I have seven days of drinking left for twenty-twelve (FINALLY, my compulsive need to type numbers has paid off, none of this 'two-thousand and twelve' bullshit) and it's looking right now like they are almost all spoken for. I'm saving four for my trip back to Adelaide from the 20th to the 28th of December, which means only three remain. One will be for next Thursday when I hit up the Peek Tours pub crawl in an effort to gauge the amount of alcohol required to achieve complete standing-unconsciousness – doing it for science – and that means the last two days will fall somewhere in between a week from now, and December 20th. I've found the best nights, even with my freakishly regimented year of monitored alcohol intake, have been the unplanned ones, and so with that in mind, I won't be pre-booking nights for those two remaining nights of drinking, but I'm sure that someone cool will pop up in the three or so weeks and convince me that Now! Now! Now! is the time for drunkenness.
Money-wise
things are looking slightly tighter than I would like – and with
every indulgent cafe lunch the noose keeps slipping – but as it
stands I am making $250 a week from working at Yah Yah's, and
probably another $250 a week from doing walking tours. Let's make
that $200, just to be conservative. Realistically I'm probably
pocketing around $550 a week, but at least a hundred of that goes
straight into the wind so it's not even worth counting, $450 it is.
Rent is $170 a week, so with another piece of nifty rounding that
leaves me $250 a week to play with – and I really have to catch
myself here, because although I use the term 'play with', what that
should really mean is 'put away in an envelope and not look at'. I
have to pay $500 by mid-January for the festival show I'm doing with
Rob Caruana at Station 59, and a bus up to Adelaide and Plane back
for Christmas – probably another $250 – and I'll be wanting some
party-money for when I get down there, so unless the opportunity for
sort of Mafia-sponsored contraband run on the Greyhound bus presents
itself in the next month, that'll be four weeks of income spoken for.
Conveniently, four weeks is the exact amount of time that stands in
between me and Adelaide right now, so without getting too confident
here, I think it's gonna be ok... there's always the surprise phone
bill to worry about, but fuck it... live a little.
My
ankles still hurt from repeated falls off my skateboard, although I'm
getting better (marginally), although I'm guessing it's going to be a
while before these badboys return to their regular size. Cruising
down to the river-side skatepark the other afternoon with Brodie and
his bro was easilly call of the week, watching people who can
actually do things other than roll around gave me the balls to eat
shit in the hope of being able to land even one tiny little trick. I
just want to be cool guys!!! Fuck, that is seriously not far from
the truth.
Also
our internet is capped, which is probably the most crippling ailment
known to civilized man. I have slowly begun to doubt the existence of
AIDS, Hepatitis, and all forms of cancer, by the logic that if God
wanted us to suffer needlessly through our lives, he wouldn't waste
his time with microscopic viruses and fiddly tumours, he'd just
cripple us by taking away our access to the infinite database of porn
that should, according to all sane reasoning, be available to
us instantly at any hour of the day. That's exactly what he's been
doing to me and my housemates for the last six days, folks. God works
in mysterious ways, and today his name is Telstra.
I
think I just lost my notebook – one of three, even in note-taking I
am meticulous and thoroughly organized – no massive loss really
because this one contains the hurried scribblings of ideas for jokes
and stories that I then look back on and expand in my other two
books, but still annoying nonetheless. I've found myself lately
thinking about the way that we use paper and the written word as a
method for dumping the thoughts that occupy our brains onto a
physical medium, thus eliminating the need for our minds to stagnate
upon them. It's kind of like the way a computer uses a hard drive to
store information it isn't using right now, while the info that it
does need immediate access to is stored on the RAM. The written word
is so amazingly useful because it allows us to free up our minds
constantly for new information, and ensures that if we have a good
idea, we don't need to stress ourselves remembering it, because we
can just record it and have it waiting for a time when we feel ready
to pick the thought back up again and follow it through.
I've gone off track slightly... but now that we're
here, you can get a pretty good idea of how my life is faring right
now. Without anything serious to think about – no real troubles to
speak of, no stress, no pain, no emotional hangups – I am free to
float and dawdle around whatever thoughts and pastimes I want.
Sometimes things feel hard – comedy is not an easy pursuit, as
friendly as the people might be (and they are), the stage is a lonely
place – but whenever I feel myself getting down on setbacks, I
recount the things I've done in the past week and shake my head once
the ridiculous simplicity of my life sinks in. Life gets hard
friends, but right now it seems easy.
Peace,
Taco.
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