"Goin' Off" - Around Australia with Jimbo.
"Life is not a problem to be solved, but a mystery to be lived."
William Butler Yeats.
April 2004 - October 2005...
Neil Young wrote in his song, 'Heart of Gold', the lyric, 'Twenty four and
there's so much more'. Well I was 34 and hoped there was so much more.
More than a slow descent into death by boredom, surrounded by people who
were obsessed with talking about interest rates, their mortgage, their
wedding, kids, the boss, gossip superannuation fees, renovations, bills, Big
Brother evictions, sporting teams, their car, the weather.
I didn't hate
these conversation topics. They just didn't bar me up enough to talk about
beyond an entree size portion into real conversation. I didn't want them to
be the main meal and dessert as well.
The weather for fuck's sake. Maybe if
you were a farmer and had your life savings sown in a paddock out the back
but not in Sydney where most people, woke up, went to their garage, got in
their air conditioned car, drove to a car park, stayed inside all day and
then drove home to sit down and watch television for four hours. And then
complain at the end of it how busy they were - too tired to even root their
partners anymore.
Everything was becoming mindless, sameness to me.
Surely there was more out there, another way. In 2004 there were no new
lands to discover. There seemed even less of new experiences to discover.
People's idea of trail-blazing now was investing in a stock that was about
to go off and the concept of doing something crazy and spontaneous, was
'having an affair'. Whoopee doo!
People knew more about their Neighbours on
TV than they they're own neighbours. Humanity and culture to me seemed to
be going down a dark alley and I didn't want to contribute to the ride. I
wanted to get off. Get off big time.
I wanted to hear the frayed edges of people's psyche. I wanted to hear the
confidence behind the insecurities and the insecurities behind the
confidence. The real stuff that bonded humans.
Not people's 'PR spiel to
the world' on how they were going. I wanted to hear a report from the
expanding edge of their universe. The point where they weren't terribly
sure of, their distilled essence, the diamond where they cut whatever came
in their path. Some people didn't even seem to know where this was. In
which case this was their edge and view of the world.
A regurgitated view
from what had been splurged up to them and assimilated while in a catatonic
state on the couch after work, reading newspapers, watching tv and ignoring
the people around them. Diversity of opinion was fading faster than
rainforests. Surely there was more out there. Whatever people's edge was
though, I wanted to hear it, in all its raw glory.
The truth that was far
stranger than fiction. This was the opal, I was hunting for. And just
like an opal hunter, I wanted to feel the fever every morning I woke.
The fever that told me that maybe maybe something could happen today which
would blew me away.... I wanted to be inside the washing machine of life,
not leaning against it, looking at my watch.
I felt I had so much more chance of finding this, on the road than hanging
out in a city, sleeping in the same place, night after night. I'd done that
already for most of my life. That was becoming to me like looking for a
diamond in a rubbish tip. The lack of diamond wasn't worrying me as much as
the stench around it.
The stench of bullshit. There was no less bullshit in
the wide open spaces but at least out there, I imagined, you could perhaps
smell it on people, a mile off and hence be able to isolate it more.
Finding out who was full of shit in the city was like trying to find out who
farted on a crowded dance floor. The cloak of anonymity is always thicker
the more people there are around you.
Just like 15 footballers rocking into
a strange nightclub pissed. Surrounded by your own tribe you knew you could
be a bigger dickhead than you would be normally on your own - simply because
you could get away with it. In the city it seemed to me that bullshit
walked, money talked. How boring was that!?
You can't laugh, fuck, or play
much when you're stuck in a room naked, with a pile of money. That to me
was city living. A whole lot of people boxed up in their storage units,
playing with nothing: working their guts out so they had enough money to buy
things to impress people whom they didn't really like anyway. I was over
it. I had to go. It wasn't even a choice.
I suppose it was the main reason, I got into stand-up comedy too. Nothing
brave about it. I was just bored with life. I wanted something that would
put me on edge. Something that would push me. Something that made me
nervous. A platform where I could say anything I want, no boundaries. An
art form that gave instant feedback as to whether it was universal or not.
No muckin around, no hype needed!?
I'd been doing kid's birthday parties as
a clown for years. I got bored of that so I started making jokes that would
crack the parents up as well, nothing rude, just stuff which went over the
kid's heads every now and then and kept the pissed parents milling around
the BBQ happy too. That was going well but I was now bored of that.
Boredom to me was, not writing any new material.
I was nervous about stand-up comedy, which is probably why it took me so
long to get up and do it. They say your first stand-up gig will always be
your hardest. It's so true. Dying on stage, is not something you enjoy,
it's just something you get used to. And that happens with practice.
Anyway in stand-up, there were no kid's to use as props. No slap stick. No
giving a balloon to a kid that went down in his hand and getting a laugh.
Stand-up was words. I had to do it. Being nervous was what I craved.
Anything but boredom, that was death.
I got up at the Sydney Comedy Store one Tuesday night at amateur night. I
bombed. Tanked it. Five minutes of no laughs. The only laugh I got at the
end was when I said, 'That was pretty shit, wasn't it?' That one laugh was
enough to make me go back and have another crack three months later.
I
started getting good at it, getting laughs but I became bored of that.
Stand-up comedy I realised became like rote learning at school. You
collected gags until you had a routine that worked and you then just went
around repeating the same script. Set up, punch line, laugh. Set up, punch
line, laugh.
People laughing at your jokes was good but it was never like
the first time you said the joke, not knowing whether it was funny or not.
That was the dragon I was chasing. So I started chasing harder by taking
risks, getting ruder, and using more taboo subjects to get a laugh. I
started getting banned from venues because a few people were complaining and
venue owners were nervous. So I said 'fuck it, I'll get my own gigs in
rough pubs and say whatever I want'.
That's how my show, 'The Big Night Out' started. Sitting on a couch with a
microphone and asking the crowd, 'how the fuck are you?' and then just
interviewing people and inciting nudity. It resulted in a weekly residency
gig at The Albion Hotel in Parramatta.
I had a three year run there which
culminated in 'the incident'. A 20 year old couple from Burger King, came up
on stage for my talent quest, one night. Her aim was to beat the girl who had
got her tits out and let a guy and a girl suck one each at the same time.
The couple from Burger King pronounced proudly that they could beat it. She
then got down on her knees and sucked his cock while he sung a song. He won
the talent quest that night because I thought he was a great singer.
Crowds
went through the roof over the next few weeks. Word of mouth filled the
room up like never before. Even the local Bandido bike gang members started
coming down because they heard there was more action at my show than at the
local strip joint.
The consortium of businessmen who owned the pub however
got wind of the blow-job and how I had a copy of it on video and was
planning to release it. They sacked me straight away as they thought I'd
jeopardise their standing with licensing police.
Ironically the licensing
police were in the crowd each week, having a drink and enjoying my show.
After all, cops are human too and don't mind a bit of tit and ass, at the
end of a hard day's work. Two weeks before, my show was cut, I'd actually
had two cops (I found out after the show) pulling their pants down, on
stage, for the 'hairy arse' competition. This then evolved into a 'who
could take the biggest spanking' session, from a girl in the front row who
had borrowed her boyfriend's belt. Anyway, it was a top night.
Getting the boot though was not a disaster, it was an opportunity.
I wasn't going to let 'The Big Night Out', die. It was my child. I was
going to take it on the road and see where it took me! Fucked if I was
going to staying at home, each night and watching Blue Heelers.
I was pretty
disappointed, though. I'd got so much pressure from management to get the
bar tab up each week on the three years I'd been performing there. Just
when I get record bar tabs, big crowds, a following, they sacked me, all
because a couple decided to do what everyone else does in their bedroom, on
stage.
The Japanese word for catastrophe is two kanji symbols stuck
together. One means catastrophe and the other means 'opportunity'. I like
the idea. The interpretation of the word gave a positive spin to events
which in the west we would interpret as solely negative. I tried to do the
same.
In getting sacked, I found that opportunity. I was no longer tied to
a weekly gig in the city. I was free to go out into the country with my Big
Night Out show and check out what was out there. Besides, the big smoke was
also bleeding me of money. Spiritually, emotionally and financially, I
needed to change direction big time.
When I threw out all my unnecessary belongings and squeezed the remaining
ones I wanted into my car, to go around the country, I had no particular
destination in mind. My sole aim was just to enjoy the journey, wherever it
took me.
What followed was a kaleidoscope of crazy characters, weird adventures, mad
gigs, the odd shag and brilliant sunsets.
I left Sydney first and went out to Broken Hill and then up the coast to
Darwin before cutting across to Cairns. After going up and down the East
coast, travelling back through Sydney a couple of times, I then crossed the
Nullarbor to W.A and spent six months gigging my way up to the Northern
Territory border near Wyndham before returning to Darwin where I wrote up
this book. The pubs I've performed at are listed at the end of this blog.
I would like to thank anyone along the way who smiled at me, talked to me,
listened to me, went to my show, fucked me, fed me, bought me drinks, put me
up and most of all shared with me, who they were.
Thanks to you, I'm still going. People often ask me what I'm going to do in
the future? Where are you going? Are you going to keep doing this? Do you
think you'll ever stop somewhere? What are you going to do when you're old?
The answer to all of these is, 'I don't know'.
What I do know though, is that not knowing what's going to happen next in
life is when most of the fun occurs....
Anyway, this is my story of how I hit the road from Sydney, 'looking for
adventure and whatever came my way'.
April 2004
It was my first time doing night driving, since setting off from Sydney. I was on The Kidman way between Bourke and Cobar. I nudged the speed up to 140km/h and sat on it confidently, until I managed to spot a cow out of the corner of my eye. It was standing in the middle of the on-coming lane. I was pretty freaked out.
'Look city boy. You're driving in the country now. Slow down and put your high beams on', I said to myself. 'Ya dumb fuck'.
Apparently when 50metre road trains hit cows standing in the middle of the road, the cows explode. I reckon with my Mazda 323, it would have been the other way around.
I arrived in Cobar late and booked into the Great Western Hotel which boasts on its place mats that it has the biggest wraparound balcony in the Southern Hemisphere. Mario's Hotel in Broken Hill has the same boast. In the outback, is seems common for blokes to lie about the size of their balconies.
I love country pubs. The beers are cold, the counter meals generous and someone is always up for a yarn. Wednesday night in Cobar is darts night. It was on in every pub. The Black Knights team at The Great Western Hotel, all had their own t-shirt which said, 'Our darts go in deeper'.
In the crowd at my Cobar RSL show, was a lady who worked at the local frock shop. I asked her if there were any cross dressers in town. She said she gets one in, about every six months. I asked whether they admit to it to her or whether she can just pick 'em. She said some are up front about it while others like to say that the dress is 'for my sister who is about the same size as me'. She says they then pop into the change room in order to 'try it on for her'.
After driving over 1000kms inland, I discovered that the youth of Broken Hill were preparing for a big tsunami.
I drove into the small town of Snowtown. It's just off the hwy between Adelaide and Port Augusta. Snowtown was the location one of Australia's most notorious mass murder's back in the late 90's. The bodies were found stuffed in barrels in the local bank vault. I was looking for the bank. Every time I drove slowly past someone walking on the street, they stopped and stared at my NSW number plates and then made a quick comment to the person they were walking with. Somehow, I don't think I'm the only dickhead who does laps of this town, too scared to get out.
Next stop was Port Pirie, where I stopped in for a beer at the local Hotel. I chatted with a young fellow at the bar who worked at the place, six days a week. Today was his day off. He said he'd decided to come in and kill some time by having a punt on the horses. Launceston races, was where he was having the most luck. I asked him what people do in this town for fun. He said they 'get pissed, pull cones and try and root each other'. It sounded like a lot of other towns I know. He then told me how he used to have about 20 cones a day but gave up because they were no longer doing anything to him. I asked him what Port Augusta was like. He said it was full of blacks and whites who both drank strictly in their own pubs. He wasn't wrong. When I pulled into Port Augusta, it was like walking into apartheid South Africa. The whites drank in The Northern Hotel and the Blacks drank in The Wharfies Hotel, next door.
I stopped at Woomera, which was firstly known for the rocket launches in the 60's and more recently as a detention centre for illegal boat people (apart from white people between 1770-2000). The centre was completely empty. Apparently they've all been moved to a new place, in order to confuse the hippies. Or was it, empty? I drove past a gate leading in, wondering whether I should venture inside and check it out. I came back a minute later to find that the motorised gate had shut. Luckily I didn't go in. I hear it's pretty hard to get out. The only sign I saw at all, of any refugees at Woomera was a discarded sowing kit on the side of the road. Apparently the reason they sowed their lips together was not for protest reasons. They were just trying to learn how to speak out the side of their mouth - like the locals.
Roxby Downs is a purpose built village built by Western Mining Resources with all the amenities designed to make the 6-7000 miners that live here, feel like they're not 50kms down the road, at Woomera. There was a Library with unlimited internet access, a pool, gym, every kind of shop - all in relatively new buildings surrounded by freshly curbed roads, with no razor wire to be seen. It felt like a 'Worker bee Disneyland'. The flipside was that anyone caught fighting, on site, down at the pub or anywhere in town was sacked and sent away, no questions asked. The price of good pay and working conditions in the corporate mining world these days was that you had to behave according to a strict set of conduct rules. Beneath the clean facade though, I suspected a lot of dirty linen in this town. There wasn't much for the housebound partners to do. The rumour in town was that, if a chick left an OMO laundry detergent box on her balcony that meant 'Old Man Out'. Interestingly, Roxby Downs has the highest divorce rate in South Australia as well as the highest fertility rate. I wonder if the two are linked. The winner of the talent quest at Roxby Downs was the lady who licked out a girl while she did a full back arch on the pool table.
I drove out to the legendary town of Andamooka. It was an old opal town created in 1937. Roxby Down people described it as 'feral' and full of people living in burnt out cars and humpies. They also said 'you had to go there and check it out'. They weren't wrong. This town was in complete contrast to the corporate disinfectant smell of Roxby Downs. Andamooka seemed like a throwback to Australia's Wild West days. Makeshift houses were everywhere, surrounded by mounds of dirt. The Legendary pub called The Tucker Box wasn't open. This is the pub where apparently, not too long ago bullets used to fly above your head as you walked in. Roxby Downs opened in 1987, 40kms down the road from Andamooka. Roxby's proximity, with its police station, had apparently bought a bit more law and order to Andamooka. Anyway I cruised down to The Opal Inn and had a great yarn with Jo, Hawke eye and Max the barman who were all drinking and having a yarn. They let me join in.
They told me how in Andamooka, you buy 'lots' and then dig for opal with your shovel or bobcat. They said it wasn't as cut throat as Coober Pedy where apparently if you were on someone else's lot they shot first and then asked questions later. Here, they said 'they at least asked questions before they shoot you'. They said there were a lot of old mine shafts around the place too, which were good for disposing of bodies One of the biggest finds lately was some opalized dinosaur bones which the guy who found it, sold to a university for $25 grand. They then went onto describe the 'biggest bush pig in the town'. She was a lady who lived on the hill. They said 'her place was such a mess that you wiped your feet when you left her place!'
Upon leaving, Max pointed to a guy coming down the hill, towards the pub. He was about a kilometre away. Max said he'd make it to The Opal Inn, in about an hour. He said he comes in at the same time, every day. He was about 70 and I could see he was hobbling with a huge limp. Every step he leaned sideways while his other leg went out at a right angle before it went forward. Max said his name was 'Tassie Jim'. He'd been waiting on a hip replacement for two years. I asked what Tassie Jim did each day. Max said, 'he drinks and digs'.
Highlight and winner of the talent quest at my Coober Pedy show was a Serbian guy called, Nichola. He said he'd come to Coober Pedy in 1968 'to find his fortune' but all he'd found was 'unfortune'. His English was shocking for someone who had been in the country for 36 years. I decided to give him English lessons, as part of my show, in the hope of getting some laughs. I asked him very slowly to 'repeat after me'. He looked at me confused, not understanding what I'd said. I looked at the crowd knowingly, to let them know a good joke was coming up and pressed on. I then said, 'howareyagoing ya cunt?' Straight away Nichola shot back innocently with, 'I'm good thanks'. It seemed there was some English old Nichola had picked up along the way here in the opal fields. Everyone in the crowd, including me laughed at how quick and unexpected his response was. I love it when crowds amuse me back.
A big highlight for me was meeting Jimmy 'the local Coober Pedy legend', who was loved and looked after by all the multi-cultured people of this peculiar town. He sat there with his striking white beard during the show, not missing a beat. Rob the pub manager, told me that his house had burnt down several years ago and he'd lost everything. 'Everyone in the town had looked after him since'. He was treated like the town's elder statesman. Rob then said, 'he'll die in this town'. When mates look after you like that, I thought, 'who needs a super fund?' It seemed like Jimmy had earnt his community support over the years and it made me proud to be an Australian.
In the morning I cruised down to the Coober Pedy Anzac service at 10am. Standing proud was Jimmy holding the Greek flag right amongst the ceremony, fully dressed up in his best gear and combed beard. He looked great. The ceremony was awesome with everyone getting fully into it. The only ones who weren't, were an Aboriginal family pushing a pram past on the footpath. They looked on in a bewildered manner. Not in a disrespectful way, just in a way, that said, 'we don't quite understand'. Anzac day is the day we commemorate all the lives lost in war, fought for our country. Anzac Day for Aborigines, I suppose is on January 26th, the day Captain Cook planted the first flag on Australian soil.
I cruised down to the RSL to play two-up and immediately struck up a yarn with a guy called Dingo who took me to his mate, Steve's place who lives in a dugout. That is an underground house carved into the rock. It's where everyone seems to live in Cooper Pedy. Cool in summer, warm in winter and requiring minimal building material. He said, since he'd been here that he'd put down 100 shafts on his lots without striking, plus he'd lost a wife, in the process - she'd got bored and gone back to Adelaide. He said he was still optimistic of striking it rich and winning her back though. In the meantime, I think he was enjoying being single. 'I can see the chicks hovering around me from a mile off', he reckons.
It always amuses me to hear old people talk about picking up. Divorces, widows, boredom... It seems to me that the casual sex market really opens up as you get into the second half of your life, as opposed to what many younger people would think. In fact it's probably something younger people don't want to think about! Anyway, it was great to meet a genuine Coober Pedy miner, struck with the fever. 'Underground roulette' as one local described it.
Another highlight for me was meeting a guy called Dave, as I walked into the RSL. We immediately started yarning. He said he had more injury's then most Vietnam Vets and he hasn't even been to war. He got my finger and pressed it up against his beard under his chin. It felt cold and metallic. He said that's were his wife had clubbed him just before he left her. '1000 stiches were needed to my head', he said. 'She'd killed her previous husband by stabbing him 29 times in the neck. The police had apparently let her off with a golden handshake because the guy she'd killed was Australia's 4th most wanted man'. He said, the police said, in the report, said that he'd stabbed himself. We both started laughing at the absurdity of the idea, that you would stab yourself, that many times. "I mean surely you'd stop after 20 stabs and think, 'I've got the wrong man!'" We laughed again, shaked hands, exchanged names and then walked into the RSL for a beer together. Everyone in the RSL was just as friendly. The beauty of this place is that you don't need ID for anything. Even the opal is bought and sold for cash. It's good to know there are still places like this in Australia. A place where everyone judges you on face value, not your past.
That night in Coober Pedy was a quintessential Australian experience for me. Playing two-up outside the Coober Pedy RSL, beside a fire, fuelled by old railway sleepers, under the night sky. I'd be yarning to someone and then just wonder over to the fire, look up into the sky and say to myself, 'this is fuckin' unreal'. The bets weren't big which seemed to reflect the reality that the Opal boom was not going gang-busters anymore in Coober Pedy. Most were betting five dollar notes... the rest going behind the bar. I heard later that, population wise per capita, Coober Pedy was the fastest declining town in South Australia.
Driving along the road to Ayers Rock, I suddenly spotted it and was in awe. This was the exchange, I had in my head:
'Fuck!'.... 'Hang on, that's not it'
'Yes it is'
Two minutes later...
'Actually, I don't think it is'.
It ended up being Mt Connor which I found out later was also known to coach drivers as 'the phantom rock'. It's shaped similar to Ayers Rock and is actually bigger but it's not the real thing.
Later on, I came to the real thing. There was no mistaking this one. It was dusk and looked magic. It's the colour that makes Ayers Rock look so visually spectacular not it's size. Ayers Rock was named by the first white man who found it. He named it after the South Australian premier at the time. I can see why the rock is now more popularly called by its traditional name, Uluru though. Mr Ayer never even saw the rock.
The best story from the Uluru village was about a guy here who goes rabbit fishing. Apparently he goes out to the grass fields at dusk, with a huge fishing line, decked out with gang hooks. He then puts a few small carrots on them, and casts into the sunset and pulls the line back in slowly, over the Spinifex. The rabbits flock to the carrots like fish and then get jagged on the massive hooks he's loaded up. He then pulls them in, breaks their necks and puts the rabbits in a heap. He doesn't do anything with them, just piles them up while sucking on a few beers as the sun goes down. We all do different things to kill time. This is what he does.
Janine was the winner of the talent quest at Yuluru Resident's Club for flashing her chest puppies. The crowd loved it and so did the other side.
I put the above photo up on my website and later got this response (below) from someone from the paranormal association of Australia.
Hi Jimbo, I was looking at your gallery and just happened to notice an anomaly on one of your pictures. No, I don't mean you... There's one with a girl who's showing her assets. Next to her there is something which is known in the paranormal world as an orb. Highly controversial, these round images are speculated to possibly be the energy of ghosts captured by the camera. Was a ghost hanging around trying to score with the topless lady?
All I can say is everyone is welcome at my shows. Even pervert ghosts. At least I know, I'll have company when I die! The beat goes on.
I was determined to have a 'rock' experience the next day. It's didn't seem right to come this far without checking it out, up close. I got up at 5am, after two hours sleep and drove out. Instead of going to Uluru I went out to The Olgas first, which was about 50kms down the road. A girl from the gig had recommended 'The Valley of the winds' walk. It was a good tip because it was fuckin' amazing. I got out there while it was still dark and walked up through these amazing boulders while the light was unfolding. For a good two hours, I was the only one there and I walked around for the most, in a bit of a stupor at how amazing these things were to be around.
I was genuinely moved. I then jumped in the car and drove back to the rock, towards it, while pumping, Goanna's hit, 'Solid Rock', Yothu Yindis, 'Treaty', and Icehouse's, 'Great Southern Land' from my CD titled, 'Australia's unofficial anthems'. I drove a lap of the rock and back to the hwy. Driving away I realised it was one of the best experiences of the trip. Remember, if you get out to this spiritual centre of the oldest continent in the world, get up early and go to the Olgas, walk around and soak it up. Words from these fingers can't describe it, it properly. I drove away re-charged and re-energised.
The gig tonight was in the front bar at Todd's Tavern in Alice Springs. No stage, just a corner. I set up my speakers and looked forward to it. It was going to be intimate and dirty I imagined. Everyone looked like laid back locals. I was a bit worried about the well dressed elderly couple having a meal in the middle of the room though. They looked like tourists who were about to be caught in some verbal crossfire between me and my audience of locals at the bar. In order to not offend them, I was going to have to bore everyone else, so I cut to the chase and gave them a taste of what was to come, with some colourful language. 'So how are you cunts going?' The missus was not amused... then something happened a few jokes later...she started pissing herself, which opened the floodgates for her husband. He then got the microphone and started telling everyone how he'd been married for 27 years and the best thing about it was 'there was always someone to root at home when he couldn't get any elsewhere'. The wife was still laughing. They stayed all night and topped the night off by getting their false teeth out and pashing for the talent quest. I ended up being the one shocked.
Multiculturalism in Australia is more of a city phenomenon than a country one. In the country, anyone who isn't white or Aboriginal stands out. On top of this, since September 11, it seems that every country town has labelled someone in their midst, 'Bin Laden'. It usually goes to the only Wog or Arab living in the town, especially if they've got a beard. They always wear their new 'nickname' with pride, though. When I asked who the 'Bin Laden of Alice Springs' was, they all pointed to Lorenzo, the local Sicilian Pizza maker, sitting in the corner. He said he'd driven through the Alice Springs twenty years ago, stopped for a few days and fell in love with a local Koori girl. She was now an internationally famous artist. They'd 'just got back from her latest exhibition in Europe', he said proudly as he sipped his beer.
'Yeah, sure Bin', I said.
After the show I was dragged down the street by ten guys who were all wearing my 'I fucked a goat' t-shirts which they'd bought after the show. They were taking me to the local nite club called 'Bojangles'. Eleven pissed guys, in a pack, rocking up to a nite club, with 'I fucked a goat' written on their shirts. There was no way the bouncer was going to let us in, I thought. He didn't even blink, 'evening gentlemen', he said, as he waved us through, with a bored but welcoming look. The entry requirements here were certainly different to Sydney nite clubs. It made me think about what it would take to NOT be allowed in here. Perhaps a naked man holding a dead body. 'Sorry mate, you haven't got the right footwear'.
The 500km road from Alice to Tennant Creek had three memorable stops. Barrow Creek - the town closest to the Falconi backpacker murder, Wycliffe Well - Australia's self-proclaimed UFO capital and the very eerie, Devil's marbles. If you get paranoid easily, it's probably not the type of stretch you'd want to drive by yourself, at night while ripped off your tits though. Then again, maybe it's the perfect time. if you want to confront your demons, head-on!
At The Tennant Creek Hotel, I spoke to some blow-ins around the bar during my break and asked them what they thought of the show so far. It seems the main attraction to watching my act on some nights, is not the comedy but more the fascination in just sitting back, sipping a beer and wondering why I'm not getting my head punched in. I.e the drama. This was certainly the case tonight. Highlights of the show included a guy who came up and did the 'mad dog'. This is where you snort some salt up your nose, skull a tequila shot and then squeeze lemon in your eye. He did this twice. Two guys then came up and skulled a bourbon through their noses.
When the crowd is loud, drunk disjointed and unified this sure beats any comedy I've got. Energy is everywhere, I've just got to conduct it. We then had the hairy chest competition which was a draw. To decide the winner I told them to turn around to see who had the most hair on their backs. This was also a draw, so I said we'd decide the winner on 'who had the most pubes'. They both then went and sat down. They weren't that drunk. I was really proud of this night. There was a full mixed crowd to start off. It took a while but they all eventually got into the spirit of having a laugh together at the same things. Blacks, whites, tourists, farmers, locals, blow-ins, women, men, old and young, united in mirth.
I had a top yarn afterwards with Steve who works at The Tennant Creek Hotel with his wife. They met each other after their first marriages went haywire. He said they were both pretty unhappy with their lives until they'd met each other. His quote was, we then went, 'Fuck the world, let's play our game' and they've been inseparable every since. He said the only time they've fought, was when they didn't work together which he said showed them both that they couldn't bare to be apart.
Best quote of the night was written on the back of the dunny door in the Tennant Creek Hotel. It read: 'Sex it like playing cards. You either need a good partner or a good hand'. The other one was, 'Embrace your drinking problem, enhance your life, drink till ya stink!'
Tennant Creek has the highest rate of police per capita in the country. There are 37 here for a town of 3000.
Peter, the Tennant Creek Hotel owner, used to be in the racehorse game. He bought the pub three months ago after moving up from Victoria, for 'something different to do'. He seemed like a true gentleman and the friendly mixing of the blacks and whites in the pub seemed a lot to do with his attitude. 'A lot of people say Aborigines cannot handle alcohol because of their genes. That's bullshit. Genetically they're 99.999% the same as us' he said. I spoke to another guy. He said, 'Mate, Abo's can handle piss like no-one else, I've ever met. I've seen some of them drink non-stop for four days without even stopping to sleep. If that's not being able to handle your piss, I don't know what is'.
I was in Daly Waters Tavern when I heard a phone call come through that someone had run out of petrol ten kms down the road. Greg, who ran the place, was straight onto it, with a Gerry can. I followed him out. He said I could come along for the ride. We found the car and Greg jumped out holding a Gerry can of petrol in one hand, a beer in the other hand plus a lit cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Everything was under control! 'Don't worry about it', he said to the couple who offered to pay, after he'd poured petrol into their car. The whole scene was in total contrast to the sensational stranger danger stories up here, I hear way back in Sydney. Northern Territory is an isolated area. Locals know how important it is to help anyone out, whenever they're in trouble. It's ingrained into their culture. One isolated Backpacker murder won't stop that.
Five kms out of Daly Waters, I drove past the road gang I'd been drinking with last night in the bar. They were working the graders and combing the road. We beeped each other and I tossed a shirt to the guy who had bought me bourbons the night before. I saw the guy holding the stop sign and drove away smiling about a new term, I had learnt last night: 'Lollypop bitch'. My stop on the way to Katherine was Mataranka where I dived into the man made hot springs there. They're free. They were built by the soldiers in the Second World War and specially designed to keep crocs out. A group of oldies were on the side, toying about going in. I told them that they should because it's the fountain of youth and how I was actually 70 years old. A 70 year old guy behind me yelled out, 'well it's not working real well for me, I'm meant to be 20'.
May 2005
My favourite lyric from the Katherine Music Muster was from a Slim Dusty cover song that said, 'You can always smell the roses, when you're running with them in your hand'.
The kid's tent is where you'll find out what's going on, in a town at a festival. I was doing the clown show there each day. Best kid of the day was a six year old called Blake who popped one of the balloons I gave him when it dropped on the straw. I immediately dubbed him, 'Kev the koala killer'. Kev and the kids loved it. After my last gig, Kev ran up to me, held my hand and looked up and said, 'You're a nice clown'. It was the equivalent to doing a pub gig and having a guy come up to me, wipe the spew off his mouth, dig his finger into my chest and slur, 'Mate, you're a funny cunt'. I said to the little kid, 'Mate, I'm no longer working so can you fuck off and annoy someone else'. He laughed and ran off.
I also got to have a yarn with the very down to earth Sara Storer, who won a record seven golden guitars at this year's Tamworth music festival. I was talking to her for ten minutes backstage, just about stuff, having no idea who she was. It was only when she was announced on stage that I realised she was the festival's big draw card. She then excused herself and jumped up. It would have been pretty obvious to her that I didn't know who she was and she made no effort to let me know by either hinting at it or dismissing me, while I was there idly chatting to her before she was about to go on to a big audience. I was a bit embarrassed but also very impressed.
After the Muster had finished and the lights turned off there were a few muso's sitting around on hay bales having a jam. I met up with my friend Glenny, from the band, 'The toe-sucking cowgirls'. She'd invited me on tour up here for the first time, a couple of years ago and had been the first person to really open me up to how good touring country Australia really was. Below is a photo of the lovely Glenny. Check out
her website at www.toesuckingcowgirls.com.au.
She got me to sing my Kasey Chambers parody, midway through the jam. Tamara was a girl, hanging around having a bit of a jam too. I started my song. After putting her hand over my mouth to stop me because she thought the song I was singing was disgusting, she then ended up talking to me all night. As a blow-in, I love how strangers just open up to you about their whole lives, knowing you don't know anyone else they're talking about. Which I suppose, is why they do it. Her life was such a contrast to mine: married at 17, first kid at 18 and now divorced at 25, with two daughters.
She blew me away, with her ideas on vegetarianism, spending heaps of time with her two girls, how she disciplines them, getting them off television, saving up on a shoe-string to show them the world one day and hoping that when they hit their teenage years, they're interested in the world, not just in what they're wearing etc. She'd entered the busking competition of the show and won which was pretty good for someone who hadn't performed publicly before.
She said she came to the festival to support it, despite not being into country music. As with most towns, she said everyone complained about no entertainment being there but then didn't turn up when an effort was made to put something on. She said she was there to support the Muster. I drove her home. Back at her place she showed me all her art work hanging on the wall. She told me about the town and the mayor of Katherine, who knew everyone by name. She said black and whites had from the beginning been made to live almost alternatively, house by house, in Katherine to promote racial integration. She said how everyone knew your business in the town, which could be bad for gossip but was also great because everyone also looked after each other more. There was a big support network, she said. I could hardly get a word in all night, which I don't mind when I'm off stage. Especially when it's original and honest conversation.
I left at 5:30am, without having sex but having met someone pretty amazing. Driving back to my hotel, my head and my cock started having an argument.
This is how it went.
Cock: You dumb fucker, you didn't make a move on her at all. She was a babe!
Head: Bad luck buddy, I was after a full night of stimulation myself. I don't care that she was a babe. That's not what turns me on.
Cock: You're a fuckin' grass-cutter, that's what you are.
Head: She wouldn't have fucked you anyway buddy, ya selfish prick.
Things started firing up. The argument was still going on when I lay down for bed. That's when my heart kicked in.
Heart: Now, now children, settle down, otherwise I'm going to have to smack you.
Cock: He started it
Two minutes later...
Head: You do know, he wanted to be smacked, don't you.
Heart: At least it put him to sleep. Now rest up, we've got a lot of driving ahead of us tomorrow...
I woke up at 10am and drove to the top of the country. Darwin. I heard some interesting radio on the way up on the ABC, or 'Those left wing poofters' as someone I heard the other day describe the station as. The first story was about a guy called Epicures from Ancient Turkey who wrote about what he thought were the keys to happiness. The three main ingredients he thought were: friends, freedom and reflection time for your concerns (an analysed life).
I stopped in at Pine Creek Hotel, where I'd had a wild night on tour, two years back. The graffiti on the toilet said: 'Help da police: bash yourself'. Plus: 'There are legends and there are legends but you're not one of them, so get over it, fuckface'.
I dedicated this day to all the truck drivers around the country who make a living out of long hauls. I had to get from Darwin to Mackay in two days for a gig, 3000kms away. I knew it was going to be an experience and I wasn't disappointed. I left Darwin at 1am after the gig and drove down to Katherine and pulled up beside the road at about 5:30pm. It was a good ride with no kangaroos, until Katherine. I was now finally tired so, decided to get some kip while the roos were starting to feed on the dawn sun, beside the road. I love going to sleep while when you're really tired. I slumped across the passenger seat in what under other conditions would have been a very uncomfortable position. I woke up at 8:30pm totally re-energised.
I drove and drove that day until I reached Cloncurry, 1800kms from Darwin. I only stopped to piss, fill up petrol, stretch and eat. I was in the zone. Down to Tennant creek and across through Mt Isa. This crossing was a road I hadn't done before. It was beautiful especially the grass fields stretching forever from Camooweal. Driving into the long shadows with the sunset behind me was surreal and Slim Dusty's lyrics about truckin took on new meaning. I finally understood the lyrics of 'The long black line!' I felt bad about driving through so many towns without stopping and getting to know them for at least a bit but the experience of seriously hauling ass was also giving me a rush. On each stretch, I'd think about arriving at the next town and then as soon as I got in, the urge hit me again to truck on through. Every ten minute stop was another 20kms, I could have done. In Darwin, one guy told me how his Dad once drove his truck from Darwin to Brisbane in one straight hit. 1800kms in one day. I was a novice.
I was having a drink in the front bar of the Mackay Leagues while I was getting ready for a show for the Nth Queensland Cowboys 10th year anniversary celebration lunch, in the next room. When the guy next to me found out I was a comedian he told me the story about the guy who lost both his eyes and then tried to pick them up and put them back in. The punch line was 'but he couldn't'. It took me a while to get it. I hoped the crowd I was playing too wouldn't be as slow getting my jokes as I was his.
Highlight of the gig for me was afterwards meeting Larry 'The grasshopper' Gommersall. The one eyed Queensland referee from those classic QLD vs. NSW, Rugby League State of Origin clashes in the 80's. He still had the moustache.
Later that night I was out on the town in Mackay, partying with a couple of girls I'd met at the show. I took my blow-up doll along for a bit of moral support. My blow-up (Inflatey Katie) got some strange looks and also some interaction from people looking on. One girl came up to me and asked me to come over for a drink. Miranda, one of the girls, I was with, asked me why I didn't take her up. I said, 'she was the wrong species' and pointed to my t-shirt. The antics then became more outrageous. I started dancing with my blow-up, on the podium. Sharon then grabbed Katie and got her to do air guitar to the AC/DC song playing.
Brilliant! It was the brainwave I needed for next year's Air guitar championships, I thought! I'd got to the NSW state final this year. Next year, I'm going to enter Inflatey Katie and go all the way to the World's in Finland! I'll be her roadie, I dreamed. Inspiration can come, in the most unlikely situations. I celebrated my epiphany by lying Inflatey Katie down on the bar and dry rooting her. Within a couple of pumps the bouncer was ripping me, off her. I think the only thing stopping him from punching me out was the sudden realisation that I was dead sober. It freaked him out a bit and from there he wasn't really sure what to do, apart from say, 'you can't do that here, mate'. I nodded approval at his use of the word 'here'.
A sign in the cafe to Townsville said, 'A man will spend $2 on a $1 item he needs. A woman will spend $1 on a $2 item she doesn't need'. At servo on the way, was written in the toilets: 'Kim Beazley has a 12 inch dick and a 1 inch brain'.
On radio national was a program talking about medicinal marijuana use in California. They said one of the mental side-effects of dope was either a comatose effect or the opposite, described as 'an unfamiliar rush of ideas' - which is what normally happens to me if I have two many puffs. If a joint is given to me, I'm usually the guy at the end of the party, sitting in a corner by himself, talking to the mirror because everyone else has crashed out way before I've finished what I've got to say.
I think we all want to be connected to other people in some way, whether it's through, sex, drugs, love, religion, following the cowboys football team or whatever, especially when you're lonely. One of the big ways we express this desire on long country roads is the finger wave, to the on-coming car. Sometime's you both do it and it feels good. Sometimes you both do it and it feels forced, like a chore. Sometimes one person does it and the other person drives by. I call this the 'unrequited wave'. It's nothing personal, (and certainly no reason to do a U-turn and stalk them!) the other person is just in another head space or perhaps it's because you're close to a town and in a 'no wave necessary zone'.
I remembered talking to the girl last night in a Mackay nite club who said she was going home, to 'BOB'. I asked her who 'BOB' was and she said, 'Battery operated Boyfriend'.
It's amazing the conversations you get into, yelling to strangers in a nightclub. The best one I ever had was in a Griffith nightclub a couple of years ago. A girl came up to me and asked me what month I was born. I said, 'March'. She then stood back in total amazement and said, 'No way, I was born in February!'. When I realised she wasn't joking, I decided it was time to go back home and chat my hand up, instead.
The desire for sex is so basic. Trying to ignore it all the time, as we're all forced to do from time to time (some more than others) is pointless, unless you're a tantric yogi wannabee. I say in my routine and I believe this, that at the end of the day, 'sex is just basically the desire to have a bit of company while you do your load'. Sure you can layer other things onto top of it, like love, romance, a good conversation etc but at it's core is a strange force, both irrational and instinctive. No wonder it causes so much trouble.
Last night Sharon, whispered to me, 'Wow, you're a good cuddler'. I chuckled to myself, at the thought of making this the high point in a story sent into Playboy's forum section.
A topic then came up on the radio about a guy being held in solitary confinement in Sydney for suspected links to terrorist training camps. I wondered what would be worse on someone's psyche, solitary confinement or marital confinement. The older I get the happier I get with just cruising around and hanging out and enjoying whoever happens to be around me at the time. Life is such a personal journey. I'm sure I'll get to the nursing home one day and people will ask me, 'why I never got married and had kids'. My reply I'm sure will be, 'I forgot to get around to it'. It seems to me to be more like one of those things, I've got on my 'to-do list' which, I just couldn't be fucked getting around to doing anymore. It seems like such hard work. Eventually, I think I'll just cross it off my list, happy in the knowledge that I didn't really need to do it in the first place, anyway. Besides, when it comes to breeding, it's not like we're an endangered species on this planet. It's not exactly necessary now, for the survival of the species. In fact, haven't we got more than enough people on this planet? 'Breed more', I can hear the politicians saying in reply, 'it's good for the economy'.
At the Hughenden gig, I made my usual joke of picking out a guy in the crowd and labelling him 'the local drug dealer'. I usually pick the guy, at the entrance to the bar, leaning against the door, scoping the room. After most of my gigs, it blows me away to find out that the person I joke around with, for being a drug dealer, usually is. Why do drug dealers always dress the same, like it's a uniform that says, 'if you want some pot and perhaps something a bit harder come to me'. The cap, the ever so slightly longer hair, and the shirt which isn't country, isn't city but just in between. The confident, lone networker who is good for a laugh and a bit of 'what you need'.
'Have a go ya mug', is a great Aussie saying. I love it. Whoever first yelled it out on the hill at some cricket game, knew what life was all about. I wonder if anyone has translated it into Latin yet and used it on a University coat of arms.
Ben seemed to be an expert at chatting up chicks. Not in a full of himself way but more in a matter a fact way, from a young guy trying to live his life to the full. I was amazed that backpackers still fall for the, 'I'm a dolphin trainer' line which he says he uses. He said the secret to pulling it off, was in the immense detail he went into about the dolphins not being able to bend their neck far enough, when catching the fish at training. He said he then goes into demonstrating this by massaging the girl's neck. He then illustrates his vocational techniques as he speaks and massages. Not that I suppose the girls are listening much. The weekly backpacker bus that arrives in Hughenden is a long ride. Ben provides neck massages a dolphin training yarn, for free when they hop off! He also said it took him years to realise that at the end of the night, girls generally prefer a guy who can still walk.
We then talked about our love of really rough pubs and how you'll always meet the best people in them. Ben reckoned it's because all the fuckwits are either weeded out of the place in fights and the people who are full of bullshit and 'up themselves', just too scared to come in. It seemed like a credible theory. We also joked about buying drugs and how much of a nerve you'd need to be a drug dealer. Ben joked about how bosses of his various jobs often promote him before he gets bored. He said his talents had also been spotted in the drug dealing world where he'll be often offered to do 'a job'. We joked about the situation where you're explaining to a guy you've just realised is 'Mr Big'. "Look sorry mate, I was just looking for a bit of a smoke - not to be a distributor to the whole eastern seaboard".
I got up at 10am and hit the road. A 100kms down the road, I realised I'd forgotten to give back the room key. I stopped into the Torrens Creek pub and met Les, who said 'no worries, I'll return it'. His said his friend was going back that way and would drop it in tomorrow. I joked about the chances of this happening 100kms out of Sydney. Zero.
Jimmy Barnes' song, 'working class man' came on the radio again. I liked the lyrics, 'Blue denim in his veins'. I reckon he could have just as easily have sung, 'Blue vein in his denim'.
I read a quote today on a desk calendar. It said, 'those people you can't stand are usually people you don't understand'. I liked it. It's a little bit lazy to just not stand someone. In Nimbin I remember a quote that said, 'What you like in other people is what you like in yourself and what you don't like in other people is what you don't like in yourself'. It was written on a mirror.
Her porn name (based on her first pet and street name) was Muffy Rhyde! It's the best one, I've heard.
Highlight at the show at Magnum's nite club in Airlie Beach, was an English guy called Max who got up and told everyone about his favourite sexual position which is called 'the zombie'. He said it was where you "cough up a big lurgy and spit it on her back, just after you've pulled your cock out, while doing doggy style. She then spins around thinking that you've cum. You then squirt your load in her face. She then walks around with her hands out in front of her, not being able to see - hence the term, 'Zombie'". The crowd lost it and I made a mental note.
After the show I wondered around. I was keen, mostly to just sit down outside with a beer and have a casual chat with someone who didn't expect me to tell jokes or listen to theirs. I saw a couple of guys who had been inside at my show. They were two middle aged guys from Canada who had an interesting story. Dave who was in a wheelchair, said his mate beside him, 'Heinrich' had asked him whether he'd wanted to go on a round the world holiday with him. Dave had said, 'don't be silly, I'm in a wheelchair'. Heinrich then said, 'Fuck that, you're coming with me'. Anyway, here they were. They'd just come from China where they'd seen the Great Wall and travelled throughout the Chinese countryside. They said they were permanently stoned throughout their trip and were constantly being bought into people's houses where they were clothed and fed by people who just wanted to hang with them and talk.
We then got onto how it's ridiculous it is, in the media, how we're taught to fear so many people including whole races and groups of religions who are unknown to us and how when you then get out there and up close to people you've never met before, you just get blown away with how nice people want to be with you. Heinrich nodded and said, 'yeah man, it's all lies, lies, lies..' He then asked me back for a smoke. I just wanted to chill where I was though and swapped addresses instead. They'd blown me away, anyway already these guys. Their smiles were permanently burnt into their faces and I thought, 'good on them'. Two middle aged guys on the other side of the world, up the front of a wet t-shirt comp, blind and having a ball. Sure beats watching TV and whingeing about your neighbour.
Gag of the night for me, came from a girl who was helping me out, by heckling throughout my show. She was with Steve the chef. I chatted to them after the show. She told me how she'd spent the last ten minutes hitting up girls to go back to their place, for a threesome but all the girls 'were all too straight and freaking out'. As I was talking to the Canadians outside I saw her walk by again and yelled out to her, asking how she went. She turned around all pissed off, as she opened the cab door and said, 'it went fucked, I couldn't even get a girl who looked like a man!'
It was 4pm in the Carlon's hotel in Sarina, I sat in the front bar listening to a pissed white guy talk to an Aborigine about religion. You could tell the Abo was just trying to get out of the conversation. The white guy, who was pissed, continued: 'I'm mean there's Buddha, Jesus, Mohammad.. heaps of them, how do we know which one is the real God?' The Abo said back diplomatically, 'I can't answer that one mate'. He then patted the white fella on the back and got up and left. Abo's in general are either seen as, hopeless alcoholics or wise and referred elders and nothing much in between. The reality is like white guys though. Most are just regular blokes who like to do their business, hang out, have a beer and laugh.
By 8pm, I had a brain wave to plug another 300kms to Rockhampton. I wasn't too sure, if it was the right move though, at this time. I was still a bit tired but when you're in moving mode though, it can be hard to resist, the automatic pilot. I packed the car and walked back into the bar, where I was warmly accosted by a couple of blokes drinking. They had that glazed look of the fifth beer about them where you'll engage anyone who walks within 20metres of your personal space.
The guy with the white mullet and front tooth missing went:
'You look lost'.
He was right. I was vacillating heavily about whether to drive or not. I explained my state of mind.
The other guy went, 'careful, from here to Rocky is the QLD horror stretch, it'll take 4 hours plus there are heaps of roos'.
The mullet man then jumped in.
'Beauty, I'll come with you. I was going to hitch to Gladstone tomorrow anyway'.
As if to then allay my hesitation he then raised his beer as if he'd just come up with his clincher closing point, to convince me to take him.
'And don't worry I've got me licence, so I'll be able to share the driving. Can you give me a lift round to my place so I can pick me stuff up?'
I segwayed back to the other guy's point and slid out mumbling that I'm going to have couple of hours sleep and think about it.
I went upstairs and lay down, forcing myself to stay, heading the bar god's message wise advice which had just been cryptically delivered to me, through two of his disciples.
I drove through Gin Gin and took a photo of the sign on it's outskirts that said, 'Queensland's friendliest town 2003'. I wonder how they judge such a thing. Perhaps a select panel stay in each town for a night and go around and chat to people. Perhaps the panel all got laid in Gin Gin.
I drove into Childers and stopped outside the Childers fire station for some reason. It was closed. Like Snowtown, Barrow Creek etc and other towns that come to prominence because of a nationally publicised tragedy, I image this town has had it's fair influx of stickybeaks, fascinated with a place that they'd read about in the paper. Again, the type of people who drive around the town and stare from their slowly moving car but never get out. The pub which was burnt down, taking the lives of a heap of backpackers with it, looked like it was nearly restored. I stopped into another pub on my way to find an internet cafe. I put my 'pot of gold' (XXXX beer) up against the window ledge in the bar and looked out onto the street while three guys had a yarn, behind me. These were the snippets of conversation I heard:
'So you're having your bucks party hey?! Don't' forget there are a lot of things you can do with plaster of Paris and a steel bath'
'The police, said they got 350 plants but he swears he had 400'
'That's what happens when you get greedy and talk. You either get ripped off or tipped off. He got both'
'Coppers are human as well'.
Often listening to a conversation in public such as in a bar or on public transport is far better than being in the conversation because you can get the good bits and then bail at a moment's notice, without getting involved. No wonder Big Brother is popular.
I had to do some e-mailing, so stopped at a convenience store in Gympie which had a couple of computers. After twenty minutes of typing the girl next to me said to me, 'Who are you typing to?' I said, 'to myself, I'm writing a diary'. I then asked her the same.
She said she was typing to her internet lover in Canberra who'd she'd met up with for the first time, last week. She was now typing to him to break the news that she was pregnant which she says she wasn't entirely happy with. I asked her if she's got any kids already. She said, 'Three. They're, 13, 11 and 9'. I then asked her, a little taken aback, how old she was. She ripped off her beanie and said '29'. She then went onto say that she wasn't too sure whether it was 'the guy in Canberra's baby'. She said after a year of no sex, she'd gone around to an ex-boyfriends place a week before going to Canberra to give him 'a you know,.. a present, well it was also a present for me too'. She said she was 95% sure it was the guy, in Canberra's baby though. I bought up the option of abortion. She said 'you mean murder'. I went on to say there are about as many abortions in this country as there are births. She said she knew and shook her head as if she wasn't too sure what to do and then raised her lemonade bottle to me which was at her feet and asked me whether I wanted some vodka. I said, 'no, I'm driving'. She said somewhat apologetically, 'sorry, I've just had a bit of a big day'. I said, 'that's okay'.
She continued. If she got rid of it, she said, 'it's a bit slack to the guys because they would never have the option of deciding whether they wanted it'. I thought this was pretty enlightened in an ironic way, considering this is one issue where the guy has a say but at the end of the day, it's really 100% the woman's choice. 'Well 'tell him', I said. She went back to typing to him. She said later, he wanted to go ahead and have the baby. She looked a bit disappointed still. I said to her, 'I reckon you wanted him to say, 'don't have it', so that you could share the mental guilt of an option you deep down preferred'. She said 'yes' but this guy is potentially the love of my life. I asked her if it was cool for me to write about it in my diary. She said, 'sure'. She then added, 'it's serious street level stuff, hey'.
I was fully in the travelling vibe when I met up with my old friend's Narelle and Jay. Despite being settled, they both knew exactly what the travelling fever was like. They'd backpacked together for six years. Jay made the interesting point that when you're travelling you're so open to people and interaction, that wherever you go, you seem to pick it up. E.g. you could just walk into a mall, sit down and start having the most amazing conversation with the person next to you whereas when you settle down, that rarely happens. You get so wrapped up in doing your thing, that those opportunities don't seem to arise nearly as much'. And you certainly don't accumulate as many new phone numbers, e-mail addresses and friends. I couldn't agree more. If I'd been writing a diary when I was at home, it'd be full of things like, 'then I wondered around the house for a couple of hours before doing a poo....'
I thanked them for letting me stay for the weekend. I feel I don't need a home anymore. I've got many.
We had a couple of hours before going out to karaoke with her friends. I lay back on her bed and watched her get ready, studying her every move. She didn't seem to mind. Being a chick is so different to being a guy, especially when it comes to getting dressed before you go out. The lying out of the outfits, on the bed. Choosing the combinations that will accentuate your best assets and hide your worst. Thinking back to what you last wore when you went out with the same people. There are so many decisions to be made. We talked about how guy's don't really give a fuck for what girls wear and certainly miss most of the detail, which girls spend so much time creating.
Girls basically dress for other girls. Can you imagine two guys at the pub gossiping to each other about Barry 'who is wearing the same clothes as last time they saw him!' And how the green shirt 'really doesn't suit him'. They wouldn't even say this about a girl! All we say while nudging each other is, 'Whoa.....'
She then told me about Jewellery. No.1 rule was you don't mix gold and silver. I wonder if any girl at the Olympics has got upset about winning a gold and a silver medal because they don't match. Probably not. Then it was the hair, with the spray and all the pins and then the make-up application...
When we were out I quietly but excitedly pointed out to her how her friend was wearing gold and silver jewellery. I felt proud to be an observant male. She replied, 'no, that's white gold'.
I rolled through Moree and into Walgett by dark. My first impression of Walgett was that it probably wasn't the place to go for a honeymoon. The main street was lined with bored Aborigine kids, just hanging. For the size of the town I was surprised at how little accommodation, it seemed to offer. Just the pub and a motel. I gathered it was a town tourists didn't come to, too much. The motel looked safer but the pub beckoned me. I wanted to find out more by chatting to locals.
[Click here to read more of Jimbo's Diary!]
