Last week, I think.
Well, it doesn’t matter when it happened, because it has happened before and it will just keep going. Shit, don’t let me get off the matter at hand now. I’m doing it again. I do that.
Last week (I think), I was up for two or three nights in a row, which isn’t too unusual considering that we have that family of ghosts doing what they do at all hours. They don’t sleep and can’t or won’t grasp the idea that I really need to, sometimes.
Anyways, I was up for a couple of days or so and I just had this rotation of bronzestone records playing at half speed and I was drinking geld cola from the bottle.
It was warm, but I didn’t really mind because every now and then, one of the rats would stop gambling for long enough to come out from the cellar and give me a thimble full of their brandy which is so cold as to make you shiver for about an hour or so after each tiny hit.
Now, these girls don’t slouch when it comes to running cards and dice all night, but sometimes you can see the cracks at the back of their red and black eyes. That’s where they keep their chances, I found that out one night when I was going all sideways and I slipped.
Next thing I knew, I was roaming around at the back of a rodent’s eye socket, chewing gum tack and trying not to tread on anything important.
The cracks had a lot of hot air gusting out and in the gelid state that the rat booze had me in, I wasn’t about to start complaining about something just because there was a whiff of sulfur in the air.
I’ve been around my share of dead rattus norvegicus in my time and I was fairly certain that this wasn’t a normal odour, but then again, what the shit was I doing at the back of a rat’s eyeball?
Eventually, I was feeling like I really needed to micturate and I didn’t want to mess up Hatt (that is the rat’s name, when people refer to her, she has never deigned to tell me what the other browns in the Mischief call her).
As gently as I could and with no small amount of trepidation, I squeezed into the back of the socket and the crack licked it’s lips with a smacking sound like flatulent thunder or wet cardboard tearing in a canyon lined with crystal from some gentleman’s club in the Far East and a long way down in the top hat dimension.
I’m doing it again now, and I asked you to stop me if I did, but now, I expect, I really need to let you know what goes on behind the cracks.
Archive for December, 2010
Boxing Day sales? Forget about it. In the spirit of giving, Sydney ‘swamp stomp’ act, Gay Paris has sold it’s collective soul for the sake of man, woman and child and will be shaking out the post-ham-and-turkey blues of Christmas at The Annandale Hotel on the day after the biggest day in the Christian calendar.
Joined by acts of the calibre of Front End Loader,Celibate Rifles, The Shake Up, Peabody and Dune Buggy Attack Squadron, Gay Paris will be teaching you all about cool as the weather heats up.
Smoke machines? The guys don’t need ‘em, they’re positively steamy to begin with.
Catch Sydney’s greatest shack rockers before they explode by getting down to The Annandale from 2:30pm on the 26th of December.
Tickets and info here: The Annandale
At a table with a crow and a fox. No one is paying for drinks but the bar tender keeps serving us and giving me odd looks. Nodding and winking, squinting at me and lolling his tongue. I don’t know what it means, but I put down another whiskey and swill some half warm beer.
It is foul.
The crow is on and on and on about his old lady, she won’t leave the nest, won’t go dancing, wants a new car, but where would she go? You know she threw the babies into the awful grey sky yesterday. They won’t be coming back.
The fox ignores this and keeps rolling his tiny bone dice. He wears snakeskin gloves, to cover the burns he got when trying to steal fire from man.
“Hey, you fuckers stole it from the gods, you know, all’s fair in fire and flesh.”
No fucking way. Nothing is fair.
The lights are getting to me – do they want ambience or not? Someone turn ’em down. You think I like knowing that the only people who will drink with me are a wife beating crow and a fox with no idea about privacy and possession? You gotta be kidding me.
Some night hag on the other side of the room sends us over a bottle of Shiraz, a note in place of the cork.
Be Dreaming Of Me…
Hell’s coming and now it’s Coma City.
Burning down the highway in a van full of outdated technology, hot on the tail of the latest breaking story of Heartbreak Boomtown.
They only let the beautiful people in.
Who says that the most fuckable folk are heartless?
She is there, that hag. Gussied up and shaking it, but I can see through the cosmetic surgery.
Get a new doctor, sweetheart, they look like bowling bowls, right down to the finger holes.
I’m the first one thrown out on my face and have to wait at the city limits, a border town, populated by, you got it, more foxes and crows, gambling and fighting and stealing and writing amazing memoirs.
I wish I could have stayed there.
Gay Paris were drinking, but not passing out;
The booze was all lined up on the mantle with care,
Cuz eight bitches would soon be ‘ right up in here’;
Slim Pickins was dancing, both poppin’ and locks,
Cuz Slim is a B-Boy that loves to up-rock;
And with his bandanna on under his hat,
WH busted, the illest of raps,
Then from the kitchen, there came a great clatter
Smokin’ D emerged with a gourmet style platter.
“Quiet down, you bastards,” cried out Blacktooth,
“I’m watching Christmas Vacation, National Lampoons!”
The hos all arrived and exposed their large breasts
Belly shots of whiskey are what happened next,
And every one laughed and they drank and they ate,
Even Miss BZ, who showed up so late,
Driving a Benz right through the window,
With K. ‘Whoremouth’ Conroy and some powder like snow ,
Oh what a Christmas, Oh Lord, what a ruckus!,
They chanted ‘Wu-Tang ain’t nothin’ to fuck wit!’ ;
“Now, Hot Dick! Now, Slim! now, Blacktooth, WH!
When you throw a party we know they’ll be great!”
To the top it all of, they paid for the whores!
And drove away quickly, distracting the cops,
Who had recently received, an anonymous tip,
Most likely the Snowdroppers, who felt they’d been dissed,
Gay Paris though, had sent invitations,
Intercepted by Tenderloins, who had trepidations,
Of partaking in pleasures that veer to excess
They kept them at home, tucked up in their beds.
GP raised their glasses and drank it all down,
When down their Chimney came a wonderful sound.
Dressed like the 20s had never quite finished,
The ‘droppers arrived crying ‘Yo! Now we up in this!’;
A bundle of booze was strapped to their backs,
And Cougar and London were so high on crack!
Johnny and Pauly, were tell tale gin drinkers;
Their noses so pink, like prostitute nipples!
The guys partied down with their hookers and blow,
With beer, wine and spirits, did I mention the hos?
They all got crunk and down like South West,
Slim battled Cougar and came out the best;
Johnny and WH talked of some books,
But in between notes, they did bourbon shots.
Blacktooth and Pauly were so busy riffing,
They never realised the fun they were missing!
London and Hot Dick were mixing bad drinks,
And drinking them down before they could think;
Then God appeared and spoke of his works,
But WH said, “bitch, I’ll battle you, jerk”;
And running his hand up the face of a ho,
He smote God with fury and the dopest of flows;
YHWH, Adonai, Jehovah and Christ,
You created the world? Nah, but what what about science?
The Devil appeared and tried to make nice,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”
Hospitality is something that is quite important to me.
I know I generally have quite high expectations and pay, sometimes, too much attention to detail – but it’s only because I care. I think that if someone is coming into your establishment and paying for a service they should receive it to the best of the providers ability. Every single person, every single time. No excuses. Leave your personal problems at the door and do your job and fucking do it properly.
It disappoints and frustrates me that so many people in the hospitality industry can’t seem to uphold standards. They just stop caring. They walk in the door and do the minimum just to get paid at the end of the week and leave as quickly as they can. It doesn’t bother them if there are an abundance of short cuts being made because at the end of the day, the bare minimum is done and they can go home.
It makes people like me wonder if it’s worth caring.
Luckily, I’m privileged enough to know people with the same expectations as me – and that’s enough to keep me sane.
That said, sometimes you accidentally stumble across people with the same values as you, when you aren’t expecting it and that brings me to Saturday just gone. We played (and by played I mean totally ruled) at Black Cherry’s Christmas party at The Factory Theatre in Marrickville. After we loaded in and set our stuff up and got our sound check out of the way, my girlfriend and I ducked off to grab some dinner.
We walked up the street to the Vic on the Park because it was the closest place to eat and we could just walk there. We walked in and took a look at the menu and both decided the Pork Chop sounded good. That with vegies.
We went over to the counter and the chef came over to take our order as it was only a tiny kitchen and the waitress was out clearing tables. He informed us that he was out of the Pork. Damn. Oh well, the next item down was a garlic and rosemary marinated Lamb Chop. This sounded equally as good. Oh, nope… they had ran out of those too. It had been a busy weekend he said, after he questioned “what kind of chef am I? oh my god”.
He sat down. He meant business. He went through what he had run out of, and offered us a couple of things he could do which weren’t on the menu. We both settled on chicken schnitzel with vegies and dianne sauce. I added some mashed potato to mine after he assured me it wasn’t “the powdered stuff, I make it properly”.
After getting free softdrink from the bar, we proceeded out to the beer garden and 10 minutes later our meal was ready. The schnitzel was awesome. It was obvious that it was prepared fresh. It wasn’t thin and overcooked like most places do and it actually tasted like chicken should, not like cardboard.
The vegies were great. It was simply broccoli, carrot and cauliflower sauteed in butter and garlic. Seasoned beautifully. He accidentally left the dianne sauce off and after I mentioned it to the waitress she ran back in and returned a couple of minutes later with a jug of it. It was a little heavy on the worcestershire, but I didn’t mind that because again, you could tell he made it fresh. And I happen to like worcestershire sauce. Also, as he assured me his mashed potato was actually made with potatoes.
As we finished the chef came out to check how it was and cleared our plates for us. We had a quick chat with him before we left and he apologised for the third time about our first two orders being unavailable. He was a really nice guy who obviously took pride in what he did. Everything he cooked was freshly prepared and it was so refreshing. You could tell.
It seemed to me as though he had only recently started leasing that kitchen (I might be wrong and I hope I am). Either way it was apparent that he had not lost the love for food and what he was producing. Even though he was only cooking simple pub food, it was inspiring. He cared. I hope he holds on to that love and passion and doesn’t fall into the rut that so many (fucking lazy) people seem to and start taking short cuts that inevitably lead to shitty, uninspired and disappointing meals and restaurant experiences. The world (and the hospitality industry) needs more people like him.
There you go, I’m not always a snobby prick.
I had spent the night in a holding cell in Newtown police station. The cops roughed me up some, but then again, maybe I shouldn’t have run my mouth.
“Hey, pig, they’re some ugly fucking shoes, nice to see that you got the face to match.”
Yeah, that one cost me.
It took two of them to throw me into the back of their wagon. I’m not strong, but I can wriggle and I was good and greased up.
“I can’t get hold of him,” said the fat one, gin blossom nose squashed and wet with snot. The fucker was literally drooling in anticipation of getting me in private.
“Hold this, you bastard.” I really need to learn to keep my trousers on in these situations. I guess a normal dude would think ‘I really need to stop getting into these situations,’ but then again, y’all know damn well who I am.
As soon as we got in, I could smell piss. The station was empty but for night clerk or whatever the fuck you call the guy who sits on his ass all night, browsing internet porn, answering phones and drinking coffee.
“Are you going to clean that cell before you put me in?”
They didn’t. Fuckers took my shoes, wallet, rings and belt. Then they found my switch blade. It’s a real nice piece, an antique actually, brass inlaid with gold and a goddamned sharp blade.
“What’s this for?”
“Hey, it’s a dangerous world, dude. Why, just tonight I was jumped by two big fuckers with more gut fat than sense.”
Pow. Right in the mouth.
Eventually, they had to let me go when they dragged in a couple of transvestites who had held up the 7-11 and were raising hell of biblical proportion.
I stumbled home, fuckers hadn’t given me back my shoes, wallet or knife, but at least I had my belt.
I didn’t have my keys, so I climbed through the window and went straight to the fridge, Coopers Green takes the edge off.
After a couple of medicinal whiskey shots, I heard a noise coming from the bedroom. What now?
I walked down the hall and threw the door open.
My man, Slim, fucking my ho!
“Slim, the fuck, man?”
“Hey, WH, a bitch is a bitch.”
“You goddamn right, Slim.”
Later on that day, Slim and me went shoe shopping.