A Non-Racial Tram Ride (AKA How I escaped $380 worth of fines and danced the happy dance)

The most private times for me have always been on public transport. Or when I'm walking between the station and the destination – time spent in transit for me has always been when I get most of my serious thinking done, so stepping onto the tram is about as close as I get to going to a therapist. The sessions last as long as it takes me to get from A to B, and even then they are sometimes drowned out by music. If the song of the day is struggling to hold my attention though, or if I have made a conscious decision to allow my thoughts to bubble up in front of me today so that I can stand face-to-face with whatever I think might be on my mind, then public transport is the place where the thinking gets done. Public transport is my special place, and when I ride, I don't like to talk to anyone.

Yesterday I was sitting on a late night tram on my way home from a comedy show. I was listening to Kanye West's My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy and enjoying the seats on Melbourne public transport that, unlike those of Adelaide trams – which I have always contended bare a closer resemblance to rocks with a thin layer of algae than to seats of the sitting variety – are actually comfortable and possess a generous a softness. I had my feet on the seat in front of me (the seats are arranged in booths so that a pair faces another pair and then backs onto the ones behind it and... fuck it you all know how chairs work) and was nodding my head to Mr West's magnum opus when the doors opened and two transit cops came on: a heavy set black dude whose eyes I would soon discover had a scarily large pupil to white-bit ratio (the white bit was clearly winning), and another guy with a ticket scanning machine whose race remains unknown.

I didn't notice them at first, although old mate white-eyes sat across from me and, seeing him in my peripheral vision, I politely removed my feet from the chair that he clearly intended to sit on. As I removed my feet though he continued to stare at me, as if expecting some further grace or acknowledgement of his entrance into the tram – I had no idea that he was a transit cop at this point and so I searchingly removed an ear phone and asked him in a cool, young-person way, “what's up man?” He then pulled out his big boy badge from under his coat and the penny dropped in my mind, “you're fucked dude, you do not have a ticket WHATSOEVER... NOT EVEN A LITTLE BIT... here comes the shit”. I pulled out the other earphone (from memory, I took the right one out first) and heard him say something about a two-hundred dollar fine for having my feet on the seats. “GOD DAMN IT MOTHERFUCKER,” I thought to myself, “not only am I going to get completely James Blunted for not having my ticket, but I'm going to cop another fine for having my feet on the fucking chair... Jesus Christ this is the end, drink the Kool Aid now dude, let's have it over with.” I gave him my ID when he asked for it, and apologised in a regretful, defeated mutter, resigned to my fate and considering the ramifications this would have for my living situation. The fines together would total three-hundred and eighty dollars. Gobble, gobble, gobble mother fucker. Gobble, gobble, gobble.

As the indiscriminate race man (who is described thusly not because I took a good look at him and noticed a distinct racial ambiguity in his physical appearance, but precisely because I only got to notice him out of the corner of my eye, and race just seemed to be the order of the day for describing people with Samuel L. Wackson sitting across from me) paced down the aisle scanning people's tickets with his truth-telling machine I felt my bowels move, and then brace for the final evacuation. He had skipped me because I was talking to the glassy-eyed bear who was probably looking forward to using my limp body as a puppet once this was all over with, but I was sure that my fare evasion would come to light in due course. As my mind was busy making sums and my eyes were trying to avoid making contact with the decider with the fare-evasion-testing-kit so as to delay the eventual truth-telling, I heard something impossible. An insane sound made its way, first into my ears, then slowly through the side of my head and finally squeezing into my brain like a tube of toothpaste... “IIIIIIIIIIII'lllllllll juuuuuuuuuussssssstttttttttzzzzzzz lleeeeeeeeeehhhhhttttk yyyooouuuuu offfff wwwiith a warning this time.” The world snapped out of slow motion and the stern face belonging to the man with the tiny pupils sat in front of me, fully in focus. “People have to sit on these seats you know, think about it.” I heard myself saying, “sorry, yeah that's cool,” and behind my face some unnamed part of me was writhing and contorting in sheer horror at the situation that had just presented itself. The ticket guy was at the other end of the tram at this point and my hulking one-time foe had just gifted me what was most surely a chance at the most beautiful and timely escapes ever in the history of escaping since the time when people first thought up simple traps to catch birds, and a particularly crafty pigeon said, “fuck this, it's my kid's birthday tomorrow.”

So I jumped up as soon as I had calculated the optimal time of exit (quick note: it was RIGHT FUCKING NOW) and as luck would have it the tram was at a stop and the doors were already open. They closed just as I jumped out of the tram and even though I was still three blocks before my stop I turned down the nearest street to get off of Collins and make it look like that really was the stop I had meant to get off at. I don't know why I put on that little show for those two guys – to be honest, it was more for my racial friend than the other guy who I never had the chance to be introduced to – but one the tram was a fair way down the street I doubled back, and before turning my music back on I let fly a victorious scream. “FUCK YES, SUCK MY DICK MELBOURNE”. The kind of scream that I imagine all young travellers would release in such moments of pure relieved ecstasy. I am still undecided on whether I agree with the feet-on-seats rule over here... I sure as hell don't agree with it on the Adelaide trams, or even the trains, because the seats back home are only marginally better than sitting on the floor, and that margin is not significant enough to be worthwhile protecting from the two grains of sand or droplets of moisture on the bottom of my shoe. Over here though the seats are nice, squishy, soft, comfortable, friendly... they even look like they might just have souls.

I don't know about completely abstaining from resting my feet on those badboys, I mean a man's gotta have his man-space and I think we all know that public transport thinking is best performed in as close to horizontal orientation as can be practicably achieved at the time. But from now on, I think I might at least survey the chair to see if it's one of the nice ones before wacking my ole' size eight-and-a-halfs down on them. I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings.

Peace, Taco.

I Just Realized I Haven't Eaten Chicken in Two Weeks

This week has been a good week. I've been to comedy shows four nights in a row, and tonight at Monastery will make it five, and played five minute spots on two of those nights. (last night was my second impromptu showing at Station 59 that has ended up in me getting some stage time) I've written a whole bunch of new stuff – including a phenomenal joke about the word 'ejaculate' that I seriously cannot keep to myself. I've been pretty damn careful with money, and the only money I have spent was $70 on a new pair of pants for work that I had taken up and refitted... so basically I look fly as a mo'fukka there. Add to that the fact that Monday night was just feqking awesome in itself, and last night me, Myrthe and Big Aaron stayed up til 2:30am chilling and talking shit about people in the hostel... and this week is travelling along pretty nicely.

On Monday I'm going to Sydney to meet up with Melanie for a few days – still pretty unsure about how that's going to go but we'll see I guess. When I get back from that I should (fingers crossed, I hope I haven't jinxed this shit already) have two jobs and be ready to start looking for a place so that I can send out the conch signal and get Jaybone, and possibly Tgoog over here to join. I'll need to suss out one of those prepaid internet sticks for my comp – or a plan from Vodafone that includes unlimited net access – and I'll have to start doing some leg work during days to make that house shit happen. Money is starting to be a worry in my mind, although I know I'll be ok if I end up with two jobs... that's the final piece of the puzzle that is yet to fall into place over here and I'm waiting for the day that it does so that I can stop stressing about cash so much and start building everything else that makes life yummy up from street level.

I think my goal for myself in the coming months – let's make it until the end of November – will be to go to four (four ideally, but at least three) comedy nights a week. That'll go a long way towards getting my face out there and keeping my name in people's heads. I've been meeting a few comedians from around the place as well which is always cool and as much as a place like Spleen is really tough to break into, there are plenty of other places where comedians can meet other people at their level and talk about jokes and gigs and whatnot... the scene is not nearly as ruthless as I feared it might be before I got here. On spleen; some people say it's cliquey, but I be pretty hesitant to use that word, it's more like the guys that run it are so used to amateur comedians introducing themselves and asking for spots that they have appear dismissive and bored with us because... well basically because they get hassled by the same kind of people every Monday night. I'm sure if they saw an amateur at another night and liked his or her set they'd get in contact with them themselves and try to book them... but then again that may just be naïve, wishful thinking.

But anyway, after two weeks, things are still cruising along pretty smoothly... the next two are going to be tough for a few reasons that I am clearly avoiding here, but will probably, knowing me, analyse and speak about at length with the power of hindsight. I can't wait. The storm is already here though, and god damn it, I'm in Melbourne motherfuckers.

Ok, my joke about the word ejaculate that I can't keep to myself... as Mitch Hedberg said, “I can't rob you of this one”:

I want to write, produce, direct, and, if possible, star in a buddy cop movie where the protagonist's name is Jack, just so that at some point in the movie – I do not care when – he can rush in to the station and the angry, black sergeant can yell, “EY JACK, YOU LATE!”

Oh yes.

Peace, Taco.

...And Something Silly

Ok, a quick story:

Yesterday I went to an open mic afternoon in Ormond which is like forty minutes away from the CBD by train (COMMITMENT) and had a five minute spot. It went pretty well – did some new material which worked nicely and felt pretty confident after 6mins, 30 seconds. At this open mic though there was a guy doing his first ever standup spot and we got chatting for a sec. He was pretty cool... understandably nervous and chatty, and generally asking me about comedy and how you can get spots and rah rah rah... and then he let slip one fact that, while interesting, I'm still not completely sure about. Like, it's clearly true... but I don't know how I feel about this. The dude was Dave Hughes' nephew.

So ok... he told me it, and he was like, “I'm not going to tell people this, I don't want it to get out”... or something along those lines. Well sorry dude, but if you just told me, a comedian that you have known for literally ten minutes, at your first ever comedy gig... I'm pretty sure the secret's out. I mean I'm not even really implying that I'm going to tell anyone (I'm not going to delude myself and believe that local comedians are reading this blog) it's just that if you were ready to tell me... after ten minutes... fuck man you might as well have spent your afternoon dialling random numbers out of the phonebook... but anyway, he asked me to keep him anonymous, so I guess I will.

After his set, which was pretty good, Daniel Maundrell stayed for a little before bailing and taking half the crowd with him after the first bracket. I wondered to myself what his motive was behind telling me that his uncle is the one and only Dave Hughes. I wondered what he expected this to mean for him and his comedy career... and I wondered what expectations he had for himself in comedy, and whether they would be shaped by having an uncle who has, at times, graced the pinnacle of Australian standup. Regardless of whether or not the comedy community likes or dislikes Dave Hughes for his commercial work and perceived 'dumbed-down' style, he is a phenomenal performer... definitely better than the vast majority of the people who criticize him. I plan on watching with great interest, and a fair amount of thinly-veiled scepticism, as his nephew embarks into the treacherous waters of the Melbourne comedy scene. Eyes out lil' buddy... you have rough times ahead.

Peace, Taco.

Something Serious

I've nearly been here for two weeks now (that extraordinary milestone will be reached as of tomorrow evening) and I guess it'd be safe to say that I'm 'settled in', as far as knowing where shit is and having a rough plan for how things are going to work for the next month. I went out with the Adelaide crew on Friday night to The Liberty Social, a club with a chalkboard for a sign which houses heart-murmur-inducing bass beats, a dancefloor full of people who actually came to dance (more on that later) and a bar that, as far as I can tell, is mostly concerned with serving water. Friday night was fucking sick and reminded me what first attracted me to clubbing as a fresh-faced eighteen year old cast out into the world. Well now I have been cast out into the world once again, and further this time. I'm still as fresh-faced and stupid as I ever was, only now I know a thing or two about dancing.

Friday night was a night where it all came into place for me and it really hit home that this city is where I'm going to be spending at least the next few years of my life. Someone said – and the words spill out of the black, flashing haze for me right now, but no face accompanies them – that a few people have come over to Melbourne and made a go of it for a month or two, only to go back home, tail between legs and empty handed. It never even crossed my mind that such a thing could be an option in this adventure... even if I were to end up living on the streets, a rough induction to the gutter would be far preferable to the long road back to safety and easy living that waits back in Adelaide. I guess that's only privilege talking right now though, and maybe after a few nights under a newspaper I'd be ready to call it quits. The point is, though, it's not even going to get to that stage, no chance, no way, no how. Nope.

I'm really very grateful to everyone who has made the last two weeks so god damn easy for me, all the Adelaide crew who have been so quick to say, “fuck yeah dude, we're so stoked to have you over here”. I wasn't expecting to have much of a support network at all when I got here, but the fact that one was pretty much ready and waiting for me has made everything ridiculously easy – like all I had to do was pack my bags and the rest was taken care of. Words with Brodie and Desh on Friday night after the club put all that in perspective though, and it's clear now that moving over here from Adelaide really means the same thing to a lot of people. Making that first mental jump and pulling together whatever resources you might have at your disposal back home to get over here is not an easy thing to do... and that's why, once you're here, the hard part is finished. It's not as if Adelaide is such a worthless, dirty crap-shack that only the people who get out are worthy of recognition, not at all. But what everyone that has moved here in the last year or so does share in, I think, is a common sense of purpose and determination, and that comes from having made that first step and packed up shop for the long haul. That first mental step is like a filter that clears out the people who aren't interested in bettering themselves or pursuing a passion with any serious commitment. It weeds out those who are still more interested in partying and staying out late every weekend than seeing what else is out there, waiting in the world. That is not to say that everyone in Adelaide is stuck in that filter, wasting away their life doing absolutely nothing – not at all. Obviously there are plenty of people that aren't interested in coming to Melbourne, and are perfectly happy and able to chase their dreams from their city of birth, but it does mean that over here, while this group remains populated with people who have made the great leap, there is no one sitting around, wasting time, and talking about shit that is never going to happen.

As a side note, I am completely aware of the irony that I have just spent seven-hundred words ranting on about how good it is to be in Melbourne, where no one is talking shit.

Peace, Taco.

Confessions of a Shoplifter

The fluorescent lights flickered from the high, cement ceiling and reflected off of the hard, shiny floor of aisle four but the level of light cast on the shelves and the walls and the people walking drearily here and there did not change. The roof was covered with lights, and each time one was faltering or failing altogether, the others around it were shining strong, and making up for the lost luminescence. Shopping centres require maximum lighting – customers must be assaulted with the complete spectrum of colour, wholly, fully, unobstructed in their freedom to choose.

Aisle four is pet foods and cleaning products, it smells like artificial lemon-scent moulded plastic and is colder than the aisles over near the bakery section as it borders on the fridges. As a meandering figure with a yellowy-green backpack wanders aimlessly down the row, idly eyeing product after product and occasionally picking one out for closer inspection, his right hand drifts back and reaches for a zip on his bag. Not yet, only checking. His slow, pottering trail crosses the path of a security camera which is perched at the back end of the aisle and casts a watchful eye towards the front of the store. Always watching, always waiting.

The slowly walking, slowly looking, slowly thinking figure with the yellowy-green backpack rounds the end of the aisle and picks up speed, and as he brushes past the end of aisle five, unzips his backpack just slightly on the right-hand side facing the aisle. A small opening sits and waits while other shoppers drift by. A mother with a stroller, a group of foreign men with three bags between them, an employee pushing a trolley full of new stock to put on the shelves. The lone figure sees all, and quietly scans his surroundings, just as the camera does while it sits on the roof, still eyeing the same patch of floor, now empty and only reflecting light from the flickering fluorescents on the roof. As figures dart in and out of his eyeline, he twists his head back conspicuously, checking one more time for the authority figure that would spell the abortion of this mission. Only nerves can save him now... he traces the route out in his head and takes one more cursory glance at a packet of chips before turning around and heading back to aisle four. The goal waits on a shelf at waist-height, sitting in a small, rectangle box, with a price tag that says, “$7.99”.

He walks down the aisle, quicker this time but only slightly, and coasts down the right-hand side, almost brushing up against the shelves. A hand reaches out, upturned and ready and grabs the glittery box of toothpaste from the shelf, quickly fumbling it through the open hole in the bag as it brightly reflects the flickering light from the roof and the squeak from a hard rubber wheel on the floor echoes out from under the fixtures and seems to come from aisle three. The guilty perpetrator walks off, continuing towards the front of the store with a bunch of other items in hand and arrives at a self-service check out. Bags on the ground, items to the scanner. Another couple of items remain on the floor and are mixed up with those that are already paid for. A zucchini. A capsicum. They are carefully picked for their relatively high price. Too high to be included in this ten-dollar visit to the supermarket.

While money is inserted the criminal at the front of the store shines on the cameras, illuminated by a rotten glow and slowly pulsating red light that no one else can see. The cameras stay still and register no reaction – they cannot tell the world what they have witnessed. As the figure with the yellowy-green bag draws up a hood from his jumper and walks past the smiling shop assistant with a brief greeting, he fades back into the crowd. Gone. Escaped. A barely-perceptible spring in his quickened step, he paces onto the street and out of reach of the watchful cameras. The change clinks in his pocket: two dollars and forty-five cents, made up in silver coins, meanwhile a ten dollar note lays, nestled reassuringly in the back pocket of the bag. He plans out how to best spend the meagre amount, and stretch it out until pay-day next Sunday, and the spring quickly leaves his measured stride. Meanwhile the tills rattle back at the supermarket. The shoppers come and go, and the money rolls in. And the cold, still cameras keep watch under the wavering fluorescent lights.

Peace, Taco.

Thoughts on Guy Ritchie's Revolver, Phil, Grace, and F. Scott Fitzgerald

One of my favourite movies of all time, ever in the world and ever anything is Revolver, directed by the master the British gangster flick; Guy Ritchie. It remains in the same vein as his other more popular films like Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, Snatch etc. but it also departs wildly from their formulaic 'no money, plan heist, Jason Stratham being a smartass, guns, mild drug use' routine and gets into slightly more mind-fucky territory. (I thought for literally thirty seconds and 'mind-fucky' was the best I could do... god damn it) The movie is about a guy (Jason Stratham + hair) who finds out he is going to die from some rare blood disease and the only way he can not die is by teaming up with these two ruthless gangsters who will take all his money in return for his life... all throughout the movie there are little lines from sources like Sun Tsu's 'The Art of War' and old chess adages to complement the recurring theme of coming up with the ultimate con. Finally at the end of the movie (spoiler alert) he finds out that the greatest enemy anyone ever has is his own ego, the little voice that lives inside each of us and has us convinced that it is a part of us – our pride, our jealousy, or one true weakness. He kills his ego by overcoming his one fundamental fear – elevators, in his case – and ends up winning the game...

Ok Taco, so other than summarising one of your favourite movies in around two-hundred words and thus doing it probably the greatest disservice imaginable and ruining it for anyone interested enough to have read this far, what is your point? Well there Mr hypothetical questioning character used as literary device, my point is as follows: I have always loved that movie more than the other Guy Ritchie films because of the point it makes at the end which has always seemed so relevant to the world outside of the film. It seems so accessible and real, and ever since the first time I watched it the central idea – that the only enemy that has ever existed is an eternal one, and that it is not external, but in fact hides in each of us, behind our pain – has never been far from my mind. Much like the movie itself though, (which contains numerous plot holes and inconsistencies) that idea is neither completely coherent, nor fully formed... so I've often spent time contemplating how I might harness this powerful idea and put it to practical use. A few events in the past couple weeks have got me thinking about it again, and I'm going to try and lay them out here for the sake of personal clarity, and maybe afterwards, something will become clear. What something? Who knows. Is this blog entry going to be very interesting for anyone that isn't me? Probably not.

So the other day I wrote a story called 'Coping with Depression' that mocked a book that I found at the Salvos store I was briefly employed at in Adelaide. Basically I was having a laugh at the book because it was old and the idea that a book, a tiny, insignificant, poorly written book like this could 'cure' someone of depression seemed laughably ridiculous to me. I was then approached, however, by my main man Philly P about this and he basically told me to get my head out of my ass because I've never been through depression and how the fuck would I know if this book couldn't help someone. These ideas were reiterated to me by another friend who basically told me that, while the conflict with Phil had been extremely stressful for me, it probably wasn't nearly as stressful for Phil. She put this down to my deep-seated hatred of having my ideas challenged, saying, “what you hate, more than anything, is being challenged, because you can't differentiate between your ideas and yourself as a person so when someone is telling you that you're wrong, you see it as them attacking you, even when that isn't the case.” The conversation with her also left me pretty shaky – like physically worn down and fragile, which is a completely fucking gay thing to say I know but there we have it – and I left feeling defeated, but thankful that I have friends in my life who know me so well.

It got me thinking about Revolver though, and more specifically the scene at the end when Jason Stratham's character goes to the casino mogul's mansion and shows his that he's not afraid of him by coming to his house as he sleeps, waking him up, and then walking out without doing anything – the ultimate show of contempt. Mr mogul's greatest fear is that the people around him won't be afraid of him, so this display rocks him to the core and he comes down without getting dressed and freaks the fuck out at old J-Strath, finally collapsing in a pathetic ball of nerves and desperation in the lobby of his own mansion... well this is how I felt as I walked back to my car that night. I felt defeated, and broken, but I remembered the scene from revolver and it made me think that it wasn't me who had been defeated in this instance, it was my ego. The greatest enemy that we will ever know will hide in the last place you would ever look... inside of me. And the greatest trick he ever pulled, was making you think that he is you... I'm starting to sound a bit wanky and broken like a career hippy recounting acid trips from the seventies, but this is exactly how it feels, and as much as taking philosophical lessons from cool indie films isn't exactly an iron-clad guarantee in success class 101, if the boot fits... and fit it does.

So in the days after that crazy experience at the hands of two of the people who know me about as well as it's possible to know a person, I thought and thought about this. I thought about my state of mind leading up to my writing the story about depression and fancied that I had been arrogant and stupid to dismiss someone else's idea of a helping hand... but simply flagellating myself with a psychological cat-o-nine-tails for a few days afterwards isn't enough. That's just the easy way out - “if I feel bad for long enough about this, that makes it ok, and I promise I won't do it again”. Such simple thoughts are no way to self-betterment. The idea that it wasn't me making these arrogant moves wasn't going to be sufficient either, because regardless of whether or not I can see my 'ego' as inexorably tied to my 'self' or not... like even if I can make that conceptual leap and say yep, ok, the things about myself that I don't like – my 'enemies' if you will – exist because of some other force within me that has hidden itself behind my greatest fears... even if I can somehow accept that, (and I'm not sure that I can at this stage) other people are still going to see my actions and attribute them to me, and if I have control over them, then it's still me fucking up. No one else is sitting behind the control panel in my brain pulling levers...

Then a few days ago I read a short story by F Scott Fitzgerald in the compilation of his short stories that mummy bought for me to read a few months ago. It's called 'The Four Fists' and it's basically about a guy who goes through life doing what he wants and allowing the gut feelings he has at any particular time guide his actions, but on four separate occasions in his life this philosophy leads him into trouble and he ends up getting punched in the face. After each punch he realises straight away that what he was doing was basically a dick move and he readjusts his ideas and way of life accordingly. I thought about this with regards to my situation; once again I related this to what had happened and how I had been challenged and forced to reassess my ideas surrounding depression... the similarity between my situation and the situation depicted by Fitzgerald is that in both accounts, the protagonist only changes his ways after being confronted head on with their error. I had only been able to see how wrong I was when I was directly shamed and my greatest fear was realised... but I should be able to see what other people would consider wrong, and evaluate those ideas against my own fully-formed ones without having to get 'punched in the face' so to speak.

So what is it to be? It is very likely that being punched in the face – or in my case, being confronted, head on, with my own arrogance and wrong assumptions – is a valuable event in itself. To try to pre-empt those punches would be to act on behalf of the enemy, the ego, and give in to the eternal trick that he does not exist, and is only a part of myself. I don't know how I can possibly act on this, but I am sure it has something to do with trying to catch myself as often as possible, as I slip into the uncontrolled self-confidence that has, for as long as I can remember, led to many of my lowest moments. Stay vigilant, I guess. That's the lesson to be taken from this. But don't be afraid to make mistakes? God damn it... there goes the truth again. Slipping through my fingers like translucent green jelly... that's it for today I think, I've been sitting up against his bed-post for far too long... my washing must be dry by now.

Peace, Taco.

First Week Roundup

So after one week it's time to take stock of where I am and what's been going on. From the list of goals I set myself on the first day here, this is what's gone down:

I only handed out forty-nine resumes, fucking useless piece of shit failure that I am, although I do have a job now. (well... I don't know when my shifts are yet, but let's be nice and presumptuous and say yep, job sorted) I'm still looking into maybe getting another job during the day time at some cafe or equally menial place to make dem papes mad longer, na'im'sain... for now though, a few shift at week at Yah Yah's (oh god cross those fingers) would be fucken' chipper.

Last week I had a five minute spot at Station 59 on their Wednesday open mic night... I'm sure I've already said enough about that but on the comedy front on the whole, I guess things have been going pretty well. I realised, pretty much as soon as I got here, that I am at a stage with comedy where I need to really think about taking it seriously. There are SO MANY people in this city trying to do the exact same thing as me and from what I can tell plenty of them are funny as hell and they are all willing to put in the hard work to make their acts work. What I need to do now, I've been thinking, is start coming up with ideas for bits every day, and writing them down, in full, word for word, and then recording myself saying each one into my phone. Since I don't have my own room and am not really keen to be seen ranting to myself by the general public or room-mates, I'll be doing this from the safety of secluded park benches and empty coffee shops around mid-afternoon. After I record each bit I can listen to it over and over again, hear what's good about it (or what isn't) and either change it and tweak it enough so that it is funny, or can it so that I don't waste valuable stage time telling bits that just aren't going to work. The feeling that I'm starting to have is that stage time is going to be fucking rare like dogs in Chinatown... that was a terrible simile, sorry, I got lazy, and the departure of the Asians that infested my living quarters with their shitty manners and ridiculous amount of boxes and assorted crap have left a sour taste. Y'all just got a bit of the dark side there.

In my first week here I have met a fair few cool people, from Aaron the Queensland drifter, to Aaron the surly Pom: there's Myrthe the mental Dutch chick who tried unsuccessfully to slap me in the face with a two-foot dildo on Sunday night when I was out of my mind on mushrooms. Leon, the Melbourne local who came down to stay in the hostel for the weekend because it was cheaper than paying the cab fares back to his place three or four nights in a row – he gave me the mushrooms on Sunday night and also gave them to a group of guys from Townsville who stormed through our hostel on a tuxedo bender and flew out of town like drunken horsemen after the apocalypse. The strange Asian lady who stalks the passages and stairwells of the hostel at night is growing more and more deranged by the day as her cruel instincts struggle to escape the quiet, pottering exterior she has managed to erect in their place. Nobody likes her; the turning point for me was when she burst into the TV room while I was watching Just For Laughs the other night and changed the channel, stating in a fed up tone, “no no no, I don't like this... these jokes... no no”. Fuck you lady, that time when you insisted I hold my hand out so you could pour steaming hot casserole into it, the time when I heard you talking to yourself at the kitchen table, the time when you asked every single person in the building whether they could fix your laptop for you... everything clicked into focus at that moment. The patter became clear. Crazy Asian lady, you so crazy... way too crazy for me.

So now for Centrelink... wellity wellity wellity... I just got off of the phone with an unexpectedly lovely gentleman from the Centrelink office with whom I discussed my claiming options. Apparently because I moved to Melbourne by 'choice' (as in I didn't meet the required ten abusive episodes per childhood year to be considered independent 'by necessity') I may not be eligible for government assistance until I'm twenty-two. I'll still be going to an appointment at their office next Wednesday and telling them that actually NO, I didn't move here because I just wanted to get out of the house and go see a few shows, I moved here because there was no fucking work in Adelaide, and I don't want to sit in my parents' house all day every day smoking bongs and pretending I'm having a really hard time doing uni work that frankly is NOT THAT HARD TO DO... when I can escape that free ride and actually get out into the world to find challenges where before there was only filled time.

It really perplexes me that a person under the age of twenty-two can be working a full time job for eighteen months and then be considered 'independent' and thus eligible for Youth Allowance, and yet I, having been a full time student for two and a half years (with a six month break) am NOT eligible. But the person that has been working – earning an income – for eighteen months, has already proven that they can live by their own means simply by the fact that THEY HAD TO WAIT EIGHTEEN MONTHS TO BE ABLE TO CLAIM... whereas the student is still considered to have a full time job by other government standards, but gets no income from this job, and yet they are still not eligible for government assistance. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I know there's a bit of upper-middle class privilege whining in there that should be weeded out – maybe I need a smart slap in the face and a good shake-down by a couple of hairy, downtrodden street-urchins to remind me that life really isn't that fucking tough when you come from the right side of the tracks. But regardless of my white-boy upbringing, the double standard that I have just pointed out remains very real, and glaringly fucking stupid.

Oh well, that's week one down. I'm pretty damn happy with that summary, all in all it's been a good week, and if I can just get this half-sure job situation under hand I'll be singing in the fucking rain over here in Melbourne. I think I've earned the mountain of free drink that I'm going to consume tonight at the Peter Stuyvesant party, and I plan on stealing a lot of free cigarettes for reselling. Puff puff pass motherfucker.

Peace, Taco.

Thirty-Three on the Third (Day... of being here... in Melbourne... ugh forget it)

Over the last two days I have handed out thirty-three resumes to thirty-three different hospitality venues in the inner streets of this city. Now that I say it back to myself, it doesn't seem like that many, but the soles of my feet and tiredness in my body tell me that yes, actually, thirty-three resumes is quite a few to have handed out in two days, thank you very much... what's for dinner?

After cruising past Coles and sussing out a 'ham and chicken flavoured knob', (fritz) some plasticy cheese, cheap bread and a bottle of sweet chilli sauce, I sat in a sheltered alcove on Brunswick St and made sandwiches while the rain came down on my uncovered feet. Using a bread tag as a knife was brain-wave #1 for the afternoon, and after two healthy helpings of fuck-yes food and a call to my man Philly P. back home I hit the pavement for a few hours of resume dropping. This afternoon felt good, and after the rain cleared up I managed to speak to a fair few interested parties in various bars and clubs. Fingers crossed for the weekend... god DAMN it I have a powerful hankering for a nice, cafe meal.

The first thing I'm going to do when I get my first pay cheque from whatever job I end up getting (positivity, positivity, COME ON!) is going to be spent in the most systematic and planned way conceivable. First, I will go to a cafe, selected after a meandering walk around the busy afternoon streets and chosen for its all day breakfast and extensive wine list. I will dine greedily and drink continuously, before leaving satisfied to continue my aimless wandering around the streets. I will buy three or four items of clothing, each as flamboyant and unnecessary as possible, and on my walk back to the hostel as the sun begins to set behind the clouds which will surely be covering the sky, I will throw the remaining resumes from my starting sixty into a dumpster, and set fire to them. Upon my triumphant return to the hostel I will crack open a sack of goon and sit in the kitchen drinking with whoever will join me, and from there a jubilant night of idiocy will ensue. Hurt people. Fight furniture. Headbutt everything.

The next morning I will wake up, hopefully with around $20 left, and I will walk to the closest souvenir shop and buy a wallet. In it I will keep inspirational notes, hand written in pen, and paltry amounts of money.

I'm really excited to have a job again actually. Not some bullshit sales job or desk-jockey crap, but a real job behind a bar where I can meet people and have a laugh. I'm sure this disgusting 'can-do' attitude will dissipate fairly soon after I start, but for now it's all thumbs up, thankyous and happy smiles.

Last night I also managed to get in some Spanish practice with couple of Argentinians from the hostel, and also got my first stand up spot in Melbourne at Station 59 on Church street. Not that these things really bear that much mentioning in the grand scheme of things but it helps to keep track of developments as they... uuuhh... develop. I missed the free food van again tonight, this time by the narrowest of narrow margins, so it looks like it's pasta with sweet chilli sauce, melted cheese and some slices of ham+chicken flavoured knob for dinner tonight. As a bunch of French people speak in their low, creamy tongue to my right I am painfully aware of how much they probably detest me and my disgusting attempts at cuisine, but I am sure that they are slightly jealous as well. Jealous of my crafty ability to live from scraps and scrapings, collected from the bottom of each day's filthy barrel. Bon apetit friends.

Peace, Taco.

Day One, Is Anybody Watching?

After one night in the Melbourne Connection hostel on King Street, I can already tell that what I am doing is not as much of an anomaly as the reactions I received in Adelaide may have led me to believe. It would be nice to entertain the idea that I, Aidan Jones, am a trailblazing nomad beating down a path never before seen or even considered in the history of human experience... but would also be completely fucking retarded. There are like five-million people in this city, and I'm sure plenty of them have been broke before – welcome to the club Tugzy, grab a ticket and get in line.

Last night I met two people called Aaron; one is a short guy from Brisbane with scars on his elbows from 'fucking cunts up', and the second is a burly, heavy-set Englishman whose drunken slurrings, forever on the cusp of direct aggression burned themselves so indelibly into my memory that no further impression of his character will ever erase them. The final image of my first night in Melbourne is English Aaron screaming encouragement along the lines of, “come on son, fookin' that's ittttt” as Small Aaron punched him in the stomach, obviously upon request. I sat on the other side of the table as a passive spectator to their violent bonding and drank cup after cup of free tea; fishing the bags out with a dessert spoon and laying them down like some poor-man's defecation on a dinner-plate. A full range of characters besides these two made appearances around the table in the kitchen last night – talking, drinking, eating, swearing. One of them gave me a sandwich and I tried not to look to thankful... I'm not even sure if I am poor at this point, or if I'm just imagining that I am for the sake of an exciting narrative.

This morning I strolled around the streets of the CBD and handed out a few resumes. I am quietly confident that I'll have a job of some description, or at least a trial shift, by the weekend. Come on Melbourne you beautiful she-beast, I need you, I want you, come to me and deliver your spoils.

The following is a list of the things that I have forgotten, and realised that I may need. Obviously it is incomplete and will grow as I realise that life has requirements beyond warm clothes and access to the internet:

• black shirt and pants for bar/cafe work
• shaving materials
• soap (I considered bringing this but decided against it, not sure if that qualifies it for the list or not)
• shampoo (can substitute for soap)
• map or equivalent native guide

I guess that's about it... not so bad.

One night down, six nights still paid for to go. Eyes to the sky people, the Asian lady that asked me for weed last night told me that aliens are coming and if she's right then fuck, we all have something to be very, very afraid of. Every. Last. One of us.

Peace, Taco.

The Last Day

Before I say anything on the rancid business of the day, I just want to urge each and every one of you reading this to download and listen to the Subsoul Live Mix by Colorbox, it is absolutely incredible... I guess, being as I am a responsible blogger who is liable to be held to account for his musical recommendations by a lazy readership who would struggle to locate a wheel of cheese unless it was presented to them via a link on their facebook wall, I will leave a download link at the bottom of this post.

Ok so today is my last day in Adelaide. Last day before I jump off and pray to sweet Jesus that my mate Devon was right when he said “you just have to remember that hitchhiking is just like life, it always works out in the end.” I'm not doing any hitchhiking this time around, but I really hope he was right about the life part for starters. I should really be focusing on my imminent departure at a time like this, as it looms over these next 24 hours like a giant medium-rare steak – delicious yet extremely daunting in size and texture. I can't though, I can't for the fucking life of me because all I can manage to centre my fiery vision on right now is the Australian government's god-forsaken E-Tax tax return program. I hate it, and I will hate it until the day that I die.

From the slow loading times of this STAND-ALONE PROGRAM (seriously?) to the pages upon pages of useless information and fields destined to be left blank by everyone except Gina Rinehart's neglected trust fund bitches, there is seriously not a single thing that I like about doing tax returns with this program. After filling the whole thing out (read: pressing 'next' two-billion times over blank fields) and slowly castrating myself over the fact that I couldn't use the auto-fill option as I had misplaced my previous year's returns, I finally completed the form. Then the final steel-toe to the battlefield between my legs – “returns may be printed and sent to the ATO for payment within the next 8 weeks”.

Sorry, I think I just had an aneurysm.

So in the end, I have decided to pay H&R block a one-hundred-and-something dollar fee to do my returns for me with the guarantee that I'll have them back in my hot little hands within the week – at this point I care about nothing except stumbling out of this foggy wasteland of accountancy with my limbs in tact and maybe enough money for a bus ticket. If only I had kept my tax returns from last year... and if only I could devise some time-capsule system that would ensure that this demoralizing state of affairs is not repeated next year, but I can't. Suck up that pride Tugzy, pay the man his money. The house always wins.

Peace, Taco.


Subsoul Mix by Colorbox http://soundcloud.com/subsouluk/sub-soul-live-001

T minus Thirty-One Hours

So I leave in under thirty-six hours... closer to thirty now... eh who cares. I really want to get a start on this whatever it is that I am apparently going to be writing for my travels, but I have no idea what to write to get the ball rolling.

I've been thinking a bit about self-awareness lately, and what it means for someone like me who is looking to better themselves and 'make moves' whatever the fuck that means. Basically, the main reason I have sort of settled upon in upping stumps and leaving Adelaide for the apparently greener pastures of Melbourne is this: I have always felt like there is a safety net for me here and I want to live away from that safety. That sounds like a terribly naïve and arrogant thing to want to do, and maybe it is some arrogance born out of the privilege that I have no doubt been lucky enough to receive in my twenty-one years in this peaceful city, but that doesn't change the fact that I want to do it, and in my extensive experience with myself, when I want to do something, no amount of good counsel can convince me to do otherwise. So I want to live without the safety net – I want to find the 'edge' that Hunter S. talked about when he rode his motorbike out on the freeway on cold, silent nights with no helmet and no reservation... “the edge, the only people who know where it is are those who have crossed over it”... I think the line goes something like that and I cannot be darryled looking it up at the minute.

A massive barrage of motivational quotes and sayings and wise, wise words have seemed to jump out at me in the past few weeks, maybe reflecting my need for inspiration and a kick in the ass to get out of here, or maybe reflecting a higher number of inspired people becoming active on facebook, who knows. These things though, as always, solve absolutely nothing, and this is where the self-awareness that I was about to talk about before comes back into things. I want to better myself, that is what this is all about, this trip, or move, or adventure or whatever I decide to call it. (true to form, still humming and hawing on the particulars) But saying those simple words; “I want to better myself” is such a cheap and easy gesture, to myself and to those around me. I'm noticing, hopefully pre-emptively, that it is very easy to fall into the trap of considering mere self-awareness as growth in itself... I am not lazy enough to think that this is the case, but I know that I'm going to have to keep reminding myself of this fact as the option of giving up and returning to comfort inevitably presents itself over and over again. I am aware of my admittedly hazy goal, and I am aware of the method (if you can call moving to Melbourne with $280 and a bag full of shit a method) that I have chosen to achieve it. I think right now, in this first post, I should formulate some short-term goals for myself... so lets go:

• I have to hand out fifty resumes in the first week of being in Melbourne
• I have to suss out some open mics that I might be able to perform at
• I have to meet someone cool in my first week there
• I have to make it to my first centrelink payment without breaking my $280 budget

COME ON TUGZY. Now is the time. Imagine me slapping myself in the face right now... hold up... there, I just did it. Tomorrow I'll pack my bags, then go to Rhino Room and tear the roof off, and then Tuesday morning I'll be out of here. I'm really quite scared.

First post down, tick tick tick those boxes on a Sunday.

Peace, Taco.