Thursday, February 03, 2005

In The Doghouse

I grew up in the industrial sess pit of a town known as Geelong. A big city with none of the benefits of a big city, it was only a matter of time until I was exposed to the joys of smoking pot. Now Geelong being the town that it is, smoking pot meant pulling huge fucking bongs. None of this fancy poofta scoob shit down Geelong way mate, just big fucking bongs. At 15 I was playing in a shitty blues band that naturally attracted a lot of heavy biker types. 'Cos we were young, naive and shit scared of them, they thought it was imperative to take us under their grubby tattooed wings and show us the ways of the world.

Well one of the ways of their world was, you guessed it...bongs.

One sweltering summer night after playing a pretty decent show (by our low standards) in the city we were invited to a biker house party in Geelong West. Sounded like a good idea and fuck, who were we to argue? So we packed up the gear, jumped in the car and headed off toward the aforementioned soiree in Geelong West. Through the front door and into the kitchen we found eight massive bikers, an assortment of rough headed women and a white pit bull terrier all sitting around a massive glass kitchen table.

"Jyawanarbongmate?" Snarled one of the bikers, thrusting an obviously well used, home made Spring Valley bong under my nose.

"Cheers mate," I yelped two octaves above my normal register, trying to act cool, coming across as the frightened child that I was.

Now this wasn't the first time I'd ever smoked a bong, in my mind I was a seasoned professional. All I had to do was relax, take a deep breath, exhale, then suck...hard. As the flame from the bic ignited the tightly packed fist sized cone, I noticed the vegetable matter begin to rise and swell from the combustion, man this was a big fucking cone. After sucking for what felt like an eternity I chanced a look down to check out my progress, fuck only half way through. Focus. I kept sucking until the last burning embers escaped down the stem. Pulling the pipe away from my mouth I resisted the temptation to both hurl and cough my guts up, then I gently exhaled. I was relieved for a split second until I realised that I was more stoned than I've ever been...I'm fuckin' wrecked.

I slumped down on a chair and gradually began to notice the room had taken on a sickly yellow glow, which was in direct contrast to the now greenish gray color of my face. Black Sabbath's Paranoid was playing on the stereo, and believe me...I was! By now I'm a sweaty heaving mess, I could feel sweat running down my back, my heart was racing and my braing actually feelt like it has broken free from its moorings. I was slowly, but surely, spinning out.

All of a sudden it all got too much. I stumbled forward and desperately tried to make my way to the back fly screen door. After much panicked groping with the latch, I made it out into the sticky night air. Man I had to spew. I stumbled through the long grass toward the back of the yard and proceeded to chuck.

And chuck.

And chuck.

Finally the panic subsided and I started to feel a little more together. I decided it might be nice to just lay down in the tall grass and compose myself. As I did I felt something furry brush past me, I was far too exhausted to care what it was, so I just lay there and began to close my eyes. Back in the house I could hear uproarious laughter and raised voices. One of the raised voice was getting closer.

You fucking cunt! You spewed on me dog!!

Fuck I'd spewed on the dog! In a fit of sheer panic I sprang from my position, onto my feet and straight over the back fence. I wasn't sticking around to find out what the consequences of spewing on a bikers dog was.

I ran a long way that night...and needless to say I never got invited back...




Sunday, January 23, 2005

Eyes Leaking Soul

I can't imagine I'd be the only one feeling like this after Sherriff's belated birthday bash on the weekend. Even though it seems that in comparison to the instigators of this debauched gathering, I came away relatively unscathed, today I am mostly trying not to think about my eyeballs. They feel like they might literally explode and leak the entire contents of my soul all over the keyboard and onto the sticky office carpet...



Monday, January 17, 2005

No Dollars, No Sense

It's taken me 33 years to work this out, but I've suddenly realised that when it comes to finance I am a reverse magnet. Being a financial reverse magnet means that I don't even think twice about spending the last few dollars that I own on another beer, a pack of cigs, or yet another guitar.

I have a phobia when it comes to saving money.

Paid on Thursday, broke by Friday, I just can't help myself. Put a couple of hundred dollars in my back pocket and I become a sweaty, heaving mess. My heart rate increases, my mind starts to race, I need to spend this money and I need to spend it NOW! Even while I write this, with not a cent to my name, I'm dreaming of what I can blow my next pay check on. No wonder my mobile rings off the hook from the withheld numbers of debt collectors all chasing me for credit card, phone, gas, water, and car payments that I haven't made.

I blame society.

I blame society for constantly drawing my focus toward material gain. I blame society for making cigarette smoking seem so attractive when I was a teenager. I blame society for glossy ad campaigns that endorse the benefits of alcohol as a social stimulant. I blame society for dictating the way I should dress. I blame society for easy credit, 18 month phone plans, buy now pay later.

I am a victim of society.

Well that, and the fact that I chose to cut class and smoke bongs in high school over attaining the education that would allow me to live comfortably as an aforementioned victim of society.

I am a financial reverse magnet.

I blame myself...

Sunday, January 16, 2005

Fear Of A Nerd Planet

That's it. I am ruined. I have a blog. I am now a nerd.