My New Room

I'm sitting at my computer right now in a black, fold-up chair that I stole from the back yard and wiped clean with the new(ish) towel I bought from the Salvos yesterday for like three dollars or some shit. My computer is sitting on top of one of my two speakers – also purchased from the Salvos, but the Adelaide one this time... the pair cost four bucks (YES!!). I've got my copy of George Orwell's 1984 open to my right and the left set of pages are held open with a peg that is fastened to a hard-cover children's book that I brought to Melbourne for this very purpose. I was typing it out before and have been every now and then since March, I find it really helps me clear my mind to completely fill my brain with someone else's thoughts... granted I got the idea from the Hunter S. Thompson documentary where it says that he typed out The Great Gatsby a bunch of times, but I like to think that I've found merit in the activity other than imitation of my literary idol.

On the floor, further to my right past the already burgeoning mess of cables plugged into a five socket powerboard that I'm sure Dad is pissed about me having (even though I know for a fact that he would have no use for it back home... motherfucker doesn't even own a cellular telephone-machine) is my second monitor. It's a 17inch flatscreen that I bought for three-hundred badboys when I was like fifteen or some shit. In the corner are some sheets that will never be used because really I have never understood the usefulness of sheets. Like yeah sure I get the ones that you cover your mattress with, and we'll get to my bedding situation later, but the other ones... that thin layer of superfluous cotton that is supposed to line the people-sandwich between person and quilt cover... they are bullshit. If someone is using those sheets then they are clearly too afraid of something.

Past that along the wall to my right are a few books including the English-Spanish dictionary given to my upon my departure from Bolivia in February by my formerly estranged, now slightly-less-estranged ex-lady Melanie. She wrote a nice note in it for me when we left and I plan on holding on to that guy because, as it says in 'Everyone Has the Right to Wear Sunscreen': “keep your old love letters, throw away your old bank statements.” There are no bank statements in this room... you can do that shit online now. Then more books and a fat pile of clothes, most of which I don't really like any more but I know will eventually be worn out of sheer laziness and aversion to trips to the laundromat. I only have one laundry bag and while it is a hefty piece of bagery, I really can't see myself making that trip any more than once a fortnight... that's fine, I needed to buy new socks and underpants anyway. (On that note, just quickly, the list of stuff that I lost that I ended up losing to the hostel tax grew by three pairs of socks, two undies, and another tube of toothpaste along with countless food items in the final weeks... I've come to terms with the fact that those losses are largely my own fault)

Behind me, after the door and the appropriate amount of empty floor-space to account for that, are my shoes, and some of Phil's shit that he left here like a the lowly drifter that he is – also mate your jacket is hanging on my door, come get it back or I will spit in the pockets. Then there's my bed; a single mattress with the fitted sheet-cover ON (ladies) and five pillows arranged in the optimum arrangement to avoid floor-touchies and the dreaded midnight head-roll. (trust me, I've done tests) Now we're on the wall to my left, just over my left shoulder and if you have a good ability to spatially visualise what I'm writing about you will have noticed (do the sums guys, it all adds up **gasp**) that my bed is on an angle with the wall and actually forms a nice little right-angled triangle between the short end and the two sides of the corner over my left shoulder for those of you playing at home. There's my big bag – the one with the 'Troop 712' tag still on from my heady junior days at the Australian Jamboree – and a few hoodies and shoes and then directly to my left are the sheets that will, god and Hubbard willing, be going on my queen size bed when it arrives from Adelaide. (it's on the list, you can't rush art, dickhead)

Finally, the most important item in this room, and the one that has allowed me to begin reclaiming my sense of normalcy and begin to make this bare, languid pit my new home: my Dad's old stereo amp. He told me that it didn't work when I brought home the two speakers from the Salvos a few months ago in Adelaide but I took it out of the shed in Naldera Street and plugged it in anyway and, well long story short... it did. It works fine mate, thank you nineteen-eighties. This badboy has already done about ten solid hours of work in the five days that I've been living here... actually make that twenty... and don't you people let anyone say that I let a hard slog go unappreciated. On top of that are my wallet, keys, and oh yeah to my right my phone is on charge. Piece of shit is always on charge. Feels like my life is on charge every time I walk into a room and I see a power point to plug that bastard tool into. Okay... time to stop, I think things are about to get a little too serious.

Peace, Taco.

(29/10/12 EDIT: For the sequel to this post, click here)

Musings on Immoral Behaviour

This morning I woke up at 9:30am, had and went downstairs to the kitchen where I found that my milk had been stolen and the walls had been written on. There you go... that's a perfectly straightforward English story right there. No frills, no bows, very little difficult language. For those of you with shit to do today – the dishes, bathing, religious ceremony – you can stop right there safe in the knowledge that what you have just read fairly and concisely sums up the first hour of my day today. For those of you with a few more stones in your belly, continue on. Let's make an afternoon of it, shall we?

The last couple weeks there has been a string of seemingly random food thefts perpetrated by a shadowy, anonymous stranger lurking within the annals of the hostel... last week I lost two tupperware containers of lovely chicken-vegetable something that I had cooked and saved for myself. Jean lost one as well, and a few other random items of condiment or whatever have been reported missing from different people's food stashes in the freezer or pantry. Needless to say this behaviour is looked upon fairly unwelcomingly by the community and before long people had started leaving long, sometimes eloquent notes on their food to discourage the thief - my particular words were along the lines of “don't touch my food faggot, go buy your own... actually before you do that, kill yourself”. (I would like to say that I have been the spearhead of this movement and maybe in the eloquence department I fairly could, but plenty of other people have had some rather colourful words attached to their shit – it's not just me) Anyway... considering the recent string of mooch-crime it sadly came as little surprise to me this morning when I trekked downstairs after a shower (not in my favourite shower this morning – it was occupied by a couple of Germans AKGH – but that's neither here nor there) and found that my two litre milk was nowhere to be found... wait that's no good. My milk, that I had found... wasn't... find? Found. I couldn't find it... even when someone hadn't founded.... ugh

Some dick had stolen my milk... is basically what I'm trying to say here.

I've talked to Bobby, the night manager, about checking the cameras in the kitchen to try and pinpoint who the thief is and while there's been words and times floated around the place, I was sure from the beginning that no action would be taken in this crisis. Yeah sure there are cameras and it's not so hard to switch on a TV and check them from particular dates and times, but knowing the calibre of staff that operate this place, even work which basically involves watching an extended version of Big Brother until you see the bad guy is going to be put off for as long as possible. Bobby ain't a bad dude... he's great in fact. But he's never going to do it.

So then at around 10:10am when one of the other managers came out and said something to the effect of, “yep, that's it, we've got em all on camera” in a serious, big boy tone, my mind did backflips. “WHO IS THE MOTHERFUCKER THAT STOLE MY FOOD? WHEN CAN HE BE BROUGHT TO JUSTICE? HOW MANY PUNCHES TO THE FACE DO WE GET EACH?” Real forgiving shit... So that was at 10:10am, but before I go any further I need to take you guys back to last night. Just real quick. Because it's fun. It breaks up the main narrative. And adds dramatic effect.

Last night I went and saw a couple comedy shows including one at Pugg Mahone's (interestingly enough, 'pug mahone' apparently means 'kiss my ass' in Irish soooo... there you go?) where Myrthe – a Dutch girl from the hostel – works. Apparently I left without saying goodbye – a faux pas that I was later chastised heavily for, especially because I managed to squeeze a free drink (a squash though, let's be fair) out of the lovely lady while I was there. I got back to the hostel around eleven and found Ollie, the lanky German with the brilliant laugh, back amongst the living after a week in Thailand. This is the guy who suggested to Jean (who has hilariously small eyes) that we should “have a competition to see who can open his eyes the widest and the loser has to buy everybody pizza” so yeah... he's alright. Ollie had bought a litre of Smirnoff back from the duty free store, and Myrthe and Hannah (black English girl... sassy etc.) were down for a drink. Simeon (looks 26, is 21) and Kieran (looks 26, is) joined as well... and the next few hours writes itself really.

After a few hours of these guys slamming down vodka and getting loud with me vicariously enjoying their antics we turned our eyes to the wall behind us which is covered in photos of people who have stayed at the hostel at various times in the last few years partying and having fun. The main problem that we could see with these pictures was that they were not of us, and as such were ripe for alteration... so ripe... top ten ripest. We set to work with a permanent texta rating the people in the pictures out of ten: top angle looking down on blonde girl – six. Fat girl hooking up with other guy – 2. Sexy girl with black hair who is hot in three separate photos – 9. Passed out dude with wack face – MONG. Etc... The real vandalism started when Dutchy and Hannah got on their bitchy-soapbox tip and started ranting about some guy they had both slept with who apparently was “too slow” and “gave no orgasm” and “had a lot 2 learn private lessons could have been 4 free bad personality X”. They wrote it on the wall in thick, blue permanent and faced the cameras blatantly. I'm on camera writing on the photos, which can just be pulled down, but their hateful mural will have to be painted over... silly silly... nothing good ever happens after 2am.

So anyway, that happened last night, and to bring us back to 10:10am this morning, the manager from the hostel had just rolled out the big guns, “yep, that's it, we've got em all on camera”. I realized though, after my initial hopeful fancy that it had been about catching the food thief, that he was talking about the writing on the walls, and that my ass could very well be on the line here. This was only a second after vicious, bloodthirsty images of a lowly, broken bastard, tied to the stake and gnashing his teeth, breath still smelling of my chicken-vegetable something and staring down the barrel of an open, running sewage pipe that was about to be blasted into his face. Guilty as fuck and fucked for sure...

...and now that was me. I was the one staring down the pipe and the sewage was coming straight for me. I am, and it is. And as much as that sucks, I brought it on myself. I did the stupid thing on camera, and even if they caught my thief, his crime is really no worse than mine... well marginally, but they are both shitty things. The photos that I drew on can be taken down, and so too can my food be replaced... the base transgression at the core of both actions is disrespect. I didn't ask to draw on the photos, fagboy didn't ask to take my food. In both instances, I'm sure the answers to the request would have been yes – “can I have some food?” 'yes'; “can I draw on these pictures of mongs?” 'yes' – but the question was never asked. After last night I have been forced, as I seem to be on about a weekly basis, to re-evaluate my position and rethink some of the hasty thoughts that have sprung into my head. Simply reacting to situations is only the clumsiest way of getting through the day and I really have to stay vigilant on my snappy, self-indulgent thoughts if I am ever going to make change. Ultimately, I guess I just have to start making my food a little less obvious. I'm never going to find the thief – sinful bandit fucker that he is – but at least I can make my stuff a little less appetising for his grubby little thief-fingers. Maybe then he will disappear forever, and I can forgive him for his sins, and those two serves of chicken-vegetable something that I miss so, so much.

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.