first place was because I thought you were cute.” He stands there for a moment, seemingly mentally debating with himself. “I told my friend who I hadn’t seen my whole time here that I’d go to his party before I go.”
Well, so much for my mission.
The next morning (as in, I wake up at 4pm), I set out to go jot down the better slogans. They’re all smeared or gone. The ground is wet. One of our other guerilla chalkers spots me, and comes trudging up. “An obscure school rule, you can’t chalk in the Great Court. It got washed away, and we got fined $1000 dollars. Though, how that spread to the bus stop and café is a mystery to me.”
Of course, I could see not everything was gone. Advertisements for last weekend’s Soiree party remained. Hell, I even spotted a chalked sign for the Cromwell Bunker party of three weeks ago. No, this was targeted erasure. The chalking wasn’t just for nothing. It was for a steep fine and a subtle admission of the university’s homophobia.
But speaking of subtle, they did leave one of my slogans. Something your average hetero won’t catch, but hopefully gives all the little gay boys a little hope they aren’t alone.
“Liza or Judy?”
Oh, and try as they might, they were never fully erase the pedestrian sign having buttsex.
Needing a place to vent, I went back to the Queer Room at the Student Union. My home school has something like that, but no one ever uses it. This one is actually popular, and where I met the guys I went clubbing with. I sat and talked. But halfway through my story, a new face popped in, a rather handsome one. Just for a brief moment, looking for someone. I decided this would be how I pass my evening.
Turns out, the boy is from Sydney, and this is his last day up here. He’s also part of some weird national coalition of queer rooms, and is came to critique UQ. Cute, well-traveled, and on a time limit. I love a challenge.
Except, there’s another layer of complication. He’s organizing a guerilla chalking expedition for his last night. This would involve running all over campus, writing gay things on the sidewalk. That’s pretty damn public, just short of announcing it on loudspeaker during assembly. But I committed myself to trying to get laid, so chalk I must.
We start at the bus stop, but I quickly develop writer’s block. They’re already starting to race ahead. So I try a little math:
“Your bus holds about 50 people. You’re probably standing next to a queer.” Or maybe just “Homo On Board.”
The dam broken, I quickly catch up. Scribbling across the Great Court, the Student Union, the parking lot, we spread around. Subtle messages, word puns, and occasionally something more graphic. The pedestrian figure painted on the ground is suddenly going doggy-style with a chalk man. But this isn’t activism anymore, this is just fucking around. The university can suck it.
It’s surprisingly exhilarating. It’s actually empowering. My rage at the day before is melting away onto the sidewalk. People are coming and staring, and I couldn’t care less. Until she comes.
One of the other Americans is coming back from watching an intramural basketball game. The girl comes up to me, asks me what we’re doing. I answer honestly, since she already knows all about me. Confused as hell, she begins to walk away, but not before giving me forewarning: The St. John’s College basketball team is only a few minutes behind her.
Against my will, I become nervous. I have yet to hear anything positive come out of my college’s mouth (except my very open neighbor), and all of a sudden, I don’t want to be caught here.
The Sydney boy must pick up on my sudden fear, and asks me what’s wrong. I tell him, so he tells me to go home. Somewhat taken aback, I tell him “Fuck you.” So he explains, somewhat gentler. “If you’re uncomfortable, or afraid of being caught, we won’t make you stay. Don’t do anything you don’t feel ready for, or will regret later. They’re coming, so you better hurry.”
But I can’t. I’m invested. Not in getting laid, but (ok, yes in getting laid, but additionally) in making a statement. They can come, but I won’t lie.
They walk by, chatting with each other. Not really paying our group much attention. But they look up and read what we write as they walk. Just by coincidence, I had my back to them at the time. I can’t say I wasn’t pleased, but it wasn’t intentional either. As they walk on past, I go back to talk with Sydney Boy. But I made the mistake of looking at the team. One suddenly turns and looks over his shoulder. It’s the college student president. We make the briefest eye contact before I turn away.
Am I busted? Will I wake up tomorrow with a swastika painted on my door? Right now, I couldn’t care less.
The night over, we go our separate ways. I follow Sydney Boy to his car, and put my cards on the table. “You know, I owe you. The only reason I went chalking in the first place was because I thought you were cute.” He stands there for a moment, seemingly mentally debating with himself. “I told my friend who I hadn’t seen my whole time here that I’d go to his party before I go.”
Well, so much for my mission.
The next morning (as in, I wake up at 4pm), I set out to go jot down the better slogans. They’re all smeared or gone. The ground is wet. One of our other guerilla chalkers spots me, and comes trudging up. “An obscure school rule, you can’t chalk in the Great Court. It got washed away, and we got fined $1000 dollars. Though, how that spread to the bus stop and café is a mystery to me.”
Of course, I could see not everything was gone. Advertisements for last weekend’s Soiree party remained. Hell, I even spotted a chalked sign for the Cromwell Bunker party of three weeks ago. No, this was targeted erasure. The chalking wasn’t just for nothing. It was for a steep fine and a subtle admission of the university’s homophobia.
But speaking of subtle, they did leave one of my slogans. Something your average hetero won’t catch, but hopefully gives all the little gay boys a little hope they aren’t alone.
“Liza or Judy?”
Oh, and try as they might, they were never fully erase the pedestrian sign having buttsex.
Friday, August 17, 2007
A Sunday Morning
Saturday night. The big St John’s College formal. I skip it, and instead catch up on my sleep. I need to be ready for Sunday morning.
8am prompt, Sunday morning. I get up, get dressed, and get to breakfast. I greet the boys in skirts and the girls with face paint and large antlers. Sausage, beans, and a muffin. I sit down at the table with a witch, a rugby player, an artic explorer, and a mouse. The witch graciously pours me a glass of orange juice. It’s almost time to walk to the bar.
After the formalities of last night (which thank god I missed), its time for the real party. Recovery. 10am, private rented bar, costumes, unlimited pitchers of beer.
Needless to say, the debauchery surpassed anything I have ever, ever seen in America.
Greeting us at the door were a series of cloth murals. Yosemite Sam fucking Minnie Mouse with a gigantic dildo. Betty Boop releasing her voluminous period on an aborted fetus. You get the idea.
I pilfered a pitcher to myself, and got down to the hard business of drinking, at my own pace. However, I feared this may soon be out of my hands. The trumpet approached. Perhaps you’re familiar with the American Beer Bong? Well, this is similar. A meter-long plastic bugle. A pint of beer down the top. Skull it, and blow the horn in victory. I’m fucked.
Thankfully, the instrument of my future hangover never arrived. Instead, our table was doused with a full pitcher of beer. One of the girls at our table marched over in protest, but slipped on the alcoholic ooze coating the floor and nearly fell on her ass. But yours truly was there with an outstretched arm.
Before I get the opportunity to speak up, “Destination Unknown” blares out the speakers. A mass stampede to the dance floor. But seeing how I dance worse than your average club-footed narcoleptic, I decided to hang back with the Spiderman Brothers. A child’s costume shared. The one with the top could barely cover his nipples. The one with the pants bared his asscrack for all to admire. The college student president, complete with hard hat and lion mane, invites us to the floor, but all three of us would rather booze in the sunshine.
We miss the first wave of sausages and face paint beginning to get around, but my stroke of good luck was not infinite. The minute I walk inside, a petite girl clasps her hands around my face, then down my neck. Blue racing stripes, she tells me. In the meanwhile, one of the boys I walked here with is half passed out on the couch, face dyed red, trumpet lolling out of his mouth. It is 10 minutes to noon.
I sit down with people I know, apparently in the middle of an ego circlejerk. Immediately, a friend of mine, male, puts his hand on my thigh. Is he hitting on me in his impaired state? I never get to find out, as just then his buddy next to him busts out chapstick. Drinking can give a man parched lips.
“Such a poof. Put away the chapstick, you fucking faggot.” He turns back to me, and slides his drunk hand higher up my leg. “You’re a legend, you know that.”
I can’t tolerate him. It’s time for a refill. As I approach, two boys fake hump and moan for a girl’s entertainment. Do all westernized countries have a homoerotic double standard? Even under alcohol, only ok if they think you don’t want it.
Before you think I’m just ranting, this matters later.
But hell, can you really stay mad when you’re double-fisting two Smirnoff Blacks while debating politics with strangers? This is the foundation of my life philosophy.
If you’ve never spent your Lazy Sunday getting shitfaced with the sun high overhead, I truly recommend it.
If you want some photos, especially of those insane banners, go here: Morning Booze and Fuzzy Things
8am prompt, Sunday morning. I get up, get dressed, and get to breakfast. I greet the boys in skirts and the girls with face paint and large antlers. Sausage, beans, and a muffin. I sit down at the table with a witch, a rugby player, an artic explorer, and a mouse. The witch graciously pours me a glass of orange juice. It’s almost time to walk to the bar.
After the formalities of last night (which thank god I missed), its time for the real party. Recovery. 10am, private rented bar, costumes, unlimited pitchers of beer.
Needless to say, the debauchery surpassed anything I have ever, ever seen in America.
Greeting us at the door were a series of cloth murals. Yosemite Sam fucking Minnie Mouse with a gigantic dildo. Betty Boop releasing her voluminous period on an aborted fetus. You get the idea.
I pilfered a pitcher to myself, and got down to the hard business of drinking, at my own pace. However, I feared this may soon be out of my hands. The trumpet approached. Perhaps you’re familiar with the American Beer Bong? Well, this is similar. A meter-long plastic bugle. A pint of beer down the top. Skull it, and blow the horn in victory. I’m fucked.
Thankfully, the instrument of my future hangover never arrived. Instead, our table was doused with a full pitcher of beer. One of the girls at our table marched over in protest, but slipped on the alcoholic ooze coating the floor and nearly fell on her ass. But yours truly was there with an outstretched arm.
Before I get the opportunity to speak up, “Destination Unknown” blares out the speakers. A mass stampede to the dance floor. But seeing how I dance worse than your average club-footed narcoleptic, I decided to hang back with the Spiderman Brothers. A child’s costume shared. The one with the top could barely cover his nipples. The one with the pants bared his asscrack for all to admire. The college student president, complete with hard hat and lion mane, invites us to the floor, but all three of us would rather booze in the sunshine.
We miss the first wave of sausages and face paint beginning to get around, but my stroke of good luck was not infinite. The minute I walk inside, a petite girl clasps her hands around my face, then down my neck. Blue racing stripes, she tells me. In the meanwhile, one of the boys I walked here with is half passed out on the couch, face dyed red, trumpet lolling out of his mouth. It is 10 minutes to noon.
I sit down with people I know, apparently in the middle of an ego circlejerk. Immediately, a friend of mine, male, puts his hand on my thigh. Is he hitting on me in his impaired state? I never get to find out, as just then his buddy next to him busts out chapstick. Drinking can give a man parched lips.
“Such a poof. Put away the chapstick, you fucking faggot.” He turns back to me, and slides his drunk hand higher up my leg. “You’re a legend, you know that.”
I can’t tolerate him. It’s time for a refill. As I approach, two boys fake hump and moan for a girl’s entertainment. Do all westernized countries have a homoerotic double standard? Even under alcohol, only ok if they think you don’t want it.
Before you think I’m just ranting, this matters later.
But hell, can you really stay mad when you’re double-fisting two Smirnoff Blacks while debating politics with strangers? This is the foundation of my life philosophy.
If you’ve never spent your Lazy Sunday getting shitfaced with the sun high overhead, I truly recommend it.
If you want some photos, especially of those insane banners, go here: Morning Booze and Fuzzy Things
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Contest Interlude
I always wake up to spam. In modern society, this is a fact of life. But alas, a diamond in the rough. StudyAbroad.com is looking for students to keep blogs on their travels. The lucky sonofabitch will have his or her blog on BlogAbroad.com and win $500 for their trouble.
Seemed like a cakewalk. Most people I know love this blog, so why wouldn’t the general public? My narcissism assured my victory. I’d fill out their form, write the 300 word essay, and point them here. A little copy and paste for half a grand? Life is good.
But I never applied. I read the rules first.
- You must be atleast 18 and in good academic standing. Check.
- You must post atleast 3 times a week. Check.
- You must post atleast 3 pictures a week. No check, but no problem.
- You must reply to atleast 3 comments a week. Like I said, cakewalk.
But the next one put a slight drizzle on my victory parade.
- Throughout the semester, we will be providing you with a few small tasks (such as taking a picture in front of the Coliseum with your StudyAbroad.com T-shirt). You will be asked to complete them and share your adventure on the blog.
Now, I don’t mind being a human billboard. We all do it, willingly, and pay extra money for the privilege. I really couldn’t care if my t-shirt said Express or StudyAbroad.com.
The problem is the missions. Australia is not like Rome. You don’t hop on a bus to the ancient ruins. They’ll ask me to pose with Ayer’s Rock or the Sydney Opera House. Hopping on a bus to these tourist spots costs more than the money they give me.
But I could forgive these transgressions. Maybe it’s worth seeing Sydney or Uluru. What stopped me cold was the final stipulation.
- We definitely are not looking for inappropriate content (expletives, prejudices, chronic negativity, sexually explicit content, etc.)
Fuck those yeasty cunts. Without that, I wouldn’t even have a blog. Needlessly vulgur, consistently prurient, and gloriously cynical, that’s how I choose to live my life and write my blog. Censorship is not worth 500 dollars in blood money. Suck my dick.
Seemed like a cakewalk. Most people I know love this blog, so why wouldn’t the general public? My narcissism assured my victory. I’d fill out their form, write the 300 word essay, and point them here. A little copy and paste for half a grand? Life is good.
But I never applied. I read the rules first.
- You must be atleast 18 and in good academic standing. Check.
- You must post atleast 3 times a week. Check.
- You must post atleast 3 pictures a week. No check, but no problem.
- You must reply to atleast 3 comments a week. Like I said, cakewalk.
But the next one put a slight drizzle on my victory parade.
- Throughout the semester, we will be providing you with a few small tasks (such as taking a picture in front of the Coliseum with your StudyAbroad.com T-shirt). You will be asked to complete them and share your adventure on the blog.
Now, I don’t mind being a human billboard. We all do it, willingly, and pay extra money for the privilege. I really couldn’t care if my t-shirt said Express or StudyAbroad.com.
The problem is the missions. Australia is not like Rome. You don’t hop on a bus to the ancient ruins. They’ll ask me to pose with Ayer’s Rock or the Sydney Opera House. Hopping on a bus to these tourist spots costs more than the money they give me.
But I could forgive these transgressions. Maybe it’s worth seeing Sydney or Uluru. What stopped me cold was the final stipulation.
- We definitely are not looking for inappropriate content (expletives, prejudices, chronic negativity, sexually explicit content, etc.)
Fuck those yeasty cunts. Without that, I wouldn’t even have a blog. Needlessly vulgur, consistently prurient, and gloriously cynical, that’s how I choose to live my life and write my blog. Censorship is not worth 500 dollars in blood money. Suck my dick.
Abroad Abroad
I love theme parties. Sometimes they make me feel all warm and tingly inside, but that’s usually the rave and circuit themed. This time, it was an international theme. And, just this once, it was during the daytime.
Well actually, there’ve been a couple fun instances of daytime drinking, but that’s for later.
I’ve been anticipating the International House’s Soiree Party for a week. Set my clock for noon exactly. Plenty of time for a warm shower, a leisurely breakfast. In reality get out of bed at 1:50. This doesn’t shock anyone. Fuck the morning shower; it’s afternoon anyway. And fuck breakfast. Beer is high in calories.
I’m slightly lost. I can’t figure out just how to get to the party. But by chance, I happen to pass an older gentleman in a checkered kilt, clutching a bagpipe to his bosom. This is probably the right road.
The party is a sprawling maze of outdoor booths. Which wouldn’t be a problem, except for the fact that the winter sun is blazing my balls off. 80 plus and humid. SPF50 can’t save me now. They’ve really gone all-out in decorations: flags everywhere, confetti, balloons, and a giant cloth spiderweb draped between two buildings like that scene they cut from Spiderman post-9/11 like a bunch of PC pussies.
Entertainment too. On one stage, a woman with a silky smooth voice croons in an indecipherable language. Shitty j-pop blares from distant speakers. In the back, the cover band plays a low-quality cover of average British rock songs. Glorious cacophony.
I wander around, sampling my heritage. Polish sausage, Russian dumplings, an Israeli cheeseburger. Food is cheap, but beer is expensive as all hell. I make the mistake of wandering to my friend’s booth. Syrian Beef and Sri Lankan beer. 5 bucks a cup makes Union Jack’s look cheap, but I suppose UJ is only pretending to be British. And I suppose I didn’t have a choice about buying expensive beer at my friend’s booth.
I settled down to eat my Arabic meat and Sri Lankan beer next to a man playing a PVC didgeridoo. Surrealism is my favorite state of existence.
I know you’ve been wondering this the whole time, “What about the American booth?” I feared Budweiser, but was pleasantly surprised by Sam Adams and Moosehead from Canada. Seems they lumped them with the USA, proving my theory that Canada is actually the 53rd state.
Anyway, at 5 bucks a pop, there’s no way I’m getting sloshed this morning. Might as well take my leave. The party is also a bit of a disappointment. I wanted more of a real international feel.
As I walk towards the gate, I coincidentally run across the other Americans. Pleasantries, without real interpersonal communication. But as I start to walk down the street, I overhear my pretty female American cohorts being oogled and catcalled by the African guards on duty. Just for a fleeting moment, this party lived up to its promise.
Well actually, there’ve been a couple fun instances of daytime drinking, but that’s for later.
I’ve been anticipating the International House’s Soiree Party for a week. Set my clock for noon exactly. Plenty of time for a warm shower, a leisurely breakfast. In reality get out of bed at 1:50. This doesn’t shock anyone. Fuck the morning shower; it’s afternoon anyway. And fuck breakfast. Beer is high in calories.
I’m slightly lost. I can’t figure out just how to get to the party. But by chance, I happen to pass an older gentleman in a checkered kilt, clutching a bagpipe to his bosom. This is probably the right road.
The party is a sprawling maze of outdoor booths. Which wouldn’t be a problem, except for the fact that the winter sun is blazing my balls off. 80 plus and humid. SPF50 can’t save me now. They’ve really gone all-out in decorations: flags everywhere, confetti, balloons, and a giant cloth spiderweb draped between two buildings like that scene they cut from Spiderman post-9/11 like a bunch of PC pussies.
Entertainment too. On one stage, a woman with a silky smooth voice croons in an indecipherable language. Shitty j-pop blares from distant speakers. In the back, the cover band plays a low-quality cover of average British rock songs. Glorious cacophony.
I wander around, sampling my heritage. Polish sausage, Russian dumplings, an Israeli cheeseburger. Food is cheap, but beer is expensive as all hell. I make the mistake of wandering to my friend’s booth. Syrian Beef and Sri Lankan beer. 5 bucks a cup makes Union Jack’s look cheap, but I suppose UJ is only pretending to be British. And I suppose I didn’t have a choice about buying expensive beer at my friend’s booth.
I settled down to eat my Arabic meat and Sri Lankan beer next to a man playing a PVC didgeridoo. Surrealism is my favorite state of existence.
I know you’ve been wondering this the whole time, “What about the American booth?” I feared Budweiser, but was pleasantly surprised by Sam Adams and Moosehead from Canada. Seems they lumped them with the USA, proving my theory that Canada is actually the 53rd state.
Anyway, at 5 bucks a pop, there’s no way I’m getting sloshed this morning. Might as well take my leave. The party is also a bit of a disappointment. I wanted more of a real international feel.
As I walk towards the gate, I coincidentally run across the other Americans. Pleasantries, without real interpersonal communication. But as I start to walk down the street, I overhear my pretty female American cohorts being oogled and catcalled by the African guards on duty. Just for a fleeting moment, this party lived up to its promise.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Waking Up
Last week.
It’s already Monday, seeing as midnight is long behind us. Seeing as this is Australia, and I’m in a college, we’ve been drinking again. At The RE, unsurprisingly. But as I settle into bed at 5am, I know I’m not waking up. I set my clock for 7am, but my fate is sealed.
Miraculously, I get up in time for my noon class, at the expense of the first two lectures. These much needed extra hours do not prevent me from passing out in my one class, and walking home with criminological theories smudged on my face.
Tuesday. I’d like to believe I’ve learned from my mistakes. A reasonable bedtime, and classes that don’t start until 11. At 10am exactly, the alarm sounds. Somehow, I programmed it to a foreign language radio station, so a polite sounding women babbles at me in a possibly Asian language. Very melodic, but unacceptable at this hour.
I reach out, stretching as far as my considerably lengthy arms go, but only manage to flail at air. But I will not be dissuaded. I lunge the top half of my body out of bed and soar across the gap. My arm clings desperately to the table, while my feet dig in to the sheets for traction. My body makes a bridge over the turbulent dirty laundry below. With great effort in my half-asleep state, I slap the Snooze button, before doubling over my own body and resuming a curled fetal position under warm blankets. I can only dream about how proud that moment would make my yoga professor uncle.
But it was all in vain. Knowing myself, I set a second alarm on my computer. AC/DC breaks the still morning air. The strike came lightning fast: Covers peeled, feet hit the floor, two quick hops to the computer. Use the momentum from the last step to swing the arm, like a batter, and hit the space bar. Jump back into bed, conceal the body under warm blankets, and resume the curled fetal position.
The snooze cycle for both of these alarms are 6 minutes, and are staggered evenly between each other.
Dive for the alarm, dash to the computer. Every 3 minutes. Most people would be driven to insanity, or wakefulness, by this grueling cycle. I don’t need to tell you that I’m not most people. This waltz continues unchecked for almost an hour and a half, before I finally crawl out of bed. Lunch is the motivating factor, class is already over. I’m afraid this is less an isolated case and more the typical morning. My recurring nightmare.
Wednesday, I decide to give myself a fighting chance. Purposefully skip my first class, set the clock for 8. Chinese is replaced by German, and Bon Scott yields to a young Eric Clapton. And it almost worked. The mad dash went unabated for 45 minutes, and I gingerly got out of bed at 8:50. If I hurry, I can make my botany class. I’d only be a few minutes late.
Instead, I ate a leisurely breakfast, took a hot shower, listened to music in bed for an hour, and watched some old Doctor Who. If I’m going to have an ongoing feud with two alarm clocks for an hour every morning, I better damn well have a reason to get up. It’s sure as hell not class.
It’s already Monday, seeing as midnight is long behind us. Seeing as this is Australia, and I’m in a college, we’ve been drinking again. At The RE, unsurprisingly. But as I settle into bed at 5am, I know I’m not waking up. I set my clock for 7am, but my fate is sealed.
Miraculously, I get up in time for my noon class, at the expense of the first two lectures. These much needed extra hours do not prevent me from passing out in my one class, and walking home with criminological theories smudged on my face.
Tuesday. I’d like to believe I’ve learned from my mistakes. A reasonable bedtime, and classes that don’t start until 11. At 10am exactly, the alarm sounds. Somehow, I programmed it to a foreign language radio station, so a polite sounding women babbles at me in a possibly Asian language. Very melodic, but unacceptable at this hour.
I reach out, stretching as far as my considerably lengthy arms go, but only manage to flail at air. But I will not be dissuaded. I lunge the top half of my body out of bed and soar across the gap. My arm clings desperately to the table, while my feet dig in to the sheets for traction. My body makes a bridge over the turbulent dirty laundry below. With great effort in my half-asleep state, I slap the Snooze button, before doubling over my own body and resuming a curled fetal position under warm blankets. I can only dream about how proud that moment would make my yoga professor uncle.
But it was all in vain. Knowing myself, I set a second alarm on my computer. AC/DC breaks the still morning air. The strike came lightning fast: Covers peeled, feet hit the floor, two quick hops to the computer. Use the momentum from the last step to swing the arm, like a batter, and hit the space bar. Jump back into bed, conceal the body under warm blankets, and resume the curled fetal position.
The snooze cycle for both of these alarms are 6 minutes, and are staggered evenly between each other.
Dive for the alarm, dash to the computer. Every 3 minutes. Most people would be driven to insanity, or wakefulness, by this grueling cycle. I don’t need to tell you that I’m not most people. This waltz continues unchecked for almost an hour and a half, before I finally crawl out of bed. Lunch is the motivating factor, class is already over. I’m afraid this is less an isolated case and more the typical morning. My recurring nightmare.
Wednesday, I decide to give myself a fighting chance. Purposefully skip my first class, set the clock for 8. Chinese is replaced by German, and Bon Scott yields to a young Eric Clapton. And it almost worked. The mad dash went unabated for 45 minutes, and I gingerly got out of bed at 8:50. If I hurry, I can make my botany class. I’d only be a few minutes late.
Instead, I ate a leisurely breakfast, took a hot shower, listened to music in bed for an hour, and watched some old Doctor Who. If I’m going to have an ongoing feud with two alarm clocks for an hour every morning, I better damn well have a reason to get up. It’s sure as hell not class.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Aftermath (or pt 3, whatever)
I went to bed at 7am, and waited for the blood to return to my alcohol stream. But it didn’t last. Fucking kookaburras kept me up until 8, and a text message woke me up at 1pm. It was him. A nice gesture I suppose, asking me if I slept well, and telling me he had a nice night. I suppose it was to be expected. One could almost call it sweet.
The next morning, I was awakened by my phone ringing. It was him. But since I’m a lazy callous bastard, I just silenced it and went back to bed. Bad mistake. It was followed by two more, and a whiny sounding voicemail. And a text message asking me to meet him at lunch tomorrow. Now I had a problem.
See, I’m a chronically nice guy. I almost got pulled into a gang fight trying to help a bloodied boy. When I discovered I was actually the first boy he kissed, I decided the right thing to do was to be a gentleman about it, and give him a nice night. It was sweet how into me he seemed, and maybe it was the booze talking, but I almost developed a little affection for him.
This evaporated with sobriety, and the realization that chivalry earns stalkers. Something needed to be done.
I turned to the one man who would know exactly what to do: My brother. Perhaps a perfect gentleman now, but he had his sowing of the wild oats. This situation must’ve happened to him before.
I presented him with four options:
1) Ignore and hope it all blows over.
2) Cut my loses. Tell him it’s a one-time thing to never be repeated.
3) Actually try dating the little croissant, and see what comes of it.
4) Manipulate him into a casual fuckbuddy-type “relationship”
Clearly, 1 is just wishful thinking. And I don’t know if I have the heart, or skills to pull off 4. So, I ask him 2 or 3. Wise beyond his years, my brother says the worst thing I can do is date the boy out of pity. If I don’t have the stomach for 4, then I should say “That was fun, better luck in the future.”
My phone is silent in class. I miss another call and voicemail. Decisive action needs to be taken. Tomorrow, I’ll ask him what he expects out of me, what I can provide, and give him the fair and honest choice.
So I go and meet him at lunch. He’s with some guys I’ve met before, including others from the club. While its true I was drinking heavily the night before, and only got 2 hours of sleep, I feigned a tired hangover to avoid potential greeting intimacy. It’s a self-protection instinct, but I already know I’m on the wrong path.
At first I try to stick to my plan. I ask him what he thought about Friday, and what he expects to come of it. The shy and sheepish ass shrugs and smiles meekly, but says nothing. I’m pretty sure I can interpret that smile as “Bend me over and make me your bitch.” Or is my foul nature just coming out?
Instead, I basically ignore him, and make small talk with his friends. But I don’t neglect to occasionally look back and smirk seductively, or casually brush up against him in suggestive manner. Then I tell him to stop calling so damn much. Essentially, I’m giving mixed messages, and I’m doing it on purpose. I want him to be even more turned on by me, while putting on an asshole façade. One could say this is generosity. One could say I’m showing him what he can expect so he can make an informed choice. But I know that’s bullshit.
So yeah, I was knowingly and willingly being a manipulative bastard and going for the fuckbuddy option. There was a sudden transition along the way, and I can’t pinpoint where, but I’ve got from being a naïve experience-seeker raging over the trashy user types, to being exactly what I hated.
Luckily for everyone involved, my stint as the next Brian Kinney was mercifully short-lived.
We hooked up a second time. Went a little further. He loved every second of it. I just found myself checking my watch every few minutes. A matter of going through the motions, detached. Getting off, but not enjoying it.
Maybe I’m just not the fuckbuddy type. My mom thinks I’m actually an extremely open-minded hetero with a low sex drive. My friends think I’m looking for my own White Knight. But in reality, I just can’t let myself go. I can’t separate mind from body and live in the moment. I can’t get over myself.
That’s a problem I have to deal with on my own terms. I can’t use this innocent boy as my testing toy, and there’s no point hooking up just for the sake of adding another notch to the bedpost (not to mention I don’t want to get fined for desecrating this rented room) if I’m not enjoying myself.
I’ll figure out what I need eventually, but I won’t drag someone down with me. Manipulative bastard is way too 90’s.
The next morning, I was awakened by my phone ringing. It was him. But since I’m a lazy callous bastard, I just silenced it and went back to bed. Bad mistake. It was followed by two more, and a whiny sounding voicemail. And a text message asking me to meet him at lunch tomorrow. Now I had a problem.
See, I’m a chronically nice guy. I almost got pulled into a gang fight trying to help a bloodied boy. When I discovered I was actually the first boy he kissed, I decided the right thing to do was to be a gentleman about it, and give him a nice night. It was sweet how into me he seemed, and maybe it was the booze talking, but I almost developed a little affection for him.
This evaporated with sobriety, and the realization that chivalry earns stalkers. Something needed to be done.
I turned to the one man who would know exactly what to do: My brother. Perhaps a perfect gentleman now, but he had his sowing of the wild oats. This situation must’ve happened to him before.
I presented him with four options:
1) Ignore and hope it all blows over.
2) Cut my loses. Tell him it’s a one-time thing to never be repeated.
3) Actually try dating the little croissant, and see what comes of it.
4) Manipulate him into a casual fuckbuddy-type “relationship”
Clearly, 1 is just wishful thinking. And I don’t know if I have the heart, or skills to pull off 4. So, I ask him 2 or 3. Wise beyond his years, my brother says the worst thing I can do is date the boy out of pity. If I don’t have the stomach for 4, then I should say “That was fun, better luck in the future.”
My phone is silent in class. I miss another call and voicemail. Decisive action needs to be taken. Tomorrow, I’ll ask him what he expects out of me, what I can provide, and give him the fair and honest choice.
So I go and meet him at lunch. He’s with some guys I’ve met before, including others from the club. While its true I was drinking heavily the night before, and only got 2 hours of sleep, I feigned a tired hangover to avoid potential greeting intimacy. It’s a self-protection instinct, but I already know I’m on the wrong path.
At first I try to stick to my plan. I ask him what he thought about Friday, and what he expects to come of it. The shy and sheepish ass shrugs and smiles meekly, but says nothing. I’m pretty sure I can interpret that smile as “Bend me over and make me your bitch.” Or is my foul nature just coming out?
Instead, I basically ignore him, and make small talk with his friends. But I don’t neglect to occasionally look back and smirk seductively, or casually brush up against him in suggestive manner. Then I tell him to stop calling so damn much. Essentially, I’m giving mixed messages, and I’m doing it on purpose. I want him to be even more turned on by me, while putting on an asshole façade. One could say this is generosity. One could say I’m showing him what he can expect so he can make an informed choice. But I know that’s bullshit.
So yeah, I was knowingly and willingly being a manipulative bastard and going for the fuckbuddy option. There was a sudden transition along the way, and I can’t pinpoint where, but I’ve got from being a naïve experience-seeker raging over the trashy user types, to being exactly what I hated.
Luckily for everyone involved, my stint as the next Brian Kinney was mercifully short-lived.
We hooked up a second time. Went a little further. He loved every second of it. I just found myself checking my watch every few minutes. A matter of going through the motions, detached. Getting off, but not enjoying it.
Maybe I’m just not the fuckbuddy type. My mom thinks I’m actually an extremely open-minded hetero with a low sex drive. My friends think I’m looking for my own White Knight. But in reality, I just can’t let myself go. I can’t separate mind from body and live in the moment. I can’t get over myself.
That’s a problem I have to deal with on my own terms. I can’t use this innocent boy as my testing toy, and there’s no point hooking up just for the sake of adding another notch to the bedpost (not to mention I don’t want to get fined for desecrating this rented room) if I’m not enjoying myself.
I’ll figure out what I need eventually, but I won’t drag someone down with me. Manipulative bastard is way too 90’s.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Dance to The Beat (pt 2)
The whole Mystery Tongue thing has happened before. In fact, it has occurred a few times this year, and each time, I wonder how it can happen without my realizing. How do I consistently return to conscious thought with someone’s tongue in my mouth?
He’s sloppy and inexperienced, but enthusiastic, so I go along with it. I want to stop soon enough, but I have reason to believe he’s new at this. Call me a nice guy, but I don’t want to make the boy feel cheap or used. I’d rather it feel good and special. So I persist.
Eventually, alcohol interfering with time perception, I break it off, and decide to look for my original friend. We find him playing a bizarro-world version of pool with a pack of bull dykes. He’s getting his ass kicked. French boy is all over me, and he appears to have gotten pretty attached pretty fast. I fear the clingy types, they me nervous. Luckily, a strange boy I’d never met or even seen before walks right up to me and gropes me for a good 30 seconds before walking off, never saying a word. Did my non-reluctance send a message? When he goes for a piss, I ask our friendly neighborhood bulldyke for advice. She tells me to tell it to him like it is.
Instead, we return to The Wickham, and promptly lose the guy who invited me. For a short while, it’s just me and The French. The floor is far more crowded this time, but its all older bear-types, and they’re starting to disrobe. By luck, we come across a pair of guys we’d talked to on the way in. They tell me Amsterdam has decided to ban pot smoking, and we get into a heated debate in which we all actually agree. I believe that requires alcohol, which I bum plenty of for free. The French is basically left out of the conversation as I try and see if I can get pot, pills, or sex from these guys. Instead, I get a phone number and the hint of potential in the future.
Back to The Beat. I look up, and The Village People are playing on a TV screen. This is too obvious, so I move on. I get more to drink, and bum more freebies, and my total gets pretty high. Allow me to explain:
I started pregaming on 2 beers. Then had what I believe 3 vodka bitters, but it could’ve been 4. Then a vodka and red bull at Wickham. 2 more vodka bitters at The Beat. Back at Wickham, I poached the latter half of someone's Smirnoff Black, then got one of my own. Then another beer. Then poached the second half of someone's vodka and red bull. And back at The Beat again, the latter half of someone else's beer. And the latter half of yet another Smirnoff Black. I'm enjoying the free booze.
Anyway, I challenge The French to a contest. Who can dance with the most strangers. Again, I’m hoping this sends a clear message. I take an early lead, but he accuses me of cheating when I dance with a bisexual girl. She takes it upon herself to teach me to dance. It never works.
I rediscover our original friend breakdancing on the floor with his shirt off. Whatever.
Somehow our contest has ended, and we’re dancing together again. Somehow we’re making out again. Somehow, I like it. I suppose I’m enjoying that he’s so into me, but it could just be the excessive drinking this evening. The kiss goes on, and becomes pretty sensual. Kinda sexy to an outside observer. He seems to be copying my lead, trying to learn from me, but considering the vast majority of my hookups have been drunken, sloppy, and unexpected, I can’t imagine I’m a great tutor. But he’s learning. As the kiss continues, it actually becomes downright romantic.
We exit the dance floor, and make out near the bar for what’s gotta be like half an hour. Persistent boy has won me over. But as the clock approaches 5am, I decide its time for Cinderella to go home. He wants to continue, move forwards, but I stop him. If I’m right about him, he’s pretty innocent. If I were in his shoes, I’d rather take it nice and slow. It’s my good deed of the week.
Take the bus home, we go our separate ways. Despite being on public transportation, I sneak in a goodnight kiss before his stop. As I walk home from mine with a case of self-imposed blue balls, I laugh a little. I intended to go to The Beat to meet new people, and I end up with the one I knew already. But I have to wonder if anything can come of this. We don’t seem to have much in common, besides raging hormones. Hell, I have trouble even understanding what he says most of the time. But maybe I should try. Perhaps take a chance, or put in some effort. I might be pleasantly surprised.
He’s sloppy and inexperienced, but enthusiastic, so I go along with it. I want to stop soon enough, but I have reason to believe he’s new at this. Call me a nice guy, but I don’t want to make the boy feel cheap or used. I’d rather it feel good and special. So I persist.
Eventually, alcohol interfering with time perception, I break it off, and decide to look for my original friend. We find him playing a bizarro-world version of pool with a pack of bull dykes. He’s getting his ass kicked. French boy is all over me, and he appears to have gotten pretty attached pretty fast. I fear the clingy types, they me nervous. Luckily, a strange boy I’d never met or even seen before walks right up to me and gropes me for a good 30 seconds before walking off, never saying a word. Did my non-reluctance send a message? When he goes for a piss, I ask our friendly neighborhood bulldyke for advice. She tells me to tell it to him like it is.
Instead, we return to The Wickham, and promptly lose the guy who invited me. For a short while, it’s just me and The French. The floor is far more crowded this time, but its all older bear-types, and they’re starting to disrobe. By luck, we come across a pair of guys we’d talked to on the way in. They tell me Amsterdam has decided to ban pot smoking, and we get into a heated debate in which we all actually agree. I believe that requires alcohol, which I bum plenty of for free. The French is basically left out of the conversation as I try and see if I can get pot, pills, or sex from these guys. Instead, I get a phone number and the hint of potential in the future.
Back to The Beat. I look up, and The Village People are playing on a TV screen. This is too obvious, so I move on. I get more to drink, and bum more freebies, and my total gets pretty high. Allow me to explain:
I started pregaming on 2 beers. Then had what I believe 3 vodka bitters, but it could’ve been 4. Then a vodka and red bull at Wickham. 2 more vodka bitters at The Beat. Back at Wickham, I poached the latter half of someone's Smirnoff Black, then got one of my own. Then another beer. Then poached the second half of someone's vodka and red bull. And back at The Beat again, the latter half of someone else's beer. And the latter half of yet another Smirnoff Black. I'm enjoying the free booze.
Anyway, I challenge The French to a contest. Who can dance with the most strangers. Again, I’m hoping this sends a clear message. I take an early lead, but he accuses me of cheating when I dance with a bisexual girl. She takes it upon herself to teach me to dance. It never works.
I rediscover our original friend breakdancing on the floor with his shirt off. Whatever.
Somehow our contest has ended, and we’re dancing together again. Somehow we’re making out again. Somehow, I like it. I suppose I’m enjoying that he’s so into me, but it could just be the excessive drinking this evening. The kiss goes on, and becomes pretty sensual. Kinda sexy to an outside observer. He seems to be copying my lead, trying to learn from me, but considering the vast majority of my hookups have been drunken, sloppy, and unexpected, I can’t imagine I’m a great tutor. But he’s learning. As the kiss continues, it actually becomes downright romantic.
We exit the dance floor, and make out near the bar for what’s gotta be like half an hour. Persistent boy has won me over. But as the clock approaches 5am, I decide its time for Cinderella to go home. He wants to continue, move forwards, but I stop him. If I’m right about him, he’s pretty innocent. If I were in his shoes, I’d rather take it nice and slow. It’s my good deed of the week.
Take the bus home, we go our separate ways. Despite being on public transportation, I sneak in a goodnight kiss before his stop. As I walk home from mine with a case of self-imposed blue balls, I laugh a little. I intended to go to The Beat to meet new people, and I end up with the one I knew already. But I have to wonder if anything can come of this. We don’t seem to have much in common, besides raging hormones. Hell, I have trouble even understanding what he says most of the time. But maybe I should try. Perhaps take a chance, or put in some effort. I might be pleasantly surprised.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Dance to The Beat (pt 1)
This post is so long, I decided to break it in half. I swear this is not a transparent attempt to increase my post count and cover up the fact that I’m running short on ideas.
Also, I don’t know what the future holds, but I bet it involves having my blog discovered. I write [well wrote, a few days ago, but still unedited] this as I get back, still basically drunk and enjoying shortbread cookies. So read through entirely, involved parties, before drawing judgment.
Yesterday was my first taste of the Valley. Bus took us to a neutral club, but me and my friend decided to go exploring. The Family was closed, The Zoo had a $45 cover charge to see the band. The day before, OK GO came out to pay them a visit. Luckily, I’d already seen them for free.
We pass The Beat. After reading about it in Sushi Central, I knew it was only a matter of time. It was inevitable really. I suggest to my friend that we go in, and tell him point-blank that it’s a gay bar. But he’s interested anyway, because after waiting 30 minutes per drink at Birdee’s, he wouldn’t mind the shorter wait.
But he doesn’t want to pay the $7 cover charge, so we don’t go in. As we walk down the city, I discover he’s actually a deep well of religion-induced homophobia. Yet so willing to visit a gay bar. I don’t bother analyzing Mr. Haggard. I settle on returning a different day.
Turns out a different day was actually the next day. I get a call from the gay boy I met during orientation (no, not the MC), and he invites me out with him, his boyfriend, and that French guy I met once too.
We pay his house a visit, and pregame. Turns out he also loves vodka bitters. They’re pretty good, and I enjoy them for free.
Turns out we actually start at The Wickham, the other gay club. It’s pretty empty, but the drink specials are nice. I consider trying to get someone else to buy me a drink, but flirting with a sketchy old stranger isn’t worth the hassle. After a beer, I decide to take a piss. Each urinal has its own personal aquarium, and is bordered by complimentary mirrors to check out your neighbor’s junk. I enjoy the fish.
The bar itself was pretty normal, with only the music being noticeably gay. Hell, I even spot a heterosexual kiss in the corner. It’s like I’ve just beaten “Where’s Waldo?”
Off to The Beat. Is it anything like Sushi Central?
Well, not really. In fact, the first floor is a heavy metal straight bar. The light show nearly induces late-onset epilepsy. However, I’ve heard there’s no better place, except maybe The Family, to satiate all your illegal needs. Maybe later. We head upstairs, which was the sexing place in the book. It’s not, but we’re greeted by a bar-within-a-bar called Crystals. I can only assume this is intentional. Sad epithet, if you ask me.
Passing Crystals, walking past the terrace where the smokers are penned up, and to another bar and dance floor. More to drink, but I’ll sum it later. I try to dance, but we all know already that I cannot. At least 3 people have tried to fix me so far, and at least two more will before the night is over. The music sucks, American reject trash like Backstreet Boys and Pink mixed with local crap techno. The bartenders are wearing belly shirts and showing off their flabby hairy midriffs. And no Kylie Minogue in earshot.
Next to me, a man sniffs poppers right on the dance floor. I had believed this only to occur in Queer As Folk. I was wrong. So I return to Crystals with the French boy. Maybe we’ll have a revolution.
Well, that’s one way to put it. We’re dancing. He grabs my wrists and tries to lead me along. I’m pretty miserable at it. Somehow he gets me into a compromising position. Somehow his tongue is in my mouth.
And I leave you to a cliffhanger.
Also, I don’t know what the future holds, but I bet it involves having my blog discovered. I write [well wrote, a few days ago, but still unedited] this as I get back, still basically drunk and enjoying shortbread cookies. So read through entirely, involved parties, before drawing judgment.
Yesterday was my first taste of the Valley. Bus took us to a neutral club, but me and my friend decided to go exploring. The Family was closed, The Zoo had a $45 cover charge to see the band. The day before, OK GO came out to pay them a visit. Luckily, I’d already seen them for free.
We pass The Beat. After reading about it in Sushi Central, I knew it was only a matter of time. It was inevitable really. I suggest to my friend that we go in, and tell him point-blank that it’s a gay bar. But he’s interested anyway, because after waiting 30 minutes per drink at Birdee’s, he wouldn’t mind the shorter wait.
But he doesn’t want to pay the $7 cover charge, so we don’t go in. As we walk down the city, I discover he’s actually a deep well of religion-induced homophobia. Yet so willing to visit a gay bar. I don’t bother analyzing Mr. Haggard. I settle on returning a different day.
Turns out a different day was actually the next day. I get a call from the gay boy I met during orientation (no, not the MC), and he invites me out with him, his boyfriend, and that French guy I met once too.
We pay his house a visit, and pregame. Turns out he also loves vodka bitters. They’re pretty good, and I enjoy them for free.
Turns out we actually start at The Wickham, the other gay club. It’s pretty empty, but the drink specials are nice. I consider trying to get someone else to buy me a drink, but flirting with a sketchy old stranger isn’t worth the hassle. After a beer, I decide to take a piss. Each urinal has its own personal aquarium, and is bordered by complimentary mirrors to check out your neighbor’s junk. I enjoy the fish.
The bar itself was pretty normal, with only the music being noticeably gay. Hell, I even spot a heterosexual kiss in the corner. It’s like I’ve just beaten “Where’s Waldo?”
Off to The Beat. Is it anything like Sushi Central?
Well, not really. In fact, the first floor is a heavy metal straight bar. The light show nearly induces late-onset epilepsy. However, I’ve heard there’s no better place, except maybe The Family, to satiate all your illegal needs. Maybe later. We head upstairs, which was the sexing place in the book. It’s not, but we’re greeted by a bar-within-a-bar called Crystals. I can only assume this is intentional. Sad epithet, if you ask me.
Passing Crystals, walking past the terrace where the smokers are penned up, and to another bar and dance floor. More to drink, but I’ll sum it later. I try to dance, but we all know already that I cannot. At least 3 people have tried to fix me so far, and at least two more will before the night is over. The music sucks, American reject trash like Backstreet Boys and Pink mixed with local crap techno. The bartenders are wearing belly shirts and showing off their flabby hairy midriffs. And no Kylie Minogue in earshot.
Next to me, a man sniffs poppers right on the dance floor. I had believed this only to occur in Queer As Folk. I was wrong. So I return to Crystals with the French boy. Maybe we’ll have a revolution.
Well, that’s one way to put it. We’re dancing. He grabs my wrists and tries to lead me along. I’m pretty miserable at it. Somehow he gets me into a compromising position. Somehow his tongue is in my mouth.
And I leave you to a cliffhanger.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
The Warden's Dogs
The Warden is the head of our res-college. Think RCD. He can be quite the stern man. Tall, but with quite the noticeable paunch, the Anglican priest and famous ethicist leads our formal dinners without mercy. Most nights, it’s a speech criticizing our lack of initiative or “only average” grades, or the broken glass outside the college bar (Really, what does he expect at a bar?). Until now, the only time I’d even spoken with him was when he demanded I tuck in my shirt. Then I found his dog.
On my way to the supermarket for another Tim-Tam Orgasm, I find SLU boy playing with a remarkably familiar dog. But I’m not surprised he found the dog, IDed it, and started playing with it. The boy is a cross between a Boy Scout and Steve Irwin, and I mean that in the best way.
Turns out I was right. The dog does in fact belong to the Warden. I knew I’d seen it before. Last time, it was hungrily lapping fungus out of a tree hollow. Now it was wandering into town. Plainly, this dog is smart.
Well, maybe it is. We lead it back to the college with no effort. It just follows us, like we’re a pair of pedophiles with candy, looking stupid and wanting to play. But we coax it home without incident.
The Warden is overjoyed to have his precious pet returned. He greets it with endearing yet awfully juxtaposed baby talk, then does the same to us. He then decides to tell us all about his dog, and show us multiple websites extolling the virtues (including intelligence) of Short Haired Spaniels. I’d be bored to tears if I wasn’t fascinated by his 180, but I listen politely out of fear of being invited to the High Table at next formal dinner.
Apparently, this isn’t his first short-haired. They’ve been in his family since he was an infant, and this makes 5. Most can companies only dream about such brand loyalty. But here’s the disturbing part. His previous pooch has a ridiculous life-size statue, plaque (“a gift from god…”) and shrine outside the cafeteria. I knew this already, and already commented on the insane narcissism of it. What I didn’t and wish I still didn’t know, is that the hound is interred under that bronze statue and shrine. In the middle of the footpath, right outside the cafeteria.
I wish he’d go back to yelling at me. That wasn’t scary.
On my way to the supermarket for another Tim-Tam Orgasm, I find SLU boy playing with a remarkably familiar dog. But I’m not surprised he found the dog, IDed it, and started playing with it. The boy is a cross between a Boy Scout and Steve Irwin, and I mean that in the best way.
Turns out I was right. The dog does in fact belong to the Warden. I knew I’d seen it before. Last time, it was hungrily lapping fungus out of a tree hollow. Now it was wandering into town. Plainly, this dog is smart.
Well, maybe it is. We lead it back to the college with no effort. It just follows us, like we’re a pair of pedophiles with candy, looking stupid and wanting to play. But we coax it home without incident.
The Warden is overjoyed to have his precious pet returned. He greets it with endearing yet awfully juxtaposed baby talk, then does the same to us. He then decides to tell us all about his dog, and show us multiple websites extolling the virtues (including intelligence) of Short Haired Spaniels. I’d be bored to tears if I wasn’t fascinated by his 180, but I listen politely out of fear of being invited to the High Table at next formal dinner.
Apparently, this isn’t his first short-haired. They’ve been in his family since he was an infant, and this makes 5. Most can companies only dream about such brand loyalty. But here’s the disturbing part. His previous pooch has a ridiculous life-size statue, plaque (“a gift from god…”) and shrine outside the cafeteria. I knew this already, and already commented on the insane narcissism of it. What I didn’t and wish I still didn’t know, is that the hound is interred under that bronze statue and shrine. In the middle of the footpath, right outside the cafeteria.
I wish he’d go back to yelling at me. That wasn’t scary.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Invasive Testing
There’s a funny thing about Australia. Despite setting in a continent bristling with all things poisonous, they’re rather timid. I wouldn’t have expected the home of the Great Barrier Reef to be pussies about diving.
That, or they’re milking me for all I’m worth.
Before I can take my 400 dollar diving class (and buy the 100 dollars in gear), I needed an 80 dollar check-up. Not covered by insurance.
Only one doctor is qualified to give a dive medical. Turns out, he’s head of University Health Services. The man is basically Alan Glass in every way. I’m curious to find out if he’s like Dr. Glass in that way, but I refrain.
“Don’t worry, I won’t check for drugs.” followed by a wink. It’s starting to seem like everyone I encounter is a closet stoner.
I was given a checklist when I booked my appointment, asking me about anything medical-related I can come up with. I answered honestly. However, the doctor felt compelled to re-ask me every question. My gift was to ask him to explain everything. Probably doubled the appointment time, but made me feel both educated and self-satisfied for wasting his time.
I also learned that even in scuba diving, there’s a surprising level of anxiety over HIV. If your gums are bleeding, and your partner’s gums are bleeding, and you’re far below the surface, and his air runs out, and your secondary respirator is broken and you need to share a mouthpiece… The fear must be paralyzing.
Q&A over, I lie on the table for the physical exam. Prodding me all over with cold fingers and metal, I develop a deep sympathy for women. I never require a gynecological exam.
The doctor is in the middle of explaining the dangers of anxiety while diving to me, when he decides to bust out a two foot long rubber spike and rest it between my legs. Suddenly I’m anxious.
But it’s just an unnecessarily huge patella hammer. I shouldn’t have had such a knee-jerk reaction.
Dear readers, I have an experiment for you to try. Take your shoes off. Stand up, and stand heel to toe, like a sobriety test. Cross your arms over your chest, and close your eyes. Now balance there for a minute. It’s harder than you think.
Side thought: If you’ve ever had a urine exam, have you ever been tempted to bring back a different bodily fluid in the cup? “Oh, I’m sorry sir, I must’ve misheard you!”
Anyway, a piss in a cup and a hearing exam later, it’s time for the last test. Lung capacity: how much air can I hold in my lungs, and how fast can I expel it? Well, I must have done well, because he tells me I blow nice and hard. So Alan Glass. He also tells me I have somewhat small lungs, but that doesn’t make me any less of a man. Maybe I should prove it to him.
I believe I passed the exam. Despite small lungs, he says I’m in great health and pretty spot-on blood pressure. Flattery will get you everywhere. Can I get my certificate now?
Well, no. Apparently I need a chest x-ray. Completely unnecessary, but if you’ve got some scarring in your lungs, they can pop like a faulty balloon under pressure. And as I’d found out from my earlier inquisition, chicken pox can scar your lungs. So now its time for an x-ray?
Well, no. University Health Services is too cheap for an x-ray machine. I need to bus it over to Indooroopilly (try saying that 10 times fast) and get it from them tomorrow. Also not covered by insurance; another 70 on top. At this rate, I may run out of liquid assets before I even touch water.
That, or they’re milking me for all I’m worth.
Before I can take my 400 dollar diving class (and buy the 100 dollars in gear), I needed an 80 dollar check-up. Not covered by insurance.
Only one doctor is qualified to give a dive medical. Turns out, he’s head of University Health Services. The man is basically Alan Glass in every way. I’m curious to find out if he’s like Dr. Glass in that way, but I refrain.
“Don’t worry, I won’t check for drugs.” followed by a wink. It’s starting to seem like everyone I encounter is a closet stoner.
I was given a checklist when I booked my appointment, asking me about anything medical-related I can come up with. I answered honestly. However, the doctor felt compelled to re-ask me every question. My gift was to ask him to explain everything. Probably doubled the appointment time, but made me feel both educated and self-satisfied for wasting his time.
I also learned that even in scuba diving, there’s a surprising level of anxiety over HIV. If your gums are bleeding, and your partner’s gums are bleeding, and you’re far below the surface, and his air runs out, and your secondary respirator is broken and you need to share a mouthpiece… The fear must be paralyzing.
Q&A over, I lie on the table for the physical exam. Prodding me all over with cold fingers and metal, I develop a deep sympathy for women. I never require a gynecological exam.
The doctor is in the middle of explaining the dangers of anxiety while diving to me, when he decides to bust out a two foot long rubber spike and rest it between my legs. Suddenly I’m anxious.
But it’s just an unnecessarily huge patella hammer. I shouldn’t have had such a knee-jerk reaction.
Dear readers, I have an experiment for you to try. Take your shoes off. Stand up, and stand heel to toe, like a sobriety test. Cross your arms over your chest, and close your eyes. Now balance there for a minute. It’s harder than you think.
Side thought: If you’ve ever had a urine exam, have you ever been tempted to bring back a different bodily fluid in the cup? “Oh, I’m sorry sir, I must’ve misheard you!”
Anyway, a piss in a cup and a hearing exam later, it’s time for the last test. Lung capacity: how much air can I hold in my lungs, and how fast can I expel it? Well, I must have done well, because he tells me I blow nice and hard. So Alan Glass. He also tells me I have somewhat small lungs, but that doesn’t make me any less of a man. Maybe I should prove it to him.
I believe I passed the exam. Despite small lungs, he says I’m in great health and pretty spot-on blood pressure. Flattery will get you everywhere. Can I get my certificate now?
Well, no. Apparently I need a chest x-ray. Completely unnecessary, but if you’ve got some scarring in your lungs, they can pop like a faulty balloon under pressure. And as I’d found out from my earlier inquisition, chicken pox can scar your lungs. So now its time for an x-ray?
Well, no. University Health Services is too cheap for an x-ray machine. I need to bus it over to Indooroopilly (try saying that 10 times fast) and get it from them tomorrow. Also not covered by insurance; another 70 on top. At this rate, I may run out of liquid assets before I even touch water.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Little Green Monster
Because this is Australia, it seems my adventures in wildlife are neverending.
Walking home from class, the sun is already setting. I’m knocking my fist on the hollow poles that line the path, and relishing the hollow metallic echo it makes. But as I wind up for the next pitch, something makes me stop short. A speck of green on the top of the short pole.
I go in for a closer look. It’s something quite foreign to me; a crazed cross between a spider and a scorpion, with an unusual tail that I can’t match to either. Bright flashy green, with a bulging brown eye in the center of its head. Quasimodo in the flesh (chitin, really).
I grab for my camera. It’s nowhere to be found. Cursing my naïve assumption that I wouldn’t see anything cool. There isn’t a day that goes by that I didn’t wish I had my camera handy. Instead, I settle on the vastly inferior cameraphone. This creature must be documented, in the name of science.
Seeing as your average cameraphone has no zoom, I slowly inched closer and closer towards the beast. Held my breath. Prayed I wouldn’t spook it off before I got the moneyshot. Clearly, I had the wrong fear.
Without warning, it pounced on me. Hopped a good 50 times its own body length, and right onto my hand. Reared up. AHHHHHHHH! Before it could strike (I hope), I shook my wrist like the world’s most camp flamer, with Parkinson’s, having a seizure. Did a little full-body jig. I didn’t see where, or if, the centimeter-long fiend flew. It could’ve very well crawled into my collar, like that mutated alien bee crawled in Scully’s collar in that remarkably shitty feature-length X-Files movie.
Then I took a deep breath, and walked home. I’m probably fine. Or maybe I’ll collapse from a slow acting neurotoxin during dinner. A comedic final faceplant into what is inevitably pumpkin soup (as it is every night). Exit, stage left.
Walking home from class, the sun is already setting. I’m knocking my fist on the hollow poles that line the path, and relishing the hollow metallic echo it makes. But as I wind up for the next pitch, something makes me stop short. A speck of green on the top of the short pole.
I go in for a closer look. It’s something quite foreign to me; a crazed cross between a spider and a scorpion, with an unusual tail that I can’t match to either. Bright flashy green, with a bulging brown eye in the center of its head. Quasimodo in the flesh (chitin, really).
I grab for my camera. It’s nowhere to be found. Cursing my naïve assumption that I wouldn’t see anything cool. There isn’t a day that goes by that I didn’t wish I had my camera handy. Instead, I settle on the vastly inferior cameraphone. This creature must be documented, in the name of science.
Seeing as your average cameraphone has no zoom, I slowly inched closer and closer towards the beast. Held my breath. Prayed I wouldn’t spook it off before I got the moneyshot. Clearly, I had the wrong fear.
Without warning, it pounced on me. Hopped a good 50 times its own body length, and right onto my hand. Reared up. AHHHHHHHH! Before it could strike (I hope), I shook my wrist like the world’s most camp flamer, with Parkinson’s, having a seizure. Did a little full-body jig. I didn’t see where, or if, the centimeter-long fiend flew. It could’ve very well crawled into my collar, like that mutated alien bee crawled in Scully’s collar in that remarkably shitty feature-length X-Files movie.
Then I took a deep breath, and walked home. I’m probably fine. Or maybe I’ll collapse from a slow acting neurotoxin during dinner. A comedic final faceplant into what is inevitably pumpkin soup (as it is every night). Exit, stage left.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
My Dead Gecko
My Dead Gecko
I’d heard rumors: Geckos were invading. All over campus, little geckos. Hiding in crevices, under rocks, in your bed. I needed to find one. So one evening, I grabbed my trusty headlamp (next to the lube) and started hunting. With the exception of a half-retarded possum I found nothing.
On a side note, you may be wondering how I knew the possum suffers from trisomy. Well, I know animals aren’t rocket scientists, but I’m pretty sure when you peek around a small pole, I’m still going to be there. Don’t be so shocked. And if you fall for it the first time, don’t return to the original side and freak out again. Blows your little fuckin marsupial mind, doesn’t it?
Anyway, a few days later, I try again, with no luck. So I go, dejected, to pay my friend a visit. As I’m walking up the stairwell to his floor, I happen to peak out the small window, where I am confronted by the underside and cloacae (that’s the combined vagina and asshole, for you laymen) of my desired quarry. I dash back to my room for a camera, but I need not have bothered. The lazy slut didn’t move an inch. So I snap some photos, then go around to the outside and try to scale the building. Clearly I am not a gecko. This plan was rather half-baked. I managed to haul myself onto the window ledge, and the little asshole scampered away. Just then, an underclassmen trudges up the stairs. We lock eyes through the glass. He mouthed what appeared to be “shut the truck?”, and walked off.
Satiated for the moment, I give up my quest. A few days pass. I go to town for a late dinner, and nonchalantly stroll through my door. I discover to my horror a small gecko poised above my bed, ready to strike. Thank god I saw it first. Instead, I grab the first convenient object I find, a shoebox, and catch the gallivanting varmint.
I need a way to seal my catch. I grab something else, a thick manila envelope stuffed with my bathroom reading (the orientation bullshit). I jam it between the wall and the box, and I know he’s mine.
With clever thinking, I grab a plastic bag, and stretch it over the opening. A window, if you will. Of course, I leave some airspace so it can breath. Then I pull away the manila shield.
It’s resting, quite calmly, on the inside wall of the box. I peel back the plastic, and take a quick photo. The bright flash startles… no wait, it doesn’t move. I take away the plastic. It stands still. I poke it. It doesn’t move. Just then, I notice the small streak of blood. My gecko is dead.
The neck is dark with blood and crooked at a weird angle. I must’ve accidentally broken its neck with the thick folder. Atleast it was a quick and likely painful end. A small tinge of guilt runs through me; I’m not the animal-maiming sadist people think I am. But I wont let it go completely to waste. These are close-ups I wont be able to get again.
Gingerly, I grab its tail, and try to pull it off the side. Like any good gecko, it’s stuck even after death. So I yank harder to release its legs from the box’s grasp. The monster twitches. Fearing the sudden rise of the living dead, I quickly drop it. It makes a perfect land on one of the box flaps, its head peaking over the edge in a freakishly natural pose. Except for its dead tongue lolling out of its mouth.
A few photos later, it’s time to say goodbye. I simply close the box lid, and carry it away. My neighbor, who came in to witness the funeral, asked me if I had any words. I said simply, “I’m sorry.”
But I wasn’t. I’m a biologist, but I’m not a hippie. My entire summer job consisted of gassing innocent moths. You’d think as a Jew, I’d know better. There was some guilt, sure, but the pleasure of having unprecedented close views of a creature that would normally scamper away at the first sight of me far outweighs any guilt. This is why I choose plastic over paper and take long luxurious showers. I’m not a fucking hippie, I’m a biologist. I don’t do it for the world, I do it for myself.
I’d heard rumors: Geckos were invading. All over campus, little geckos. Hiding in crevices, under rocks, in your bed. I needed to find one. So one evening, I grabbed my trusty headlamp (next to the lube) and started hunting. With the exception of a half-retarded possum I found nothing.
On a side note, you may be wondering how I knew the possum suffers from trisomy. Well, I know animals aren’t rocket scientists, but I’m pretty sure when you peek around a small pole, I’m still going to be there. Don’t be so shocked. And if you fall for it the first time, don’t return to the original side and freak out again. Blows your little fuckin marsupial mind, doesn’t it?
Anyway, a few days later, I try again, with no luck. So I go, dejected, to pay my friend a visit. As I’m walking up the stairwell to his floor, I happen to peak out the small window, where I am confronted by the underside and cloacae (that’s the combined vagina and asshole, for you laymen) of my desired quarry. I dash back to my room for a camera, but I need not have bothered. The lazy slut didn’t move an inch. So I snap some photos, then go around to the outside and try to scale the building. Clearly I am not a gecko. This plan was rather half-baked. I managed to haul myself onto the window ledge, and the little asshole scampered away. Just then, an underclassmen trudges up the stairs. We lock eyes through the glass. He mouthed what appeared to be “shut the truck?”, and walked off.
Satiated for the moment, I give up my quest. A few days pass. I go to town for a late dinner, and nonchalantly stroll through my door. I discover to my horror a small gecko poised above my bed, ready to strike. Thank god I saw it first. Instead, I grab the first convenient object I find, a shoebox, and catch the gallivanting varmint.
I need a way to seal my catch. I grab something else, a thick manila envelope stuffed with my bathroom reading (the orientation bullshit). I jam it between the wall and the box, and I know he’s mine.
With clever thinking, I grab a plastic bag, and stretch it over the opening. A window, if you will. Of course, I leave some airspace so it can breath. Then I pull away the manila shield.
It’s resting, quite calmly, on the inside wall of the box. I peel back the plastic, and take a quick photo. The bright flash startles… no wait, it doesn’t move. I take away the plastic. It stands still. I poke it. It doesn’t move. Just then, I notice the small streak of blood. My gecko is dead.
The neck is dark with blood and crooked at a weird angle. I must’ve accidentally broken its neck with the thick folder. Atleast it was a quick and likely painful end. A small tinge of guilt runs through me; I’m not the animal-maiming sadist people think I am. But I wont let it go completely to waste. These are close-ups I wont be able to get again.
Gingerly, I grab its tail, and try to pull it off the side. Like any good gecko, it’s stuck even after death. So I yank harder to release its legs from the box’s grasp. The monster twitches. Fearing the sudden rise of the living dead, I quickly drop it. It makes a perfect land on one of the box flaps, its head peaking over the edge in a freakishly natural pose. Except for its dead tongue lolling out of its mouth.
A few photos later, it’s time to say goodbye. I simply close the box lid, and carry it away. My neighbor, who came in to witness the funeral, asked me if I had any words. I said simply, “I’m sorry.”
But I wasn’t. I’m a biologist, but I’m not a hippie. My entire summer job consisted of gassing innocent moths. You’d think as a Jew, I’d know better. There was some guilt, sure, but the pleasure of having unprecedented close views of a creature that would normally scamper away at the first sight of me far outweighs any guilt. This is why I choose plastic over paper and take long luxurious showers. I’m not a fucking hippie, I’m a biologist. I don’t do it for the world, I do it for myself.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Tolerance
Australia is hell on my wallet. Food is expensive, water is through the roof. Hobbies like scuba diving can be hundreds if not thousands of dollars. But worst of all is alcohol.
Now, few are proud of being a lightweight. It’s just not something to gloat about. But it makes drinking cheap. There are been nights that 4 drinks, if quick enough, are enough.
Well, now I come here. Fun experience the second night. 4 glasses of Australia’s famous boxed wine, followed by 4 pints of Australia’s famous bottom-self beer. I threw up in the Regatta’s pretty new-age bathroom. The sink, naturally.
Now, I’ve had alittle more experience under my belt. Starting on arrival, I’ve drank Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Sunday, and Monday. That’s probably more drinking than I did all of last semester. Thanks, dry friends.
So the last time I was in the Regatta, I made their sink messy. This time, I hoped to not repeat. And I had a plan, specifically to avoid the boxed wine. So, one vodka tonic, two jagerbombs, two Smirnoff Black, two vodka/lime/bitter, another jagerbomb, and another vodka tonic later, I’m not even drunk. Hell, barely tipsy. Though, I must’ve been drunk enough to not realize the jagerbombs were 8 bucks each.
Herein lies the problem. My drinking habits are probably no the most frugal, and it’s not cheap, no matter how you slice it. Each afternoon I go to the ATM, and after drinking and lunch the next day, its gone. 40 bucks a pop, almost $400 in just 2 weeks. Put in perspective, that’s about 3000 dollars by the end of the semester. Just on eating and drinking. I haven’t even reached scuba diving yet, which is around 500 for gear and certification.
See why it’s great to be a lightweight? God, I miss it.
I know I can’t keep this up. Maybe food prices won’t go down, and maybe jagerbombs will still be 8 bucks, but there’s one simple trick I can try: Go out less. The fact is, I’m drinking against my will. I’m glad I took the weekend off from drinking; I’ve never been so disinclined for beer as I was on Thursday and Friday. Except maybe beer pong with Natural Light.
But I’m compelled to go out. Everyone else in my college is. I’m the new Seppo here, and I don’t know anything or anybody. If I want to make friends, I need to go out and find them, and they’re at the bar. I hope that after a few more weeks, it’ll settle down, and just be 1 or 2 nights a week. Lazy drinking, just like the good ol’ USA. Because at the end of the day, I’d trade all this booze in just for one or two solid friends from home.
Now, few are proud of being a lightweight. It’s just not something to gloat about. But it makes drinking cheap. There are been nights that 4 drinks, if quick enough, are enough.
Well, now I come here. Fun experience the second night. 4 glasses of Australia’s famous boxed wine, followed by 4 pints of Australia’s famous bottom-self beer. I threw up in the Regatta’s pretty new-age bathroom. The sink, naturally.
Now, I’ve had alittle more experience under my belt. Starting on arrival, I’ve drank Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Sunday, and Monday. That’s probably more drinking than I did all of last semester. Thanks, dry friends.
So the last time I was in the Regatta, I made their sink messy. This time, I hoped to not repeat. And I had a plan, specifically to avoid the boxed wine. So, one vodka tonic, two jagerbombs, two Smirnoff Black, two vodka/lime/bitter, another jagerbomb, and another vodka tonic later, I’m not even drunk. Hell, barely tipsy. Though, I must’ve been drunk enough to not realize the jagerbombs were 8 bucks each.
Herein lies the problem. My drinking habits are probably no the most frugal, and it’s not cheap, no matter how you slice it. Each afternoon I go to the ATM, and after drinking and lunch the next day, its gone. 40 bucks a pop, almost $400 in just 2 weeks. Put in perspective, that’s about 3000 dollars by the end of the semester. Just on eating and drinking. I haven’t even reached scuba diving yet, which is around 500 for gear and certification.
See why it’s great to be a lightweight? God, I miss it.
I know I can’t keep this up. Maybe food prices won’t go down, and maybe jagerbombs will still be 8 bucks, but there’s one simple trick I can try: Go out less. The fact is, I’m drinking against my will. I’m glad I took the weekend off from drinking; I’ve never been so disinclined for beer as I was on Thursday and Friday. Except maybe beer pong with Natural Light.
But I’m compelled to go out. Everyone else in my college is. I’m the new Seppo here, and I don’t know anything or anybody. If I want to make friends, I need to go out and find them, and they’re at the bar. I hope that after a few more weeks, it’ll settle down, and just be 1 or 2 nights a week. Lazy drinking, just like the good ol’ USA. Because at the end of the day, I’d trade all this booze in just for one or two solid friends from home.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
It's Actually Not Herpes
I have a cut on the corner of my mouth. It looks like herpes. But nah, its just a cut. Unfortunately, its place near a moving part makes it nigh-impossible for the scab to heal on its own. This has happened before, and the solution is easy. Just put some Neosporin on it. But, of course, it’s never that simple around here.
I go down to the local chemist, because calling it a pharmacy would be too obvious. Search around first aid, but find nothing. I ask the pharmacist where I’d fine topical antibiotics, and he points me towards sexual health. Not what I had in mind. However, I do contemplate buying a lambskin condom while I’m here.
I go to the counter, and ask the man if he has some Neosporin. He says ‘Yes’, and smiles at me. I can’t tell if the smile is vapid or sinister. Not in the mood to play games, I ask him if I can have some. “Yes… if you get a prescription.”
Again, I find myself staring at someone behind a counter dumbfounded. What the hell? “A prescription… Neosporin requires a prescription?”
“Oh yes,” he says. “You must be from America. Neosporin is prescription here. On the plus side, you can get codeine over the counter.”
Blink, blink, walk out.
Next day, I trudge over to Student Health Services. I have no intention of getting a prescription, but I bet I can bum free samples. Of course, it’s never that simple. They don’t have any, but can pencil me for an appointment in three days. The nurse is fat and angry; I believe she wants to give me the Hansel treatment.
She suggests I try the only OTC around, some iodine cream. So it’s back to the chemist. We all know chemistry can’t work magic, but you’d think they could at least not make it brown. If it didn’t look like I had herpes before, it does now.
I finally get my prescription, without any hassle. Except for the past few days. But I take my beautiful piece of paper and walk down to the pharmacy. I confidently hand it to the woman behind the counter, and she looks at me like I have two heads. Or herpes.
“Neosporin? We haven’t carried that in years!”
On the plus side, I can get codeine over the counter. For the fourth time since arriving, I strongly consider getting addicted to substances. Is this a goal of mine? Ah well, aim high.
I go down to the local chemist, because calling it a pharmacy would be too obvious. Search around first aid, but find nothing. I ask the pharmacist where I’d fine topical antibiotics, and he points me towards sexual health. Not what I had in mind. However, I do contemplate buying a lambskin condom while I’m here.
I go to the counter, and ask the man if he has some Neosporin. He says ‘Yes’, and smiles at me. I can’t tell if the smile is vapid or sinister. Not in the mood to play games, I ask him if I can have some. “Yes… if you get a prescription.”
Again, I find myself staring at someone behind a counter dumbfounded. What the hell? “A prescription… Neosporin requires a prescription?”
“Oh yes,” he says. “You must be from America. Neosporin is prescription here. On the plus side, you can get codeine over the counter.”
Blink, blink, walk out.
Next day, I trudge over to Student Health Services. I have no intention of getting a prescription, but I bet I can bum free samples. Of course, it’s never that simple. They don’t have any, but can pencil me for an appointment in three days. The nurse is fat and angry; I believe she wants to give me the Hansel treatment.
She suggests I try the only OTC around, some iodine cream. So it’s back to the chemist. We all know chemistry can’t work magic, but you’d think they could at least not make it brown. If it didn’t look like I had herpes before, it does now.
I finally get my prescription, without any hassle. Except for the past few days. But I take my beautiful piece of paper and walk down to the pharmacy. I confidently hand it to the woman behind the counter, and she looks at me like I have two heads. Or herpes.
“Neosporin? We haven’t carried that in years!”
On the plus side, I can get codeine over the counter. For the fourth time since arriving, I strongly consider getting addicted to substances. Is this a goal of mine? Ah well, aim high.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
My Eyebrow
I woke up around lunchtime a week ago, and decided to get a piercing. It was done in time for dinner. Considering a Prince Albert was basically out of the question, it was a matter of eyebrow or upper ear. But since I’m not one of those masochistic fucks who pierces for the pain, it was an easy choice.
Now, I didn’t have any grandiose reasons. If you want a piercing to fit in, they’re not universal enough, but if you’re trying to get a piercing to stand out, they’re too common. You can always do what I did and get it on the wrong eyebrow, but that’s neither here nor there.
Nor is it easy to rebel against parents who if you call on a Monday morning, ask you if you’re hung over or got laid last night.
Point is, I had a mental itch, and I scratched it. It was quick, painless, and only a brief intermission before my return to drinking. Irish tour group, specifically. I think it looks rather nice, but you can judge for yourself.
Wouldn’t it be nice if that were where the story ended?
It seems my face started to swell, and was slowly eating the piercing. Slightly unnerving sight. So I go back down to the store and see what they can do for me.
An older, proper looking gentleman, about my father’s age, was sitting on a bench. As I walk in, he’s called into the operation booth by a woman who would not survive an MRI. She holds out a cloth, and tells him “put this around your waist”. My imagination runs wild, and I wish it didn’t.
A few minutes later, they seat me back on the same chair as last week. “Amanda will be with you in a few minutes. She’s in the middle of a double nipple, and will help you when she finishes the right.” I wonder what happens if a woman with a nipple ring tries to breast feed her child. Will it squirt out of three holes?
Amanda happens to be 63, is half American and half Australian, and is pierced through basically ever orifice imaginable. She even invented her own orifices, including between her breasts. Isn’t that cheating?
Anyway, they dig the metal out of my face out of my face (not as painless as last time), and tell me to go home and get some frozen peas. Come back in two days. Then she rants about Bush for 20 minutes.
So back I come in 2 days. The half-breed is away, so I think I’m safe from having my ear chewed off. This is never the case. Instead, it’s some hippie in the food court my mom’s age. She invites me over to her house sometime to listen to old vinyl and cook Indian food. I anticipate jokes about taking what you can get.
Moving on. I’m no Wolverine, but apparently I heal fast. They need to re-stretch open the hole this time. The level of uncomfortable escalates each visit. Also turns out they’ll need to put in the larger size barbell for two weeks. So now instead of two cool black balls, I have a weird two-tone thing sticking out of my face. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I’m wearing the piercing equivalent of training wheels. This is why you never take your friend’s advice.
Now, I didn’t have any grandiose reasons. If you want a piercing to fit in, they’re not universal enough, but if you’re trying to get a piercing to stand out, they’re too common. You can always do what I did and get it on the wrong eyebrow, but that’s neither here nor there.
Nor is it easy to rebel against parents who if you call on a Monday morning, ask you if you’re hung over or got laid last night.
Point is, I had a mental itch, and I scratched it. It was quick, painless, and only a brief intermission before my return to drinking. Irish tour group, specifically. I think it looks rather nice, but you can judge for yourself.
Wouldn’t it be nice if that were where the story ended?
It seems my face started to swell, and was slowly eating the piercing. Slightly unnerving sight. So I go back down to the store and see what they can do for me.
An older, proper looking gentleman, about my father’s age, was sitting on a bench. As I walk in, he’s called into the operation booth by a woman who would not survive an MRI. She holds out a cloth, and tells him “put this around your waist”. My imagination runs wild, and I wish it didn’t.
A few minutes later, they seat me back on the same chair as last week. “Amanda will be with you in a few minutes. She’s in the middle of a double nipple, and will help you when she finishes the right.” I wonder what happens if a woman with a nipple ring tries to breast feed her child. Will it squirt out of three holes?
Amanda happens to be 63, is half American and half Australian, and is pierced through basically ever orifice imaginable. She even invented her own orifices, including between her breasts. Isn’t that cheating?
Anyway, they dig the metal out of my face out of my face (not as painless as last time), and tell me to go home and get some frozen peas. Come back in two days. Then she rants about Bush for 20 minutes.
So back I come in 2 days. The half-breed is away, so I think I’m safe from having my ear chewed off. This is never the case. Instead, it’s some hippie in the food court my mom’s age. She invites me over to her house sometime to listen to old vinyl and cook Indian food. I anticipate jokes about taking what you can get.
Moving on. I’m no Wolverine, but apparently I heal fast. They need to re-stretch open the hole this time. The level of uncomfortable escalates each visit. Also turns out they’ll need to put in the larger size barbell for two weeks. So now instead of two cool black balls, I have a weird two-tone thing sticking out of my face. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I’m wearing the piercing equivalent of training wheels. This is why you never take your friend’s advice.
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