Autonomy Day

If you live in Newcastle you're kind of expected to be a raging alcoholic. Of course there are a lot of people that aren't, I'm in no way that saying teetotalers and moderate drinkers don't exist. I'm just saying those people are looked down on.

People drink a lot in my hometown. I remember when we all graduated school and started drinking in other parts of the world, we were all shocked to discover that it's not socially acceptable in most places to get absurdly drunk on a Wednesday. Or more accurately, every Wednesday without fail. I'm not joking, we were all honestly surprised. We talked about it. Wednesday night binge drinking was so acceptable in Newcastle that it actually seemed strange that it wasn't a big thing anywhere else. If you drank on Tuesday you had a problem, but Wednesday was fair game.

All of this drinking culminates in one absurdist university holiday. They call it Autonomy Day and it marks the celebration of Newcastle Uni splitting off from Sydney Uni and becoming an educational institute in its own right. Kind of like an Independence Day. And Newcastle uni students celebrate their independence the traditional way. By waking up early, going to school and getting mind-bendingly drunk.

Every year there are students who set their alarms earlier and earlier purely to be the first ones to start drinking. The earliest I ever heard was 4am. Autonomy Day is the only day of the year where it is socially acceptable to be passed out drunk before ten in the morning. The best thing is how well this activity is tolerated by the other townsfolk who all have to go to work as per usual. See, it's not actually a holiday in any official sense. It happens on a weekday and classes are still held. It's just that the few people who actually go to class are drunk and usually wearing togas. It really is amazing how well this event is received by the community. I heard a story a few years ago of a drunk student who got off a bus, threw up, and then got back on the bus. Considering this happened around morning tea time, an old woman on the bus complained to the driver. The driver apparently just shrugged and said 'It's Autonomy Day' before telling the woman to take her seat.

I only went to Autonomy Day once, during my second year of uni. I had been working the previous year and from all the stories I'd heard, I was quite excited about it. I started planning my day. How I could spend as little money as possible, how I was going to get home afterwards and just how drunk I wanted to get. Then the topic was raised while we were eating lunch one day.

"Hey Sarah, I hear you're playing Autonomy Day this year?" one of my friends mentioned, casually.

"Ha, what?" I asked, not really thinking anything of the comment. But then someone handed me one of those 'What's On At UoN?' leaflets and sure enough, the band I was in had been listed as entertainment at Autonomy Day.

"Huh," I said, making a mental note to call one of my bandmates and make sure that at least one of them knew about the gig. 

It turned out we were playing quite late in the day, and this posed a dilemma. Could I still get drunk?  In the end I decided that Autonomy Day comes but once a year and that I had an obligation. It turned out that being in the band was quite advantageous for the whole drinking thing. I didn't have to wait in line to get in, didn't have to pay entry (especially nifty as this was the first year they had charged an entry fee) and I had a whole instrument case to work with for sneaking my own cheap vodka in. I was set.

I have to say, it was pretty cool. There was an area surrounding the bar that was fenced off in an attempt to contain the event. I remember the inside being like no event I'd ever attended before. All I remember about what I was drinking was that it was blue and no-one else would go near it. They would go to taste it but recoil in horror when the smell hit them. I guess it was pretty strong.

This was around the time of those Nicorette commercials with the motivational anti-smoking squad. The first thing I saw when I walked in was a whole group of people dressed up like the cheer squad in that ad. When I first saw them they were running around in single file singing 'No, Gary, No!'. I later saw them approach any person they saw lighting a cigarette and recite the whole ad in perfect unison. 

I also made out with Jesus. It wasn't technically a costume event but it was the one day of the year where you could get anyway with anything that wouldn't normally be tolerated. There was a guy that year dressed as Jesus. I saw him drinking and mingling, then later found myself running into him.

"Hey Jesus! Wanna make out?"

I'm not sure if those were my exact words, but that was pretty much how I approached the situation. Luckily, Jesus was up for it so we had a quick pash before shaking hands and going our separate ways.

There was a part of me that had hoped I would have sobered up before the gig, but there was a larger part of me that I could still feel laughing while I typed that. Let's just say, it was not my finest musical hour. Nothing dramatically bad happened, apart from the fact that I don't think I played many correct notes. The good thing about Autonomy Day is that not only does the crowd expect you to be drunk, they are so drunk themselves that they don't care what sounds you are making. They just hear the noise and know they are being entertained. I'm just glad no-one filmed it.

-Smackie Onassis

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

Mysterious Free Drinks Night At The Pub

Back in my hometown, there wasn't a great deal of unique and interesting entertainment options. There were, however, an absurd amount of pubs. Australians always talk about how there is a pub on every corner, most places you go. In my hometown, there was a pub on every corner, then another one next door and a few more along the street.

One of my favourite places to go of an evening was the local "bohemian" joint, the Lass O'Gowrie, universally referred to as The Lass. It looked like your regular dive bar, falling on the literal "wrong side of the tracks". It was situated right next to the train line that neatly separated the cosmopolitan, upper-middle class suburb on one side from the favourite hang outs of the local junkie and prostitute population on the other. One of my favourite pieces of graffiti was near there, a road sign where someone had painted over the word 'cameras' so it read "Speed used in this area". I giggled every time I drove past it.

But the Lass, the Lass was wonderful. There was live music most nights, usually played by friends of mine (the local muso scene tended to be fairly close-knit), and also usually free. The food was unexpectedly brilliant, with more vegetarian cuisine than a dirty hippie such as myself could poke a carbon-neutral stick at. It was the only pub I've ever been to that had a cat living on it's premises. I can't imagine how much that cat has had to deal with over the years.

One of the best nights out I ever had in that town was when my friend Guitarstrings Wilson and I headed to the Lass for a few quiet beers. When we arrived, the place was fuller than I'd ever seen it, and most of the people there were friends of mine. Curiously, there was free food circulating, and no-one seemed to be charging me for drinks. I chose not to question this for fear that saying it out loud might somehow make it go away.

Apparently, the venue was technically closed that night for a private function. It was the birthday party of the owner's daughter, a girl I had never actually met. However, because I apparently knew every single one of her close friends, everyone sort of assumed that I had been invited, and that Guitarstrings Wilson was my +1 for the night. 

I don't think I even met the host at her own birthday party, but my presence was just sort of accepted, even embraced. I wasn't exactly going to say no to free food and drinks, either.

It is safe to say that I came out that night well under budget.

-Smackie Onassis

Adventures Update: Apocalypse Party

I probably wouldn't have gone to Apocalypse Party if it hadn't sounded like such a uniquely awesome idea. Originally, it was planned to simulate a drill for any kind of impending apocalypse. These guys who had some property out in the country decided to invite a bunch of people to kick back in the wilderness for a weekend, eat tinned food and sleep in cars, pretending the world as we know it had come to an end. The plan was also to crank a stereo, drink and pretty much just party the whole time.

The location was shrouded in secrecy. The only directions given were some very exact map co-ordinates. Anyone who wanted to come was supposed to enter them into Google Maps and work it out from there. When Buglustre told us she was driving, Vegatrain and I jumped at the chance for a road trip. In our haste, we had both completely forgotten to make elaborately obscure mix cds for the trip, but Buglustre had us covered. The all-ska playlist that resulted reminded me of being on tour back when I was in the band, driving from gig to gig and listening to similar mixes. It was a nice thing to be reminded of.

The drive itself was mostly uneventful, apart from the indignant terror I experienced when I realised the woman in the car next to us was watching a TV in the dashboard of her car WHILE SHE WAS DRIVING. DON'T DO THAT. I hate it so much when people break the road rules, or act in a generally careless manner while driving. Safety first, everyone. Safety first. Buglustre managed to bring me back to the conversation by telling me about her recent experiences mixing vodka with spumante, although that had the unpleasant side-effect of making my liver recoil in terror. Soon enough though, we were bumping around on the dirt road that led to our post-apocalyptic destination.

At first it didn't look like much: a group of people standing around, talking and laughing. Like every other party, only, in the middle of nowhere. Kind of like the parties I went to when I was sixteen, held in a friend's back paddock so we wouldn't get caught underage drinking.

But when I saw the main set-up, I was pretty impressed. In the hollow of a hill was the ruined remains of an old cottage. This is where the party was set up. Old couches, probably collected from the side of the road, were scattered around a fairly impressive stereo system. I'm pretty sure there was an old boat amongst the rubbish. The hosts struggled to string up some lights before it started getting dark. A guy with a camera was eating from a large tin of beans. The view was spectacular. 

The outhouse was pretty authentic, too, although a lot of the girls didn't seem to look at that as a good thing. I first needed to use it at dusk, just when it was starting to become difficult to see (the boys were still struggling with the lights). It was basically an aluminium box. Some girls offered to hold the door shut for me, because apparently that had been a problem so far.

"Wow, just like solitary confinement," I said, to no-one in particular as I stepped inside. The girls laughed awkwardly and then ignored me. Inside, it was pitch black. The only light filtering in was through tiny pin-pricks on the walls, which created little dots that danced on the back of the door. I had to be careful where I stepped, as the heels of my boots kept finding their way into holes in the floor. I quite liked it, really.

Although I didn't know many people there, it seemed to be one of those places where just hearing a one-line conversational snippet was enough.

"It's too cold for an orgy, everything would shrink"

"Hey, did you hear? I parted the red sea."

There was this outgoing goth girl there, who seemed to take a real liking to me. I was introducing myself to the group by teaching them some dances that I (or friends of mine) have created over the years. The 'These Are My Feet' dance (consisting mainly of gesturing wildly to your feet in time to the music) was the true winner of the night, although I felt that the 'Psychology Cat' didn't get the recognition it deserved. I soon found myself relying on a dance I termed the 'Existential Crisis', which consisted of me bobbing awkwardly along to the music, feeling self-conscious and contemplating my own existence. I moved off the dance-floor and found myself talking to people.

Me: You know, this reminds me a lot of 'Tomorrow, When The War Began'.

Goth Girl: What?

Me: You know, the books?

Goth Girl: I don't read.

Me: Oh.

Goth Girl: Except for necrophiliac porn.

Me: Oh.

I enjoyed the time I spent there, but for me, the party was over when they started playing Mumford and Sons. I hate Mumford and Sons. I hate them. It is not that they are a bad band, they are okay. But because folk is one of my favourite genres, I have listened to enough bands to know that they are well, kind of bland and unoriginal. It wouldn't bother me so much, except that somehow everyone seems to think they are these amazing indie-folk superstars, pioneers in music, Triple J Hottest 100 Number One!

They aren't. Seriously. For anyone who thinks Mumford and Sons are in anyway an original or interesting band, listen to Local Natives. Listen to Noah and the Whale. Listen to Andrew Bird. Listen to The Middle East, who were playing alongside Blandford and Sons at Laneway this year and got not even a tiny percentage of the recognition that they got. That's what annoys me. It's the fact that there are these amazing bands slogging it out for peanuts, and then someone releases a commercial tune labelled as 'indie-folk' and everyone thinks its revolutionary. It's not.

Anyway, back at the party. At one point the stereo was turned off for a haphazard band to start playing. I was hopeful, but then quickly disappointed. I guess they didn't really think they needed to rehearse together beforehand, then when they got there realised that they didn't know what they were doing and packed up after about three songs. I guess in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, you're not exactly spoilt for musical choice.

When the band packed up, a lone saxophonist took their place, and just started jamming. He was really good, but by this stage I had well and truly recoiled into my cocoon of introversion, and hearing a saxophone just made me miss the instruments my parents still have yet to send over. This is the longest I have ever gone without playing music regularly, and I am craving it so badly. Just one hit from a nice piano, please. One sax riff, I'm desperate. I'd settle for a glockenspiel at this stage.

Feeling totally old and boring, I ended up napping in Buglustre's car for awhile until she was ready to go. I did have a good time, and I'm glad I went, but I guess I'm a bit too fond of pre-apocalyptic comforts to make a habit of such adventures.

-Smackie Onassis

The Scarecrow: An Interesting True Story (hopefully)

There was a group of us who used to drink at this Croatian bowling club, universally referred to as ‘The Cro’. It wasn’t that we were particular interested in the culture, or the sport of bowling (I don’t remember seeing anyone use the green for anything other than drunken cartwheels). It was more that the drinks were cheap and the staff were friendly. The staff, in this case, usually consisted of a man named Pavo, who would give you a free drink if he liked you. If he didn’t like you he would cut you off and then brutally murder you ("probably"), but for a poor student, it was worth the risk for a free drink or two. Luckily, Pavo liked me. Apart from the awkward indie kids, there was a crowd of  mismatched regulars who used to drink there, the most interesting of which was probably a man they called ‘The Scarecrow’. But, as I was told very strictly the first night I was there, you must never call him that to his face, not under any circumstance. The first night I met the Scarecrow, he began the night by drinking alone at his table and hurling abuse at us. Being outcasts with a sense of humour big enough to cancel out our sense of caution, we invited him over to our table.

He was covered in wrinkled tattoos of naked mermaids. Every second word from his mouth was ‘fuck’ or ‘cunt’. He interrupted every other sentence from our mouths to recite his own spoken word songs.

When we distracted him from the subject of his musical prowess, he started talking about his businesses. According to him, he had run a number of successful strip clubs. According to everyone else, these were actually brothels, the success of which can’t really be accounted for. He went on to say he was opening up a new one in our town. It was then that he looked over at me and said “Hey, you look like you’ve got pretty big boobs. Do you want a job?”

I told him, going on the basis that it was, in fact, a strip joint he was talking about, that I was not what you’d call a very good dancer. He responded with a laugh, telling me that no-one would be paying any attention to my dancing. My friends decided to vocalise their support by agreeing that I did have quite excellent breasts, and recounting stories of the various times they had seen them, and how good that was. I’m not sure if it was their intention, but this managed to ensure that the conversation was well and truly changed from my potential career in the lucrative stripping industry (with perhaps, the possibility of a best-selling novel recounting my experiences. I could call it ‘The Stripping News’.)

I left town not long after that, so I don’t think I ever saw the Scarecrow again. I can only imagine that he is still sitting at his own table at The Cro, alternating between hurling abuse and asking strange women if they would like to be paid to take off their clothes.