Monday, 28 August 1995

So Sis,

Continuing on from “Pisspot’s Undoing” Saturday morning at 10am Brett comes knocking on my door, offering to give me a lift to his place in St Kilda.  I get ready, quickly shower and comb over my scruffiness and Brett gives me a ride to Coles for my shopping.  Then it’s back to my place, a coffee, and then to Footscray to pick up some flyers for a gig he’s playing at some local dive next Saturday.  We hoon back Brett’s place in his half-repainted car while he complains bitterly about his latest speeding fine for which he made his girlfriend Lara take the rap (he’s lost nearly all the points on his licence) and we take more coffee in his lounge room.  Lara arrives home, we chat, we go pick up Josh.  On the way we pass a house festooned with Born-Again Christian flags and signs and slogans just painted right there on their fence.  Even the front gate said “OPEN… your heart to Jesus”.  It was a hoot.  We showed Josh on the way back.

After picking up munchies at some supermarket we arrived back at Brett’s and Lara set up her tattooing machine to touch up Brett’s tacky little tribal pattern around his ankle.  Josh and I observed.  Lara and Brett offered me a free tattoo, I declined.  Then I was offered a “dry” tatt (no ink) just to sample the pain aspect, and I heartily declined once more. I don’t like to think of the permanency of the design against the impermanence of my fickle tastes.  We sat around, ate, watched TV, listened to dreadful music (one of the bands sounded like The Doors doing Elvis covers) and then Brett enlisted Josh’s and my help in handing out the flyers for his upcoming gig.  this entailed placing them under the windshield wipers of cars outside a heavy-metal nightclub called “The Cathouse”, a prospect which filled me with dread as I’m sure you can appreciate.  Picture it as I did – some drunk heavy-metal behemoth gets thrown out of the club for his pugnacity, and with his bleached hair blandette scurrying after him screeching “Wokka, I still love ya. Don’t listen to ’em, let’s go home ‘n root” while he rails against the world and quotes his favourite anthem of discontent.  He comes to his car, his precious, precious car which he no doubt loves more than his blandette, and sees me like some spotlighted possum, flyers in one hand, his windshield wiper in the other – inflagrante delicto.  I become the embodiment of all his petty oppressors and he beats me to a pulpy puddle on the St Kilda sidewalk. Oh how my heart bloomed when torrential (well, it was heavy at least) rainfall prevented us from completing the task.  We fled back to the car and dropped off Josh, then me.  I went straight to bed, tired, tired……………………… tired.

Sunday morning Leah wakes me up at 10am and picks up the rest of the stuff she had stored at my place while she was looking for a place to live.  I fight my overpowering sense of deja vu while I get ready, quickly shower and comb over my scruffiness and Leah gives me a ride to Carlton to check out her new abode.  It’s gorgeous.  It’s really nice, spacious, light, a practical combination of the traditional and modern and in an excellent location. Huge bedroom – I’m happy for her. It means that she and Aidan won’t be around so much, a prospect over which my two minds are having a polite and tedious debate.  We sat around, trembled at the way her bedroom window looks directly into the back window of the Carlton Watch House and Police Station and drank our coffee and ate our biscuits.  Leah drove me back to Flemington where I spent the rest of the day washing, cooking and reading.

So now I’m tired and feel completely unrested, and I think of Jack Kerouac’s words “Sociability is just a big smile, and a smile’s nothing but teeth.”  I don’t think I’ll go on Friday work outings anymore.  My Pied Piper’s (cav) bugged out to Canberra, and my inebriated confessions over “Klicks” marble tables are simply not in my interest.  I’m sick of bailing water, I think it might be more dignified to just sink, you know? Anyway, I’d better do some work.

Oh God, I forgot to tell you of the tragedy of the weekend.  Death stalks among us Sis.  My hair dryer blew up!  My beloved hair dryer that I got for my 16th birthday, the same hair dryer that has seen me through nigh on seven years of bloody self-esteem battles before the mirror.  How many Bad Hair Days did we two fend off so valiantly?  Now I have the heavy-hearted task of choosing a suitable replacement.  Guess I’ll check out Target and Myer this lunch-time.  I gave it a state burial.  Well, I put it in its own plastic bag inside the bin so it wouldn’t get food in its grill.

Sad times, Sis.

J

PS Thanks for your note S, hope you’re getting through it OK. I’m looking forward to your letter.