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.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
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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