So What Exactly Happened Yesterday?

Yesterday, as I'm sure you can infer, was a pretty crazy day.

See, there was a political party that was going to be interviewed in our house. I don't want to mention any specifics, because it is all kinds of topical at the moment and I don't want any backlash of any kind. 

I was on the couch, chatting to the group about the state of journalism in Australia, tapping away on my laptop, when the 'reporter' bounds into the room. What none of us knew was that this particular publication decided to send a transvestite comedian to do their political commentary. He opened the door, film already rolling. He was wearing torn fishnets, hot pants with his name sequined on the arse and eye make-up that would have embarrassed Eddie Izzard. He thrust the microphone into the face of the candidates, who each introduced themselves by their name and electorate. He then reached me, sitting in the corner wearing an indie band shirt and shorts. I had not realised there was going to be a camera, so I can only imagine what my hair looked like. I stuttered out that I just lived here and he moved on. He didn't seem as interested in getting a proper political interview as he was interested in getting footage of himself singing Blondie with a strange, slightly Germanic accent ("One Way Or Anuzzah"). But I guess you have to expect that.

It was pretty insane. I said afterwards that I would say that it was one of the most bizarre things that has happened to me but it's not. It really isn't. Life is too bizarre. I remember, one time, I took LSD. And it kind of worried me. Not because I had a bad trip or anything, but because... nothing happened. I watched all the other people who had taken the same stuff get all silly and fall over and the like, and I was looking around going 'Yep, this is life as I've always known it alright'. The obvious answer is that my life has actually been one long, drawn-out acid trip. Which, to be honest, wouldn't surprise me THAT much.

But the whole transvestite-political-reporter thing was only part of what happened yesterday. After everything had quietened down, I trundled off down the road to have coffee with a friend of mine. I can't think of a codename that could possibly sum up this guy, so for the time being we will just call him Aristotle. I choose this name because while adventuring in Europe, he made one of those life-changing decisions. He decided that studying to be an accountant was lamesauce and is now planning on doing an honours degree in philosophy. He is going to be a proper philosopher. As you may know, Vegatrain is also studying philosophy. My cousin also did a degree in the subject, although I haven't seen him in years so I'm not sure what he's up to these days. For the record, the last time I saw him he was touring the world as the lanky white keyboard player in a reggae band where every other member was actually from the Caribbean. I saw them play once and thought it was fantastic.

But I was thinking about Aristotle being a full-time philosopher and I thought 'Would I hire him?'. Obviously, the answer was yes. These days everybody has a psychologist, right? It's nice to have somewhere to go to work out your emotional issues with someone who (hypothetically) knows what they are talking about. I would put this forward - why not hire a philosopher to work out your more spiritual issues? I would say that there are a lot of people who would like a bit of philosophical guidance every now and then. I am totally going to set up that business. Philosophers-for-hire. Genius.

Aristotle had some excellent stories for me. First of all, a bit of backstory. Aristotle was a friend of mine from high school. That is, until he moved to Adelaide at the end of year ten. By a beautiful coincidence, he apparently ended up at the same high school as Meattrain (whom I would not meet for many years). He was telling me about this school yesterday. Apparently they didn't offer German as a subject, which was a pain in his butt because it was a subject he very much wanted to pursue. They told him that he could still do it but he would have to go to another school campus for his lessons. As it played out, he was sent to an all girl's school for those lessons. He said it was kinda crazy, that all he needed to do was walk across the quad and he would get jeers and wolf-whistles from the (I imagine) sex-starved girls. I asked him if he realised he was actually living every teenage boy's biggest fantasy and he sort of shrugged. Because he's chill like that.

He told me a lot about his time overseas (mainly in Germany), including recommending me some really cool 1960's Estonian rock, but he also had probably the most awkward break-up story I have ever heard. Aristotle had a girlfriend before going overseas. She was a lovely girl, and she was going abroad at the same time, to a different country. They decided to "sort of" break-up but were still in contact. Then, it came time for this girl to fly across Europe to visit my friend. The only problem was, when she arrived she informed him that she was now in love with some guy from Melbourne that she had met in Switzerland. When he told me this, Aristotle cocked his head in a very understated way and told me that he probably would have preferred her to not come at all, which I think is putting it lightly. Especially considering how much worse it gets. She arrived, told him she'd met someone else. Unfortunately, Aristotle was her accommodation in Germany, so they still had to spend the night together. I can only imagine how awkward that would have been. Oh also, she gave him some kind of horrible illness. She herself had only had it mildly but apparently she still managed to pass it on during the course of the break-up, resulting in Aristotle spending the next 24 hours violently expelling everything he had ever eaten. Poor guy.

-Smackie Onassis

My Sub-Conscious Is A Smartarse

I have some pretty great dreams. I have a peculiar ability in that I can't remember what I had for dinner last night, but I can remember my dreams in vivid detail. There is one that I typed out and saved on my laptop because I thought it would make a wicked spoken word song a la "A Space Boy Dream". It was about the end of the world and it was crazy metaphysical. If anyone is interested I could probably post it.

While my sub-conscious can be pretty awesome when it wants to be, there are times when I want to remove it from my brain and beat it senseless. The best example is probably that I have a recurring dream in which I have insomnia. I actually do. My sub-conscious is that much of a prick.

The first time it happened was probably the worst one. I remember lying awake in bed, staring at the walls. I repeatedly looked at the clock, thinking it strange that time didn't seem to be passing at all. Until my alarm went off and I realised with a start that I had actually been asleep the whole time.

This has since happened a few times, the most notable being the other night. I had been out with a bunch of people seeing some comedy shows. It was really great, but unfortunately I have been having low blood pressure issues and had to go home early when I nearly passed out in front of Dave Callan. He stopped to ask me if I needed to do a poo, but I was too unwell to think of a witty retort.

So, I went home and collapsed in bed. I remember wishing that Vegatrain would turn down the TV so I could get to sleep. It was playing a documentary that basically consisted of terminally ill children talking about how they don't understand why it hurts so bad. It was distractingly depressing and I thought that I was lying awake because of it. Of course, Vegatrain woke me up when he actually got home and yet again it had all been a dream.

There was another strange dream incident that I can remember. This was when I was living in not the house before this one, but the one before that. So yeah, around six months ago*. I came home from work, exhausted from doing the breakfast shift. The kitchen was a mess, but I figured I would have a nap before I dealt with it. I fell asleep in no time. I had a dream that I was cleaning the kitchen, which would not be so unusual. Except that when I woke up the kitchen was spotless. I was the only one home.

I am assuming that what happened was that one of my housemates came home while I was asleep, cleaned the kitchen and then left again before I woke up. Because if not, then what? Sleep-walking is one thing, but sleep-cleaning? Not that this would be a bad thing, mind you, I just really don't believe it would ever happen. Not to me, at least.

-Smackie Onassis

*I wish this was a joke.

Newcastle: It Really Was That Ridiculous

I try not to talk about my home town too much but I obviously don't have much success. The problem is, my hometown is the most ridiculous place in the entire world. I am frequently reminded of just how ridiculous it was. Just now, Vegatrain was wheeling me around the courtyard in the wheelchair. Being wheeled around in a strangely misleading vessel from boring sight to boring sight reminded me of one of the stupidest things about Newcastle. I am, of course, talking about the Newcastle Tram.

The first thing one might notice upon discovering the Newcastle Tram is that it is very clearly not a tram. It's a bus, ok. It has wheels, it follows the roads and there aren't even any tram tracks in Newcastle. Stop trying to pretend you are Melbourne, Newcastle, you are not fooling anybody.

It was a tourist thing, and supposedly took the bewildered traveller from historic sight to historic sight. Now, I actually rode the Newcastle Tram once and the only "historic sight" I can remember seeing was a wall. They drove us past it, claiming that it was the oldest wall in Newcastle, built by the convicts. It was no Sistine Chapel.

But still, Newcastle particularly fancied it's chances as the next big Australian tourist attraction. We had Bootmen, after all. Most Novocastrians could point out their house in at least one scene of that one. Then, there was Silverchair. A good friend of mine was personally pointed and laughed at by both Daniel Johns and Natalie Imbruglia when her dog had decided it needed to be carried home on a particularly hot walk. There was a Superman film done there as well and as a result of their location choice there are cars exploding in the background of many of my year 12 formal photos. For real, you guys.

And yet, Newcastle always missed the bar with their tourism ideas. I remember one television ad featuring picturesque locations at sunset. The song they had chosen to accompany these images was "Love This City" by the Whitlams. Naturally, the only clip of the song they used was the bits with the lyrics "You gotta love this city, love this city, love it". I would love to know if anyone involved in the production of this advertisement ever actually listened to the rest of it.

But my favourite attempt at tourism is by far, the infamous Penis Tower. This was an observation tower on the foreshore which adorned many a postcard. Apparently the architects had been really proud of it. They failed to realise at any point in the building/publicity process that it was a giant dong:

I do love the fact that I moved from a town where the most recognisable structure is a giant phallus to a town where the most recognisable structure is a pair of giant silver balls. There's a kind of poetry in that.

-Smackie Onassis

EDIT: I found a picture of "Newcastle's Famous Tram". Note: not a tram.

Some of my craziest alcohol-fueled tales

I don't really drink that much these days. I am what most people would refer to as a "two-can Sam" or, alternatively, a "total pussbag". Basically I will have a couple of drinks before I start feeling a bit sick and want to go sit by myself in a dark corner for a while. But this wasn't always the case.

Back in Newcastle there wasn't a lot to do if you weren't drinking. And because none of my living situations were that great I found myself going out a fair amount. As a result, I have some pretty ridiculous drinking stories, most of which I was informed about the day after.

The first one that springs to mind was a house party I went to when I was a teenager. I don't remember the actual event particularly vividly, but I do remember everyone asking me this question the day after:

"Hey Sarah, do you remember how you nearly chased that goat off a cliff?"

No. I don't. That is not the type of thing that you do if you are in any state to remember it the next day. I do remember the goat though. For the record, I have no fucking idea where that goat came from, or what the hell it was doing there. All I remember is walking up the very steep driveway, falling down and rolling all the way to the bottom before getting up and finally making it to the street. And finding myself face to face with a goat, just kicking back in the middle of a suburban street, doing its general goat thing. I think I must have chased it because I was so confused as to why there was a goat unsupervised in the middle of the street and I wanted answers, damnit. And well, yeah, apparently there was a cliff nearby which I nearly found myself plummeting from because that is the direction in which this goat was leading me.

Another one of my favourite drinking stories comes a few years later when I was at Guitarstrings Wilson's 21st. Let's just say: there was an open bar. And then, after the bar had been open for a good few hours, someone decided to bring out the jelly shots. I could not have been any less ready for that jelly, but I consumed more than my share of them. It was my first experience of jelly shots and I was not expecting them to get me quite so blind drunk. I figured that anything that tasted that palatable couldn't contain enough alcohol to have an effect. I was so wrong.

After the party a few of us went to a local club for a spot of music and dancing. Being someone who totally enjoys kissing, I found myself making out with a random boy. I was fairly pleased with my seduction skills when the guy kept coming back to me for more makeouts. We would kiss, split up to go dance, then come back for some more kissing. Or so I thought. I was talking about the night to my designated driver the next day (he was actually present at the goat chasing incident as well, come to think of it) and he stopped to look at me funny when I mentioned this. When I asked him what was wrong, he informed me of this:

"Sarah, that wasn't one guy coming back for more. That was four separate guys."

I don't think I even need to say anything more about that one.

Now, let's flash forward another couple of years. I was at uni and one of the few courses I could be bothered doing was a really great screen-writing course. My teacher for this course was the greatest guy. I don't remember his name, but he was fantastic. For the last class of the semester, when we had our major works all finished and handed in, he put on a bit of a do for us in class. He even provided the cheap wine. And yes, it was four in the afternoon and I was in class but well, I got somewhat drunk. And made out with some guy. In class. In front of my teacher. But that's not the crazy part, believe it or not. From there, I went home. I was expecting to stay in because it was a Monday night and I wasn't really expecting there to be much going on. However, this was Newcastle. Every night is an acceptable drinking night in Newcastle. 

I received a text from a guy I didn't know very well. I remember him because he had the stupidest tattoo I have ever seen in my life. It was a surfboard with wings and it looked like it had been drawn on in crayon by a three year old. But hey, I was kinda drunk. I was feeling adventurous. I went over to his house.

He lived in a big open-plan loft kinda deal in the middle of one of the worst suburbs in Newcastle. I was always surprised that every time I went there I found the house completely open and unlocked, despite its close proximity to the local crackhead population.

Anyway, the last thing I remember that night was sitting in their lounge room, talking to a girl I hadn't seen since high school while a bearded man I knew only by the name of 'Flower' sat in the corner playing the guitar. He didn't say a single word to me, choosing to speak only through the medium of music. That is the last thing I remember before waking up in my own bed with my shoes still on. I have no idea what happened that night. I have even less of an idea how I got home. All I know is that I didn't die and that is enough I guess.

I think I eventually realised that I was probably going out a bit too much when the bouncer from one of the pubs I used to visit added me on facebook. Yeah.

-Smackie Onassis

An Ode To The Newcastle Regional Library

People are always talking about what they would do if they became really, really wealthy. Houses, holidays and hookers are usually the favourites ('The Three H's'), but there is something a bit different that I have always thought I would do. If I ever got even slightly wealthy, I would make as big a donation to the Newcastle Regional Library as I could afford. I would also like to live in a house where the walls are made of aquariums but that's a whole other kettle of fish, or house of fish as the case may be.

"Why a library?" you might ask, "There are so many worthy causes out there, what makes you think that is the best place for your dollars?"

Here's the thing. The Newcastle Regional Library was one of my favourite places in the entire world when I was growing up. This was mainly because of the music section. Most libraries these days have a cd section of some description, but it is usually limited to Vivaldi and Delta Goodrem. The music section at this library was like nothing I'd ever seen before. It was updated on a monthly basis and contained music I had trouble finding anywhere else. This was before the time of internet torrents, so it really was that amazing.

I am not exaggerating when I say that the cd section at this library changed my life. Borrowing these cds was the first I had heard of music that wasn't just played on the radio. I can remember picking up a little album called 'If You're Feeling Sinister' by a little band by the name of Belle & Sebastian. It blew me away. I didn't know music could be so... good. I went on to feverishly get my hands on everything they had ever recorded. The night I finally ended up seeing them live was just one of the best nights of my life.

From there I picked up Darren Hanlon's 'Little Chills' and my mind was blown again. I remember taking it to school in my little discman. My friends got so mad at me because I spent the better part of a week not talking to them in favour of sitting by myself, listening to it over and over again. Seriously, the things I would do to Darren Hanlon. I can't even go into them without feeling filthy and disrespectful, but let's just say: it would take several days before I would be finished.

Other bands I heard for the first time because I picked up their cd at the Newcastle Regional Library include: Beck, The Pixies, Augie March (years before Moo You Bloody Choir brought them to the mainstream. I'm talking Sunset Studies here. Man, I am going to listen to that right now), The Bees, Bright Eyes, Broken Social Scene, The Fiery Furnaces, Built to Spill, Camera Obscura... the list goes on. Let's just say: all my favourite bands.

The Newcastle Regional Library was the single biggest influence on my musical tastes. It taught me not only that there were excellent bands out there, but because there was such a vast supply of material it taught me how to form my own opinions on music, how to decide what kind of things I liked. Every time I considered moving away from Newcastle, I had to seriously evaluate whether I could move away from the library. It was that good. I honestly don't understand how such an oasis of musical culture could exist. If I didn't still have all those burnt cds, I might think it had all been a mirage.

Of course, I eventually did move away. I can honestly say that the library is probably the thing that I miss most about Newcastle. I mean, there is the internet now, but it's just not the same. Don't get me wrong, I love the internet, but nothing can compare to seeing the shelves upon shelves of such wonderful albums all free for the borrowing.

-Smackie Onassis

"Comedy Stylings"

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Procrastination

I was going to write a proper entry, but then something happened that I thought I better record straight away, in brief.

Vegatrain was shuffling around with papers in the study, trying to build a flimsy barrier so that we could play lexulous against each other without seeing each other's letters. See, Vegatrain is preparing to start a philosophy degree and is trying to get himself a bit more organised. I noticed that he had one piece of paper that had the heading 'Procrastination', but then had nothing else written on it. I laughed and pointed it out to him.

"Oh yeah," he said, "I was going to write a list of ways that I could procrastinate when I needed a break, but I didn't get around to it."

Vegatrain, ladies and gentleman.