Roma Street Gardens

The water makes a sound like trickling as it falls down, not very far – it's almost quiet. Mother and daughter, speaking between awed faces with voices that drift away, they barely disturb the silence. A friend is with them, leans down and takes a picture. Construction-site noises in the background, the melodious grating of a circular blade winds through the greenery. See trees moving but hear no wind. Feel no cold. Breathe shimmering stillness. The water, trickle, trickle.

“Come on!” urges the little girl with her mother and friend, they're behind me now. Some distant crashing is muffled by the all encompassing surrounds, these sounds enter and bounce off a craggy rock face. Maybe a plane, up above? Or just the unidentifiable rushing movements of the world, keeping pace. Staying in movement. Never stops

That was a bird, there was a definite chirp, unmistakeable. Tiny insects hover in front of this scene, too close for eyes to focus. More voices drift in, and out, and the water falls, and then ripples off into the reeds. The constant sounds of silence. Trickle, trickle, trickle.

Peace, Taco.

Adelaide During the Fringe

From Tuesday til Saturday I was in Adelaide seeing friends, Fringe shit, and fam. I planned this trip and bought the tickets pretty much as soon as I got back from my Hometown Christmas last year, but this time around – without everyone having the obligation to spend so much time with their families, and everyone from everywhere being back in town – the trip was way way way way WAY much better. Here's why:

Tuesday I got into town at seven-thirty at night after a brilliant (as always) bus ride involving books, music, and some great ideas and time alone to think. I love those bus rides – there's a reason I always include at least one in each trip home. As soon as I got off the bus I headed straight to the Cranka for some free Tuesday night comedy and caught up with Ross Voss, Josh Cruze, and saw some great comedians who I hadn't seen before. Jesus, what a refreshing change seeing people's sets that I haven't seen ANYTHING from. Being around the same comics all the time in Melbourne, while obviously lovely as it gives a great sense of community, can become exhausting because whenever someone has a good set, you already know more or less how the set is going to go. I can still recognize when someone has done a good set because they have performed well or really captured the audience or whatever, but it's rarely THAT exciting to see someone do well if sixty to eighty percent of what they're doing on stage I have seen before. So seeing my open mic contemporaries in Adelaide do their thing was a great break.

Then the Rhino late show that night was awesome – Will Anderson did some great stuff about framing Adam Hills for a murder by hopping away from the crime scene. Then we somehow got into the Artists' Bar. Then we got drunk. Then we went home. By the way 'Home' for this trip was Phil's place in Kent Town, which was a fucking great change in and of itself because it was a ten minute walk from town, and the posse that he lives with are fucking sick. Sick as dawgs.

Wednesday I woke up earlyish with a hangover, me Elle and Leon went to breakfast at ETC which was always one of my favourite Adelaide breakfast spots. We consumed, then I sweated my shit down to the DMV and got my full license. Tick. Then back home, broke into the guys' house through Leon's bedroom window and crashed out for the afternoon under a fan waiting for MA BOIIII S. Rouse to call, but finally having to pay a Twenty-Five-Dorrah cab to his place during rush hour after he was to shit to get out of bed all day. We reminisced over Pool Party (WHOSE PARTY?!!) days in Empire and then I had a gig at the Ed Castle that night where I also met the lovely German, Sarah for the first time after chatting to her for ages on CouchSurfing since mid-year. The gig went okay – good enough, although I felt I performed a really tight set, but the crowd reaction wasn't AS amazing as I would've liked, but I was happy enough – then me, Elle and Josh Wills jumped into the Artists' Bar again after Rouse went home to crash.

Thursday: another hangover, another breakfast, another cruisy afternoon in Kent Town that ended with the most brilliant snap-decision of recent times with me, Phil, Leon and Nick Fuckenwhatever unanimously agreeing in about five seconds to go to the Tap Inn and have beers. After this I went on to dinner with the fam and shaking Dad's hand after his last day of working some shitty job that he's had for the last ten years and moving into semi-retirement at the tender, supple age of forty-five. He now plans to become a stay-at-home wife and paint the house while Mum Dawgz is off making DEM STAX. Now THAT'S Feminism, bitches!

After family dinner I went off to see David Quirk's Fringe show which was fwarking brilliant I have to say, notwithstanding the tech blunder that sort-of ruined the ending. I can forgive that, the show was great, and I still need to write to that dude and tell him how much I liked it because it really was that good... if any of you reading have a chance to see David Quirk's 'Shaking Hands With Danger' at either the Adelaide Fringe (until march 16^th I think?) or the Melbourne International Comedy Festival later this month, do it. Drinking and deep hangs with Lucy at hers, and then the Rhino Room Late Show again capped off my Me Time before I headed to the Botanic to romp some cunts I'd never met before in doubles pool and crash out around three AM watching something I don't remember on the laptop. Or maybe it was music? Three days into this journey I start to get mixed up about details.

Friday played host to another breakfast/lunch thingo at the Austral with Phil and Eliesa, and then meeting up with Sarah again for a CouchSurfers' picnic in the Botanical Gardens. I convinced my new CS friends to join me in jumping the fence into WOMAD that night to see the Cat Empire – I decided to jump even though I had a press pass, a move that infuriated Phil after I lost his pass in a drunken haze later that night, but for which I'm sure he has forgiven me, and will understand. Adrenaline baby. A-dre-na-line. Before WOMAD though, we went to the UniBar for some final nostalgia and I caught up with Sammy B and Chess – DA BOIZ from Immanuel College. We spat the shit over jugs of cider and laughed heartily as if we were seventeen again. I know I'm not really allowed to reminisce that heavily because I'm still only twenty-two, but whatever, fuck you. I remember shit too you old fuck reading this. That's right, you. Old.

After loosing my shit to the Cat Empire (six years since the last time) me and Jaleesa the Dutch girl went to Trashbags in EC and I capped off my stay catching up with the Kings of Hindley St: Johnny Monday, Jason 'Terror Terror' Petersen, Jake Baker, Liam Ball, and a million other cats that were there that I won't start to list off now mainly because I don't remember shit and I'd probably start guessing, and guessing poorly. When I woke up at ten am on Saturday, I looked at my phone and confirmed what I knew instinctively was the case anyway – I had missed my bus. Mum bought me a plane ticket because she's a diamond, and I spent the rest of the day in Glandore, spending some time with my little bro watching Louie off my hard drive, and then driving around with Eliesa in order to make up the loss of the press pass to Phil. I bought the boys a bottle of wine for letting me crash at their place, and then at nine pm, Eliesa drove me to the airport, and an hour later I was inside a flying steel box, soaring over the country on my way back to Melbourne.

So that's why this trip was better than the one over Christmas. Any questions?

Peace, Taco.

On Stragglers

I remember a conversation with Brodie a few weeks ago about Adelaide, Melbourne, and the dozens of people who seem to be stuck in between. I couldn't put an exact figure on it, but there would probably be at least ten people that I know who are caught in some premature stages of moving over to Melbourne, or saying that they are moving, or thinking about moving, or wanting to move but not knowing how. Some of them I trust when they say that they are coming, I know that they'll get here when they are ready, and some, on the other end of the spectrum, I know are just sitting around puffing on pipe dreams, and I'll be lucky to see them down here for a weekend.

Brodie and I were talking about this while we sat out the front of our 3121 abode, he was smoking cigs and I was probably eating stir fry of some sort, it was probably around six in the evening. Tommy Martin was supposed to come over and live with Lolly and Tim, but he's doing something at uni now. Phil is still sorting his shit out in Adelaide before he makes the jump. My mate Jayden, and to a lesser extend his partner in shit-talking T. Wood, have talked about coming over many a time, Jayden even going as far as to say that he almost has a job lined up. Chris... well, Chris is a bit of a lost cause at this stage. But there are plenty more, people who are 'coming' to Melbourne, just not yet. Just not now, just wait, hold up while I get my shit sorted.

This isn't some post railing against those people and trying to paint them as lazy, or dumb, or useless, not at all, and I know that sometimes you need to lay your plans properly before you hatch them or else they'll go sour. A few people who have said they are coming have my genuine trust, I know they'll make it over here, it's only a matter of time. But what Brodie said in the midst of this idle list-making struck me as a bit of fair warning to anyone who has ever had even the most cursory thought about leaving Adelaide and coming to join the youth of the world in Melbourne. “Yeah, maybe they'll make it down,” he said, “but it won't be for a few years at least, and by the time they get here the party will be over and we'll all have moved on to bigger and better things.” He said it like it wasn't even news. Like that's the way things were always going to be, and it was as obvious as the colour of the sky, but I had never even considered it that way.

The party will come to an end, eventually, but not because anyone says it has to, it'll just come to pass, some moment will fly by and the Melbourne vibe will be finished with. I've heard Chris, several times, bemoan his lateness in arriving to the town scene in Adelaide. “I can't believe I missed those few years of partying with you guys, I don't even know what I was doing?” I've heard him spill these words out after again hearing the stories of climbing cranes or lighting fires or Block Party or stupid, one night absinthe fling-benders. So why are you missing it again, then? I don't know... just know what you're doing, I guess. If you have a plan and you're doing something, make sure you know why, or at least have a fair idea. Don't be putting off what you really want to do in favour of what seems easier now, because what you really want might not be there forever.

Peace, Taco.

Now We're Fucked

Okay, so what's this about then? I feel a little shit all of a sudden. I feel a bit strange. I got a call today from Ben who is one of the guides for Peek Tours, the walking tour company that I've been getting about half of my paycheque from for the last few months. He said he had to cancel his tour this morning because he only had two people rock up, and when he went to check out the competition (I'm Free Tours) their guy had like twenty people... that's a lot of people for a Monday. That's worrying.

They must have been doing something in the month or two that they've been running that has given them these numbers, but what that thing is, I am absolutely clueless... I've never even SEEN THEIR FLYERS!?! But the fact of the matter now, is that they have fucking WAY MORE people, and we are left with barely any base from which to make money. This is stressful because tours is really the main base of my income right now, and add to that the fact that I've just faced this week, that I'm going to have to quit Yah Yah's after the new year. I won't rant and spit here right now because I don't think that'd help anything, but to put it plainly, I can't work in that place anymore. I hate it. It is fucking terrible.

So let's look at how things are now then... in about a week, my two sole sources of income now have a limited life, one due to work conditions, and one due to competition. Fuck. FUCK. !!! Things were going way to smoothly... I know I'll be able to get work at another bar with Sean around February when his new project kicks off, but until then, and until the final security of my twenty-second birthday rolls in (twenty-two is the age when I can finally claim centrelink... but more on that well of shame when it rolls around in two months' time) … (THIS PIECE IS INCOHERENT!!)

Until February, I'm going to be waiting in the wings, basically. I'm going home for Christmas, but now that I'm faced with it and the looming rent deadline on the fifteenth, I don't know how I'm going to be able to get the coin together unless one final gambit pays off... Tomorrow I'm going to go down to the I'm Free tour and suss out their situation. I'm going to have to move fast... I'll have to talk to this guy... ugh... FUCK... I think I'm admitting to myself right now already that I'm going to be jumping shit... FUCK... this sucks so hard. I want to bring the Peek Tours guides over as well and make sure everyone can still keep doing tours... I won't know what the score is until I meet this guy tomorrow and suss him out, and suss out their guides situation.

Shit just got really stressful this week. No more smooth sailing. Oh yeah, I had some gigs yesterday though. Well I say 'gigs', one was ONLY comics, so it was basically a workshop, and for some reason I got really freaked out when I was on stage and bailed... I'm kind of pissed off that I did that, because I could have hung around longer and got some really good feedback on jokes... anyway, that's neither here nor there. I went and did another spot at Voltaire after that and did a new bit which went pretty well, but the recording fucked up so I didn't even get to listen back and see what I could polish up... Ugh.

The getting drunk and partying on Saturday night was really fucking good... but I don't feel like that really matters at this point. It wasn't especially satisfying and felt pretty arbitrary to be honest... like, why am I drinking? Why do I need to go out and party? What have I done to warrant this? It was really lucky that I had the Saturday off work because I would have killed myself if I'd had to go in and had my face spat in for five and a half hours again by... *breathe* … ugh... fuck... breathe, breathe. This ranks as EASILLY the most unreadable and retarded thing I have ever posted. Don't even bother.

Peace, Taco.

I'm Going to get Drunk

I can't fucking wait until tomorrow night. I always put too much stock in these planned evenings, but I guess that's just the way I operate. I'm a schemer. I like to plan things. I like to be in control? Maybe... that could be taking things a little too far. Stop trying to psychoanalyze yourself Tugzy. Chill the fuck out.

I've got work tonight at midnight, as P.U., but this Friday shift doesn't look like being the normal burning drudgery that I wade through every regular weekend because the promise of a whole Saturday of drinking and immorally festive behaviour is looming, bright and hopeful in the distance. Goon is the drink, my friends, and two-dollar-fifty bottles of bitter Chardonnay sit waiting for my thirsty stomach on the shelves of Aldi just one block down Victoria Street. My man Samson Benger is down from Adelaide in one of the rarest random-chance encounters that I have experienced in a long time – the kid has come down for a once-in-a-blue-moon weekend away on the very same weekend that I choose to take my first Saturday off since moving to Melbourne. Stars are aligning and wolves can clearly be heard howling behind the mountains.

The worn-out deck of playing cards that adorn my desk is currently fourty-seven out of fifty-two cards finished, and tomorrow the fifth-last card will be written off. I don't even know how I'm going to contain my excitement after knocking-off of work at five-thirty am... I'm going to have to devise some way of getting to bed. I'll rig a system of pipes up to a bottle of chloroform and hang them from the roof of my bedroom so that a fine mist of knock-out gas will come down in a violent shroud and engulf me bodily upon my return home this morning. I will pay someone to sleeper-hold me when I walk in the door. I'll buy a cryogenic sleep-pod and power it with human tears. I'll... I'll... FUCK! I'm way too excited.

Do you know what it's like working less than twenty hours a week and going to comedy five nights a week to watch people do the thing that you love, and learn from them, and two or three of those five nights you get to do that thing too? Do you know what it's like to spend the majority of daylight hours in any given week writing jokes and stories, and reading brilliant books and browsing facebook and the internet and re-watching old Simpsons episodes? Do you have any fucking idea how brilliant this shit is? But I don't party enough... I really don't... somehow I've managed to trick myself into believing that what I do when I'm not earning money can still be fairly classified as work, and so now that I have given myself this rare opportunity to really get rowdy, I'm so over-ready for the occasion that there is a reasonable chance I'll spoil it by passing out at ten pm anyway? Who can honestly say they've been there? Well everyone, probably, but I bet you were all teenagers huh? I feel like a fucking sixteen year old.

I'm excited, energized, prepared, poised, and anticipant... apparently that's not a word? Fuck off it isn't, that's simple verb-to-noun conversion we're looking at there. Anticipant. Anticipant. An-ti-ci-pant. Fuck off. Good.

Peace, Taco.

Spring Rocks and Julie is Fat

Every year for the past three or four (I really struggle to remember anything clearly from before I reached drinking age and I'm sure that somewhere in there there's a pro-alcohol argument waiting to be fleshed out) it seems that the first half of the year contains the vast majority of shitty happenings and a whole bunch of fretted damage control, while the second half – from about midwinter onwards – just fucking rocks. Down here in the southern hemisphere we've got spring and summer to kick us into the Christmas and New Year season and while the sky rises in the sky, so too do spirits seem to soar, but the utter brilliance of the tail ends of the last few years has led me to believe that something else – some more hidden, more other force – is at play here.

I have yet to directly ask any of my Northern-Hemisphere facebook-friends about their feelings on the second half of the year, so I don't know whether this vibe that I keep getting around August every year is universal, or if it is confined only to the bottom half of our globe, but I'm sure it's not just an Australia thing because I was in Bolivia last October to February, and those fuckers were joyous. And I'm not just describing a lift in spirits here either... I mean sure, once the first few real days of spring come through – those days when the sky is clear and shirts are optional – people start to get optimistic. I could bury myself in a pile of useless copper if I had a penny for every time a tenuous September conversation fell on the crutch of “I can't wait for summer”, but the change in attitude is only part of why I love August to February, there is another, more mysterious piece to this puzzle.

I reckon about seventy-percent of my sexual encounters have happened in the happy months of Spring and Summer – and I'm not talking about that tired 'okay, if you really want to' shit either, we're talking mad, rowdy, crack-the-bedpost-and-set-off-the-fire-alarm fucking. Springtime fucking – way more common in the spring. Add to that the fact that almost every relationship I've ever had have started between August and February, and they all tend to end around March. Huge moves have been made in my life in this part of the year – my trip to Bolivia, my first pair of good shoes, the time I lost my virginity, finishing school, starting stand-up comedy. While the other half of the year – springtime's ugly, overweight half-sister; let's call her Julie – has played host to job firings, two arrests, almost every one of my breakups, squatting in a crack-den in Clearview; Adelaide, depressed friends, and countless instances of arson and petty vandalism which only went unpunished by the sheerest of sheer luckiness. Julie, Julie, Julie... but why, people? Why does it always seem to be like this?

As I put to you before, I don't buy into the simple explanation that the sun shines brighter on the face of man, making him happy and cheerful and glad... not a fucking chance. Many of the brilliant things that have happened to me in the springtime have been completely separate from any human interference, and a whole slew of the bad shit that goes down on Julie's watch is down to my own stupid choices... what, is some behavioural scientist going to come up here and try to tell me that clouds make people angry? Rain drives youths to cover cars in petrol and turn them into towering infernos in the deep of the night? Piteous posturing! Why bother with nonsense hypotheticals, when a simpler, rational explanation sits right in front of our noses?

Birds.

Birds are great, and birds are plentiful in spring. As my housemate just said then when I asked him what he liked about birds, “they look so majestic when they fly.”... Uuuh... fuck, yeah ok guys, look, I'll come clean with you, I really can't think of anything else to write here. I was going to go on a bit of a tirade here about how birds have magical powers, or something, and how it is clear that while the springtime possesses it's own inherent charm that makes people happy and renews vitality in our hearts and souls, the birds are what really make this time of year special. I was going to be clever, verbose, and very very satirical. Ironic. Facetious. It would have been funny... but I can't, I can't think of anything, this piece just fell flat on its face. You are now witnessing, live and uncut, what happens when I try to write something special and it gets knotted up in its own specialness... speciality? Specially.. spe... fuck this, it's sunny and I'm going to play outside.

Frustrated, yes. Beaten, not yet.
I still love the springtime.

Peace, Taco.

An Idle Thought

If I were a cynical person I'd probably say that life can be fairly reduced to a series of desperate, frantic attempts to invalidate our own profound loneliness. These attempts vary in ingenuity and design but the basic question – the cry that sits at the core of everything we do – is always the same. 'Please accept me!' The scream rings out and cuts through every moment of our lives. 'Be with me! Think of me! Care about me!' We want to be loved, and so we long to find people who will love us while we struggle to disbelieve, or even forget if only for a second, the brutal fact of our ultimate aloneness in death. Then we die.

I think that's what I would say if I were a cynic.

Ugh, Sunday.

Peace, Taco.

Socks: History's Greatest Monster

(NOTE: This post was originally written for The Aristocrat comedy blog and can be found here)

Socks; what a racket to get into. Those little, cotton foot-pouches that stand between your skin and the abrasive inside of a shoe. You can wear them high – even up to your knee with rainbow coloured hipster-stripes. You can wear them low – those little ballet affairs that barely cover the heel. You can wear them just above your ankle, over the calf, hell wear them on your fucking ears right? YEAH! Socks people, what a wonder of modern comfort. What a mainstay of Western sophistication. Indispensable and Priceless; socks are the only thing that separate us from the beasts. Without socks, where would we be right? WRONG.

You are being oppressed.

No one invented the sock – at least no one that I can find on Wikipedia – which is annoying, because the lack of a definite target for the lynching that is sure to ensue after this vitriolic piece of hate-speech reaches the masses is, at best, worrying. I know for a fact my readership consists mainly of crowbar-wielding, high-blood-pressure knife enthusiasts, and I like to give you all what you want. Scapegoats, we hunt them by the dozen. But NO! No traceable lineage for the inventor of this idol of capitalist oppression exists for us to direct our rage towards, but come with me, my people, and we will find our villain.

Socks are shit. I buy about fifty of the fucking things a year. (ok, probably fifty individual socks, so maybe twenty-five pairs... and to be fair even that is an exaggeration, but fuck off who's counting?) No sooner do I get them home from whichever store was in my line of sight when I realized that my shoes were carving flesh-holes out of the bottoms of my feet, than they start to fall apart. Socks aren't built to last guys, they're not long term investments... and yet they cost SO MUCH FUCKING MONEY. Why do you think homeless people spend all their time sitting down, mournfully propped up against shop-fronts on busy metropolitan streets? Is it because they are so weak from lack of energy, and the depression at their sorry situation pervades their souls so completely that they cannot bring themselves to fight against gravity for another second? NO! WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?... the homeless are no stupid few, they are some resourceful fuckers. They refuse to walk, to stand, or even use their feet, because they KNOW that as soon as you put pressure on your three-dollar cotton bonds, they'll wear through and you'll be back in the line at target, forking out another five dollars for a piece of material barely worth half as many cents.

I bought some new socks the other day. “Why did you buy socks Taco? What's the deal with that? You sit here and rail against the capitalist oppression of superfluous pedalian apparel (pedalian, it's an adjective, it means foot. LOOK IT UP!) but you can't even give us a solution? WHAT KIND OF REVOLUTIONARY ARE YOU?” I didn't know when I bought them; the lightning bolt was yet to strike me, but strike it did, and from the ground up too – like a huge mass of electrons being discharged from the surface of the earth and dispersing into the atmosphere. (oooooooh clever) I have it people, it was all so simple.

Why wear socks, which always, always, ALWAYS fucking break or smell or get lost and then you only have one left and your housemate goes “hey dude why are there all these odd socks under the couch in the living room” and you say, “THAT'S NOT EVEN MY SOCK DUDE WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?”... Why let that happen? When there is a perfectly accessible and reasonable substitute sitting just under our noses. I'll say it once, and only once, and you can all try it for yourselves. Baby Powder.

Just let that sink in for a second. Allow yourselves to be swept up and carried off on the wave of understanding. The tide of knowledge. The inevitable winds of change... they blow, my friends, and the blow for us. Why should we pay fucking eighty dollars a year for socks that will inevitably frustrate and infuriate us when they are lost, will become thin and pathetic after two washes, and will smell like SHIT, when you can just sprinkle a little baby powder inside your shoes before you chuck them on every day? I'm not saying it's perfect, but I'm going to give it a shot. An honest shot. No revolution was won in a day, comrades... I'm willing to take the plunge.

If any of you are still loyal to your precious foot-gloves, then by all means, keep beating your heads against the steel girder of planned-obsolescence and pay, pay, pay to the overpriced overlords that control our society's sock supply. But if you, like me, and so many others before us, wish to affect REAL, TANGIBLE, PALPABLE CHANGE IN THE WORLD IN WHICH WE LIVE... then throw away your socks today. Go out and buy some Johnson and Johnson baby powder, and begin your life anew. And to make up for the sock's other use, guys... stop being a lonely weirdo and do it into an empty bag of chips like the rest of us.

Peace, Taco.

A Letter to Ted Danson

Preface: If you don't know who Ted Danson is, he was the star of the late 90s sitcom 'Becker'. Fucking brilliant show, and WAY under appreciated. Watch it. Watch it now.

Hello mister Danson. Should I have capitalized 'mister' there? I'm not sure, these formalities often escape me but know now that if the convention in this case is, in fact, to capitalize the honorific before your name, esteemed sir, then I have not diverged from it in spite or out of some pathetic attempt to belittle you. The truth is – the whole, complete, unadulterated, bare, slippery truth – is that you fucking rock. Ted Danson, you are fucking dope.

I decided to write this email a few days ago while talking to my friend on the phone (yeah sorry I'll drop the grandiose tone now – let's rap Ted. Let's talk like grown ups). So yeah, I was on the phone to my friend and we were talking you know blah blah blah... we're in our early twenties so the conversation spanned a wide range of topics from girls, drinking, drugs, and the time we broke into a construction site and smoked a spliff on top of the crane after scaling it from the outside... we're basically living the renaissance here Teddy, and it's great. But amid the lacklustre conversation and tired youthful cliches one recollection strangely sprung into my mind for no reason I can accurately pin point. I will now recount what I told my friend that lazy afternoon – it's not that interesting... in fact it's really one of the least interesting stories you'll ever receive as a piece of fan mail. But it's fan mail nonetheless, and while I'm sure the days of Becker have long since faded from your memory, I hope it will bring you some fleeting happiness to know that that show about the angry doctor from Brooklyn still captivates people ten years after it's termination.

So about eighteen months ago – Easter weekend two-thousand and eleven – I was in what might fairly be termed a 'downward spiral'. I was spiralling, Tedford, spiralling in a direction whose mean trajectory was, more or less, vertically downward. I had recently committed several various crimes of petty vandalism, each one more inventively stupid than the last, and was facing quite a serious charge of 'illegal interference' for one of those crimes. Basically I opened the back of this guy's ute and smashed a bunch of stuff that was sitting in the back... but that's neither here or there is it... suffice to say I was in a pretty bad place. At the start of the Easter weekend – the day before Good Friday – my family had gone away and left the house to me and I, in my drug-addled, oblivious state, took this as a sign that I was in for four days of unbridled partying with friends upon friends upon friends staying at my house and spending time with me. It turns out though, that people don't really want to hang out with some guy who is only interested in getting drunk, taking heaps of drugs and going into the night breaking shit... I was that guy, and I was pretty fucking boring.

So on Easter Sunday, after I'd been fired from my job on Saturday night for not turning up (I showed up for my 9pm shift at 9am... I was pretty fucked -chuckle-) and after I'd realized that no one really wanted to party with me I went round to a friends place and decided to take acid. I'd taken acid before, but this time it was some special type of acid that lasts thirty-six hours. No joke, the shit actually hijacks your mind for a whole day and a half, and man... that shit lasted. It was insane. I took it at 7pm Sunday evening, and didn't end up getting to bed until 2am Tuesday, the stuff had legs. It was like my brain was the hard drive of a computer – an old computer whose only function was to calculate pocket change and use it to by cheap wine – and that hard drive had been thrown into a swimming pool with an electronic magnet at the bottom, simultaneously frying the circuitry of the thing with water and wiping every piece of information off it with the magnet. The magnet... god damn it... my brain, my precious, fragile brain. My mind. The thing that I pride myself on more than anything else is that I am sharp. I can think. Maybe I'm wrong to pride myself on that, or maybe a little arrogant, but I do nonetheless; I can't help my opinions of myself any more than you can help that you love cheese, or coffee, or a nice glass of scotch. It's just an opinion.

For this whole day I honestly believed that I was going to have to re-learn ever aspect of my life – I thought that I had broken my brain, cracked it in half and irreparably splintered myself away from sanity and down into the abyss of floundering idiocy. It was the scariest day of my life, and I remember feeling completely alone, and completely worthless. My family were away in our holiday home, and I had welcomed their leaving thinking that the hordes of friends I somehow believed I had would swarm into my house and keep me company all weekend, but it was not the case. I realized that, in my selfishness I had pushed everyone away and not even realized what I was doing, and then I had taken this drug, this insanely powerful drug, and forever crippled myself and rendered my life useless. Then I started watching episodes of Becker on my laptop.

I watched all day, all the way through season one and two, and then I think I skipped a few seasons I'm not really sure, but I remember getting to the series of episodes somewhere in one of the later seasons that started with Becker sitting at a bar recounting his problems to an indifferent bartender, and moaning about how he doesn't have anyone in his life to support him. It seemed to mirror my situation exactly – John Becker, a lonely, bitter man oblivious to those around him who care about him and support him every day. Then there was the episode with Jake's hot new girlfriend where Becker thinks she's hitting on him and right up until the point when she reveals she just wants to be friends it coaxes the audience into thinking John was going to sleep with her. Will he betray his friend? Will he do the right thing? The episode where he and Margaret are attracted to eachother, or not attracted, but maybe... they can't decide whether they are, even if they know they don't want to be together... I'm ranting now, I know it, but I'm trying to remember each episode without going onto wikipedia and refreshing my memory. Maybe it was because I was on hallucinogenic drugs, but each episode seemed more poignant than the last, and as each story wrapped up and laid one of John's anxieties to rest, one part of my frightened mind was subdued as well.

It is possible that the effects of the drugs gave the show a strange gloss of meaning that was intended in writing or filming, or that is, in actuality, not there at all, but it doesn't matter to me. That day changed my life, for many other reasons not related to Becker, or you, Ted Danson, or anything you have ever heard of... it just did. But I thought you might be interested to know about a day in the life of some blandly eccentric, twenty-one year old writer from the dull town of Adelaide, South Australia and read with vague amusement of the time he took acid and watched your show. That really was a great show man. Becker was such a nice dude, and he really cared about his patients and what he was doing... he just had no patience for idiots. God damn it I loved that show haha...

That's pretty much all from me I think, if you end up reading this, I don't need a massive response and I'm sure you don't have time to write one... but just any acknowledgement would be amazing. How about we play it like this. If you read all the way down to here, then reply with the topic line 'A Fan Letter to Taco, from Ted Danson'. That's me, by the way. Taco.

Have a good one Teddy. Also I love bored to death. Cheers I've never seen, although I hear it was quite good.

Peace, Taco.

Bad Post Turned Worse

I feel like my room is this cocoon; I'm going to be in here for a while. I know that I have entered a stage in my life that will be full of frenzied, hurried activity – but activity that is unseen and unheard of. This room inside my house in Richmond acts like a kind of incubator – a place where I can go and mill about on my own, doing whatever it is that I need to do on this day and that night. I just need to make sure that I maintain focussed, so that I don't fall into the tempting routine of doing nothing. I know that everything I need to get where I want to with comedy and writing is here now, I don't need to go anywhere or have any experiences for a while, I just need to sit and work. To steel my mind and practice my craft.

Interestingly enough folks – and as a bit of a side-note – as I was writing that last paragraph, I realized that I won't much like this piece of writing when I'm finished. About halfway through that third sentence there, it dawned on me that what I was writing was complete wank... I managed to pull it back a little there at the end, after realizing that the words being tapped onto the page were boring and pre-emptively self-congratulatory (oooooooooh look! Hyphens!) but I pushed on didn't I? Because that's just what you have to do sometimes. Sometimes, you have to admit that what you are doing is shit. You put it up on your blog, and leave it there for someone to possibly find one day when you're rich and famous and everyone thinks you're brilliant, so that the intrepid fan who has managed to dig it up can go, “OOOH LOOKIT EVERYONE, DIDN'T HAVE HAVE A HARD TIME OF IT WHEN HE WAS YOUNGER... LEARNIN' ABOUT WRITIN' AND ALL THAT”.

Ok... now I can see this post is in some serious trouble.

I imagined that last quote to be spoken in an English accent – I don't know what type of English accent, because I don't know the names for them all... but some English accent, figure it out for yourselves.

I think I'm going to stop... now... not before any damage has been done – read that second paragraph again, this thing is a god damn train wreck. But at least before I take up any more of your time, patient, persistent reader. Thank you for coming on that journey with me. If you're reading this any time longer than a few months after it was posted, then can you please tell me, because I'd love to know what reason you could possibly have for digging so far into my history and finding this five-hundred-word turd on a page...

Oh, and if I'm famous and have heaps of money and everything, then congratulate me on that too.

Peace, Taco.

A Bad Day Turned Good

This blogging thing seems to be going in cycles and I've decided to stop trying to force it so much and just let it happen. That's not to say that I won't be pushing myself to write whenever I have a free moment – hell yes I'm going to be writing as much as possible. Just that if I've just had a few good weeks of solid output, I can accept maybe that my brain might need some time to catch up. I CAN'T KEEP UP MY RED-HOT, FULL-TILT, MAXIMUM PACE ALL THE TIME!!! That was a Red Dwarf quote, for those of you playing at home.

So today has been a great day so far, and it only promises to get better. If we are going by the conventional 'midnight-to-midnight' day system – and for the purposes of this recap I think we just may – then the day started rather poorly with me beginning my shift at Yah Yah's. Yah Yah's is a great place to work; it's fucking brilliant actually, but starting work is never any good... although, being as it was that my shift started at midnight exactly, and that I had realistically already started working by 11:55pm, it could be said that the worst part of my shirt – the dreading anticipation of a night's labour – was already over by the time the thirteenth of October, twenty-twelve was upon us. I only worked until three because I had to give a tour this morning at 10:30am, which required a 9am alarm and it seemed the day was going to be one feral shit-storm from the get-go, but I think all that sad, dejected moping about how much my Saturday was going to suck has ended up turning things on their head.

So I got home at three thirty to my housemates (and OH what mates they are) parting hearty in the lounge room with thudding house music and deep grooves aplenty. I bought a pack of Doritos (Cheese Supreme you FUCK what else?) on the way home with five dong I found on the floor at work and skated down the big hill. Yes, yes and yes. The scenes I return home to after work every weekend are inspiring to say the least. This is the house I always wanted to live in from ages eighteen to twenty – a natural after-party destination that any self-respecting head would want to return to after the din of the dancefloor dies down. It is precisely because of my adolescent desire for such a place that I never was able to create one in those days, and the greatest comic irony of the whole thing is now that I live in the house of my naïve, popularity-obsessed self's dreams, I don't so much care about the parties that happen here. I'm willing to join in for a while, maybe suck down a few puffs of the spliff in circulation, but before long I'm in bed, and sleeping while the walls continue to shake.

I did my tour – woke up at nine, pickups in town from ten, tour until one, and made eighty cash units from the seven people on my tour, although I did forget to take the photo of the group (god DAMN it I keep forgetting that shit) so I'm looking at a thirty-dollar pay-in for that one. 'E neva lerns, duz e'? Nope. Also ran into an old friend from way back in Adelaide – Dom the Drummer from Brighton. He picked me out of the lineup at Aldi and by the sounds of it he's doing the do just like everyone else is over here in Melbourne; tearing shit up and screaming down the dangerous road. Numbers were exchanged and I'm sure we'll be seeing much more of olde Dominic from now on.

Back at home by one-thirty and in bed watching season two of Community with commentaries by two, and now I'm up at five thirty after a quick chat to Peter Pan of Neverland fame about how he's striking his demons back with bamboo poles and a head of positivity... things are looking up. Tonight I'm doing a spot at Station 59 for the late show, and then work, which somehow seems a lot less ominous after last night's shift and the catharsis of writing this post. Everything is so much simpler when it's laid out in simple terms doncharekkin? Yes, is the answer we were looking for there. Yes people. Just yes.

Peace, Taco.

Still Boring Things

It's been a big week for your olde boy Tuck this week, no word of a lie. Just a quick thought before we dive into the serious shit though; I've been considering how much of a funny funny thing it would be to open comedy spots, or indeed this post, with the greeting, “good evening ladies and people”. Do you GET IT? Fuck yeah you do. The kicker here – and I've italicized for those of you still struggling – is that the classic 'ladies and gentleman' has been ever-so-slightly changed so that the greeting implies that 'ladies' aren't people. It's a little bit sexist, and fun for all the family really. Just a cheeky poke in the ribs for all of you who had let your guard down... IT'S STILL ME MOTHERFUCKERS... anyway, that's neither here nor there...

Three days ago I moved into my new place and two days ago that new place was the scene of a terrible fire-storm crunk session the likes of which will never be repeated in this or any other dimension. Next weekend will probably end up pretty raucous too though.... eeeh. But other than being kept up through to lunchtime by a bunch of lecherous party fiends and a man wearing a cold war gas-mask brandishing a knife, this place is pretty near tranquil. My room is severely lacking in furniture and a bit heavy on the clothes-on-floor aesthetic, but we'll get there Jimmy. We'll get there one day.

Rachel – my pretty girlie girl – left for her adventure to the foreign, depression-stricken lands of Europe on Tuesday which fairly sucks dongs and I've been kind of coping ok I guess. Frantic emails have been flying across the world in both directions but it really does suck that she's gone for pretty much the whole summer. Pretty much. Pretty certain. I saw her friends today at the Worker's pub for the regular Monday morning hang, and kept half expecting her to turn around a corner... anyway, fuck that sepia dream, I'm doing alright. And I know that crazy bitch is going to rock bells over in Europe and I'm going to be hearing all about it so there's not too much wrong with that...

I don't have much to say here again, but I still want to keep y'all (all two of you) filled in and interested in how things are moving along over in Melbourne. Well they're moving along pretty well, donchaknow. I promise tomorrow I'll sit down and write a story on here, because these mundane status updates are barely even interesting enough to hold MY attention, how can I expect them to hold yours? Tomorrow I'll write a story, I promise it'll be good.

Peace, Taco.

Make Me Angry

So it's looking like I'm going to be moving in with Brodie and Desh in the next week or two as Tim moves out of the Richmond place and in to his own sex-nest (my words, not his) with his lovely lady-friend Lauren. Logistics for this move will be tricky and Ill be recruiting my main main Philly P for transport duties when he drives down from Adelaide next week, hopefully with my queen-size mattress fixed semi-securely to the roof of his car. Bond is only seven-hundred-and-something dong so that shouldn't be a massively stressful ordeal, and seeing as rent is taken out monthly by direct debit I'll just have to make sure that my bank accounts are set up nicely so that more than enough is sent to my net account each week so I can't get at it with my evil plastic money funnels. I'm definitely looking forward to being out of this hostel and into a room of my own where I can crank beats and kill the light at any hour I desire, although I will miss the communal feel of this place and plan to come back every now and then to kick it with the few friends that remain... god damn it I feel really boring today, is this really all I have to say? 'really' twice in one sentence... I can't even string a sentence together. AGAIN? REALLY TACO? REALLY?

Fuck, should I get fired up about something? Uuuugh... This morning at knock-offs after work conversation turned to the now-recurrent theme of government and civil rights and I must say the fact that this is becoming a regular topic is both scary and exciting. Exciting because it's nice to talk with people about the shit that gets me really revved up and ready to debate, but scary because I know, before even entering into the discussion, that my frequently held position as devil's-advocate may not sit nicely with my work-mates, including managers and owners of the venue. Nevertheless, when we started talking about minority rights and the three other people sitting at the bar all begun the ritualized back-slapping that is common to people who are prepared only to energetically agree with eachother and sit back in comfortable chairs while the world's problems solve themselves, I could see exactly where things were headed. I raised the point that while affirmative action and quotas may hold a part of the solution to problems of, specifically, gender inequality, their implementation could conceivably, and from experience, does, cause resentment and feelings of tokenism among the non-minority groups. I'm not claiming to have a better solution here, but I would rather be a part of a debate where unfinished ideas are fleshed out and considered openly than sit back as one side's unfinished ideas are presented as though they are complete and uncontested, and then accepted as truth.

God damn it, still not really getting riled up here am I... What is wrong with me today? I don't feel blurry or anything, although Remi, my French room-mate, did just ask if I was hungover today, so maybe I am a bit worse-for-wear this morning (7:13pm) than I thought? I'd start on another topic here for the sake of attaining the magical number of three different ideas for this blog, but I really don't see the need... or have the impetus or energy. Yesterday Rachel and I went to Alex's new place in Coburg where they had bands playing in their basement and a fire going in the back yard. The place is fucking enormous and promises an amazing summer of backyard parties and lazy Sunday afternoons... but I'm finding it hard to gather up the furious excitement that I know that place deserves right now, so even with this hot at hand, I'm going to leave you guys waiting. I'll tell you about it next week.

Feeling half-faded –
sad, unenthusiastic.

That's me, signing off.

Peace, Taco.

No Sleep

It seems unlikely that I've lived for so long... I just don't remember ever existing through the near-infinite series of moments like this one right now – when they are noticed, they seem to stretch on forever. When you look at the clock and watch the second hand snap between one second increments it feels like time is everlasting. Focusing on the actual passing of seconds, minutes, hours... it can be easy to forget that there are only a certain number of them left. Every waking moment is precious and should be savoured like this... but then again, if we spend time savouring moments like fragile winter flowers, then they too will be wasted, for to sit and notice every moment from now until forever, is to sit and do nothing. All this time, but still never enough.

I never sleep, cos sleep is the cousin of death.

Peace, Taco.

Heartbeats, Fast

God DAMN it I have been busy... at least it feels like I have. Often times I have to breathe out quickly and mentally slap myself in the face, then focus on something still and try and figure out which set of emotions that I seem to constantly dart between are real and which are make-believe. Am I constantly on the verge of losing my head and jumping out of the nearest first storey window, just to exert the frantic energy that frustrates me from within? Or are the moments when my body feels most on edge simply fleeting weaknesses? Am I really so stressed? Am I really so busy? Is life really as hectic as it seems in the depths of my most flurried of moments? Or am I still floating gently through a series of difficult moments, only ever becoming conscious when the times seem far too tough?

This week I took a quick trip to Adelaide (I left on Sunday night by bus and returned Tuesday afternoon by plane) with the original stated purpose being to farewell my now-estranged ex-girlfriend, Melanie. While I had made a commitment to return for her last day in Australia several weeks ago, I knew deep in my heart as I departed Melbourne at 8pm Sunday evening that I did not want to go, and I bore a shameful resentment towards her for the fact that I was spending money that I didn't have on a trip that, really, I didn't need to take. I had a good time in Adelaide – I got to see my friends again and performed a killer spot at Rhino Room – but the truth of the matter is that I didn't need to be there and I should have just told her I wasn't coming in the end. We had fought enough and the last hug wasn't a hugely moving experience, as all the goodbyes were said long ago. I need to learn to say no to myself and to other people when faced with hard decisions that involve other people's feelings and I need to man the fuck up and cut my losses sometimes. This was one of those times. Yeah I mate a commitment to go, but what good was that commitment once it had become clear than any friendship we were going to have would be hollow and forced for the remainder of the time that she was in Australia and.... ugh, I'm just going to stop myself there. I think I've said everything I needed to say on that... Melanie is gone. Adios francessa, bien viaje.

So with that I can move on to something else I have been avoiding discussing in here – my new girlfriend... and there's an ugly little phrase if ever I saw one. We made it facebook official today... wow. If I could delete those last few sentences from this page and replace them with some sort of dot or squiggle or picture of a cat with a funny caption that could convey the same meaning, then I would... those words are ugly, and they make me cringe. Unfortunately though, they are a necessity, and while I'm not happy about writing the words themselves, the events that have brought me to this point could not have been better.

Rach and I met in the first couple weeks that I was in Melbourne while I was on the door at the Worker's Pub taking coin for a gig in the band room... she came up to the door and we chatted for a while, but I didn't ask for her number under some misguided pretence of 'playing it cool'. Good job Tugboat, cool. Professional. “Don't worry babe, I've done this all before.” Well anyway after your standard courtship etc. etc. we made it official for us on the 9^th of August (her calculations not mine) and then made it official for everyone else a few hours ago. I'm seriously fucking ecstatic to have met such a funny and interesting girl after only having been in this city for two months and am excited to see what happens with us as time goes on. But the catch – and there is always one – is that she is leaving for a gap-year tour of Europe on the 11^th of September and, while her stated return date is somewhere in February, it could be as long as that, or as short as the time it takes to get mugged at Heathrow Airport and be extradited home for vagrancy outside the international terminal.

It's the uncertainty that's really getting to me, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it I guess, and for the moment, I'm having the time of my life... as always pretty much. I don't want to expound on this shit too much here, as these are really thoughts for my private pages and surely are as laborious for you all to read as they are difficult for me to write. Other than that though I have done three spots this week, and did as many last week, and I have a big one lined up for Tuesday at some place called Soto E Sopra which I have invited all DA BOIZ to come and check out. I know I have grown a lot in the two months that I've been here and while seventy percent of the material I put down ends up being scrapped before I even get to the stage, I have managed to put together a fair amount of good stuff including a solid five to seven minutes that I am confident I can take to whatever stage I can get on to. I can safely say that the initial period of settling in here is finished, and interestingly enough I feel like the first stage of me as a stand-up comic is over as well. I am confident enough on stage now to not fall completely to pieces if a bit doesn't work and while I am still coming up with a lot of stuff that, upon reflection really isn't very good, I can look back on the gigs when I ate shit back in Adelaide and say that I roll with the punches a lot more smoothly now.

Over the next few weeks I'll be working on a few stories that I have been telling to friends, and taking them onto the stage without having them written down word-for-word to see if I can capture a bit of the improvised feel that I have noticed crowds respond really well to. I'll still have my strict material there and will keep developing more of that stuff, but I think if I can make something that isn't written down work a few times in a row, then I'll be on the way to becoming a lot more versatile and gaining another level of confidence in myself again. It's all working towards what I know to be a very important goal – to be able to trust that what I'm going to say on stage will be funny, before I say it, and even when it isn't funny anyway, to keep saying what comes into my head again and again.

Fuck this entry is a little all over the place... um... I dunno. Maybe it reflects my slightly rattled mood at the moment. I feel like I have a lot of shit to do today, but really I don't at all... in fact when I walk back to the hostel I'm going to take it slow for once. Yep, that's the ticket folks. No worries. Maybe I'll listen to some Bob Marley... by the way, if you pay close attention, almost every one of his songs starts with a quick drum fill... now you know.

A little Easter Egg for everyone who kept reading.

Boobs.

Peace, Taco.

Week Four: This Post Is A Pipe Bomb

I don't know how long it's going to be before I start accruing things again, rather than losing them... or even whether it's a good thing that I want to start accruing things again. I keep thinking about that George Carlin bit about stuff where he says that looking down on a city and seeing people's allotted houses all in rows is like looking at 'a bunch of people's stuff with a roof over it'. It's true, most of the stuff in your house is crap that you are never (or hardly ever) going to use again, and realistically you could get by without ninety percent of it, but it's still nice to have, for some reason. It's probably the security of knowing that whenever you need to do something – be it cook or wash yourself or eat or sleep or be alone or drink or spend time with people – you have a space to do that and all the items that are necessary. But there is a certain idealistic freedom to not having to lug all that stuff around and worry about it when you can't see exactly what it's doing. This is stuff that may not be critical or even incidentally useful in day-to-day life any more, but stuff obviously has cost you money at one stage or another, and thus retains some value even after its usefulness has long passed. Right now though, my stores of 'stuff' are, slowly but surely, depleting. I am becoming a free, vagabond spirit, through no choice of my own.

Since I've been in Melbourne I've lost one Jacket (my warmest and favourite one) and another remains in the possession of a friend so I guess I'll tentatively say that that one's still ok. I've also lost a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste, a bottle of sweet chilli sauce, a jar of spaghetti sauce and a full thing of salt... like, the big one. I attribute all disappearances bar the jacket to the group of Asians that shared room six with me during my first week of the hostel, (I KNOW those boxes were for something the sheister bastards) but nevertheless... food is replaceable and spring is coming so fuck the jacket anyway. I think I'm just about ready to let go of that one... sigh uhhhh (wistfully)... yep, there it is. Closure.

I'm sitting in the state library right now typing away on my laptop which I dared to bring on a rare adventure out of my room – the battery lasts all of about five minutes now so normally there isn't much point, although I might try and make this a bit more of a regular thing as being away from the hostel means no temptation to eat out of boredom, or sleep out of laziness. I might go play some chess in the fabled 'chess room' that I've heard so much about... although I'm guessing the chess monkeys that surely inhabit the upper levels of this complex would prove more than a match for my feeble chess skills. I guess there's only one way to find out: chess it is. Sorry JayBone, can't really be Charles Dickensed looking for houses today... I think it'll be better to wait until you're up here too so we can sort out going to inspections together... I'll have more money by then as well. Save save save. Come on Taco. Fuck.

Anyone still following this? Didn't think so...

Ugh. I need some chicken.

Peace, Taco.

Nothing Much

Ok so I know I haven't written in a week an a half or some shit but it's sweet, I'm here now, and I'm ready to open up my heart. Cue music – let's go.

I went to Sydney last week for a few days and besides breaking the bank and still owing French Girl some one-hundred noo-naahs I had a pretty chill time – almost better than the last time I visited Sydney, although not as good a story to tell around a table of drunks which is generally my final measure of how good an experience something was. We went on a tour of the Blue Mountains, ate lots of sushi, and fought bitterly in the way that exes trying to give friendship a crack are inevitably wont to do. All around though, I had a nice time.

Other than that I've been thinking about becoming a walking tour guide in Melbourne and am meeting the dude that's going to be sorting that out on Friday to get a script and learn the tour etc. etc. so that should be a chuckle... and I did my Victorian RSA yesterday so I can work behind the bar at Yah Yah's and hopefully pick up a few more shifts and whatever.

I really don't feel in the mood to crank out something very interesting right now which sort of sucks because I haven't written since before Sydney and so much interesting shit has happened... but maybe I need to wait until I tie up one more little knot out here in the real world before I can start changing the record on here and writing about what's actually on my mind right now. I think I'm just going to wait until it's a little bit easier, a little further down the track.

I've been writing a whole bunch of comedy though, and last night I had some mushrooms and came back to the hostel and wrote a WHOOOOLE bunch of what was, at the time, A-grade Material. I'll be trying it out at the Comic's Lounge workshop tonight so we'll see how good it really is but I've re-read it and it does look rather intriguing. It wasn't just he psilocybin.

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.

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.