Hoop-la and ban-pa. Ring dings and fast cars. IN and out, left and out, back and forth the beat swayed back and forth and JUMPED up it did, the beat did.
Another job interview, another lousy effort. I have skills. I have qualities some employer would like, I have worked before for fuck’s sake! Maybe I need to just relax, chill the fuck out.
‘Christ Rudy, why don’t you just relax a little, here have a coffee,’ Marty says sliding one over to me. ‘You look really unhappy man.’
Marty invited me out for drinks, at the Berwick Inn with some of his friends, and even though it was a Wednesday night, they were still planning on a big one. Thongs, sun glasses in their hair and fluoro, lost of fluoro. I felt out of sorts.
No fluoro.
‘So, its funny you are wearing that colour, fluoro, hang on, is fluoro a colour? I don’t think it is, but anyway, that colour is funny cos, its funny… funny …yeah, cos there is a soccer player in Italy called Floro Florres.’ I was pretty drunk already. But she was polite.
‘Wow Rudy, that is amazing, really. Marty said you were a bit odd, and by the way, I am not wearing fluoro. Or Floro for that matter.’ She laughed at this, and I smiled a little.
‘I think its spelt with ONE “R”.’ I yelled the “ONE” out. ‘Just onnnnnne “R”… I can see you’re not on Floro, but I have forgotten your name already?’ I smiled that stupid smile when you realise you are an idiot. I waited, and she looked at me, like I was joking, and then shook her head and walked away.
‘So, poetry, is such a wonderful impression, an impression of your soul, you know. The passion is like condensed you know? Smaller than a book ‘cos they have to be. I mean, I don’t normally like poetry ‘cos its hard sometimes, but, when I get it, I get it don’t I? My friend Guido, his an Inter fan, lent me his copy of Bu-kow-ski, you know Factotum by Bu-kow-ski right?’
‘Yeah, I have heard of him. Didn’t he write that film Matt Dillion was in or something?’ I don’t even remember who this person was, but I wanted to punch in their stupid fucking face.
‘No, he didn’t write it friend, he wrote the book the film is based on. Bu-kow-ski… Really depressing. Whenever you think things are working out well, or he has a chance to make it, he fucks it up, he fucks it up! And the writing, it’s like so fucking personal. Bu-kow-ski doesn’t even to pretend HE isn’t the protagonist.’
‘I don’t think I liked it much. I saw it and then saw X-Men 3 the next day. That was way better.’
I forced a laugh, forced a hearty laugh which drew stares. Fuck this dude was a dick, or maybe I am What was his name?
‘Beautiful poetry man, beautiful,’ I said. I don’t know who kept buying me drinks, but oh how they flowed, towards my thirsty lips. And then, she was back.
‘Hey there Rudy. How is your night progressing,’ said the nameless beauty. I was in that particular state when all things look good at night, even Sebby: very drunk. I don’t know how late it was, or early either.
I raised my glass, ‘Fine, fine indeed. I AM fucking drunk, I spoke with an idiot about Bu-kow-ski and I am pretty sure the song that just finished was by Earth, Wind & Fire. How are you?’ I drooled.
‘Not as drunk as you I think. Who was the idiot?’ I pointed him out, and she rolled her eyes as she looked back at me, ‘Yeah, I should have warned you about him. Sorry.’
I leaned back and made my face frown, not scowl, I did not want to be scowling. ‘You are sorry? I don’t believe you did anything wrong. Oh, and about the name thing, I don’t think it is that bizarre or odd and certainly not rude, that I forgot your name, these things just happen. The manner in which I made you aware of my inability to recall your name was however, rude and rather silly. I apologise.’ The frown/not scowl went away and was replaced with a smile.
Alana mirrored the smile, ‘Do you always talk like that, or does it require a certain level of intoxication to force such eloquent words from your lips?’ Smirk.
‘Well, I think a certain level of inebriation certainly facilities certain aspects of my conversational technique, but I can wank on like this at most times I think.’ We both laughed. ‘Now, here is the crux, would you like to join me as I venture outside and light up a fag.’ Alana laughed again, ‘Is that a Harry Potter Crux some crazy, incantation of ‘rub’? Get it, now here’s the rub?’
‘Is that King Lear?’
‘I think so. Let’s go outside.
It was dark of course, and a little chilly, but the smoking warmed us. We chatted about a few things, none of which are worth repeating, but then we stumbled upon a topic I had wrangled with on many an occasion, and never sufficiently concluded.
‘So,’ I said, ‘They need blood to survive, sure. Blood is their food. But the act of feeding is also their sexual intercourse, and when they are done feeding, they are full of blood, that is their orgasm isn’t it. More traditional renderings of vampires have always depicted the act of feeding essentially as intercourse, and once they have fed, they are in a state of short lived euphoria you know? I am still waiting to see the image of a vampire smoking a cigarette immediately after they have fed. Bram Stoker, may his soul burn in hell and all his children’s children be shot dead, was fixated on this sexual/feeding act. ‘
‘Of course he was, but he was obsessed with sex, and by all accounts a real fucking prude. Some of his essays about morality and women are terrible. He was fucking repressed.’
‘Yes, so he creates Dracula as his alter-ego, the coooool version of himself, and has his way with the world. Pleasure, lust, ecstasy, orgasm. Everything his Protestant, English stiff colour bullshit Calvinistic world view won’t let him experience.’
‘Funny, but I don’t think he was a “Calvinist”? So, what you are saying is the intake of blood, the feeding should just be that, feeding. They eat. Once they are full or satisfied, they stop. And then they can have sex if they want? Kinda like in Blade I think.’
‘Yes, make them more like us. Hmmm. I have had many a delicious meal, and eaten well and all that, but I have never orgasm-ed after a great fucking lasagna.’
We laughed, ‘I can’t recall the last time food made me come either Rudy. Fuck, you are a strange guy.’
‘Thanks’.
‘So you want vampires to be just like us, to fuck and eat and not have them e one and the same? Not very interesting or romantic is it?’
‘Alana yo, they still cannot go out during the day. The still drink people’s blood. And they live forever. I think that makes them still interesting. I just hate Bram Stoker so much, I really do.’
It got cold at some point… just remmembered suddenly feeling cold, feeling much cooler than beforeCool. Yeah, cooool. It wasn’t Earth Wind & Fire in my head now, it was something else but somehtin else....
I decided to walk home, one leg infront, two words, of the other, drunk, eyeys closed, drawling my feet through thae grass, leaning against walls that weren’t built or made you know but Alanna, toooooooooo many N’s gave me a lift. I snored maybe, I slept kinda, I don’t know how she knew where I lived, bt she wasn’t far off either b. It is cold, ice cold.
I think I got her deets, I think, not much able to process, just wated to slee[. Cant type, cant get online, too fukked even for a wank ha! I can still ha! HA!, I think I threw up at some point OF COURSE or several points, stumbled around, woke the fucking dog and landed a heap on my bed. Too slo[py to get undresde, to tired to take me clothes off
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Chapter 11 – Melbourne day 16: a little cloudy, but warm/ You just can’t find a good man in this city!
Constant surprises are one of the few things I get in life. Recently, I have been noticing all of this great architecture in the city and surrounding towns. All popping up out of nowhere.
One morning, it was a little cloudy, but warm. I jumped off the number 3 tram and saw a 30's style building staring at me, inviting me to gaze upon its old visage and admire it. It wasn't the most wonderful or beautiful thing I’ve seen, but enough to make me smile. I walk, ride or catch a tram up this street everyday, and have never seen it before.
Angles, levels and light. That's what it is.
At my interview last week, I looked across the roof tops of the surrounding buildings and was amazed. Gyms, play areas, gardens, exotic roof top tents made of shiny green glass. I think I even saw a house on top of one, a proper house.
Or maybe I imagined that. A two storey, gorgeous house on top of a skyscraper.
Rainy days, sunny days, cloudy, windy or just warm days. All these weather conditions. You can then mix them up, it can be rainy and windy, or warm but windy too right? So many combinations.
I raise this point because while we have so many contrasting and unique weather conditions in this city, there seems to be only two types of men.
Fuckheads/arseholes or nice guys girls don't like.
Not much choice there? What is a girl to do? What is a girl to do? I actually feel sorry for them, I really do. I have met my fair share of arseholes, the kind that pick the drunkest or most fucked up girl at the bar or party and using their fuckhead abilities (touching, more drinking, taking the girls hand and leading them away, away from everyone else) they usually end up banging this poor, helpless girl. I see this and shake me head, this is not how Rudy rolls, no thank you.
You see guys talking about the bitch they fucked last night. Gym junkies with huge pecs (sick cunts!) acting like absolute cocks. Sportsmen, arrogant as all hell, knowing their fame will get them laid. Those strut-ty, good looking rich types who treat their girlfriends like shit, but the always have a girl on their arm. Just a few examples of the arseholes (and guys I don’t like, in case you missed that!). However, these fuckheads are everywhere, and they don't all look the same, or talk the same. They come in so many guises: art ones, hot ones, grunge and emo ones. They are deceptively hard to track down.
Deceptively hard I say.
And then you have the nice guys. The non schemers, the ones who don't talk about the bitch they fucked last night (although most didn't sleep with anyone the night before mind you). They are sweet and funny guys, sometimes Rudy is one of these guys, sometimes. These guys are harder to spot, since the arsholes blend so well these days. They are just guys who don't know how, or don't feel comfortable taking advantage of a drunk chick. These are the guys that put those girls into cabs and make sure they get home safely.
Some people call them pussies, others might say they actually have respect for people, and like to treat people the way they would like to be treated.
These men, they actually do exist ladies. They really do. But let's not pretend these nice guys don't think about sex all the time as well: they do. They think about it all the time, and probably because they are not schtuping at this very moment. Why? Cause they are too nice it seems. Not much of an excuse is it? Being nice don't get you much on the mean streets. It gets you points with the olds, with their family, and they probably think you are really sweet, but they still go for the fuckheads every time.
Now Guido, Rudy is not complaining, or even whingeing - he is just confused. Yes, confused. I can't find a nice guy in this city. They are all pricks. Comments like this confuse me. I know many nice guys, I really do. All guys are just arseholes, she says the next day. I ask her, So, do you want to see him again?
Not really Rudy, he's a prick, so full of himself.
Was he so full of himself before this? Before the intercourse? I hasten to judge, but I think he was indeed.
Most indeed. I also fail to understand how attractive girls with wonderful brains love to go for the guys they consider to be fuckheads. Hang on, let me start again. How intelligent, great girls always go for the arseholes? How they bemoan this fuckhead or that arsehole, but hook up with the next one each time. They complain so much; but it seems they are getting what they want out of it. The fuckhead is usually hot right? He wouldn't be an arsehole if he was fat or ugly now would he? So, the hot fuckhead gets your blood flowing and your motor running right, then what has he done wrong or how has he acted in a way to cause such offence the next day or the next week?
How can they be so displeased by the arsehole, when, by all indications, they are getting exactly what they want from him?
Precious bodily fluids. That's what the fuckhead is about right? Does this make the girl a bitch or slut or skank or whore? Because she wants to share in those fluids, because she has a twitch that needs strumming? Is she as much an arsehole as him? Is she the fuckhead?
There are no nice guys in this city. All the hot ones are pricks, and all the nice ones I don't like.
And imagine if I had the inclination to reverse this? To talk about the lack of women in Melbourne, the lack of nice women. What would I say? Would I write about the girls that only go for the hot guys, and then complain the next day? Enough of these one-night-girls, where are the nice ones? Where are all the smart ones?
Oh yeah, I remember now.
Probably with their boyfriends; the great guys. That's where all those wonderful girls are. And that's where you’ll find the wonderful men ladies, with their girlfriends, partners, lovers or wives.
One morning, it was a little cloudy, but warm. I jumped off the number 3 tram and saw a 30's style building staring at me, inviting me to gaze upon its old visage and admire it. It wasn't the most wonderful or beautiful thing I’ve seen, but enough to make me smile. I walk, ride or catch a tram up this street everyday, and have never seen it before.
Angles, levels and light. That's what it is.
At my interview last week, I looked across the roof tops of the surrounding buildings and was amazed. Gyms, play areas, gardens, exotic roof top tents made of shiny green glass. I think I even saw a house on top of one, a proper house.
Or maybe I imagined that. A two storey, gorgeous house on top of a skyscraper.
Rainy days, sunny days, cloudy, windy or just warm days. All these weather conditions. You can then mix them up, it can be rainy and windy, or warm but windy too right? So many combinations.
I raise this point because while we have so many contrasting and unique weather conditions in this city, there seems to be only two types of men.
Fuckheads/arseholes or nice guys girls don't like.
Not much choice there? What is a girl to do? What is a girl to do? I actually feel sorry for them, I really do. I have met my fair share of arseholes, the kind that pick the drunkest or most fucked up girl at the bar or party and using their fuckhead abilities (touching, more drinking, taking the girls hand and leading them away, away from everyone else) they usually end up banging this poor, helpless girl. I see this and shake me head, this is not how Rudy rolls, no thank you.
You see guys talking about the bitch they fucked last night. Gym junkies with huge pecs (sick cunts!) acting like absolute cocks. Sportsmen, arrogant as all hell, knowing their fame will get them laid. Those strut-ty, good looking rich types who treat their girlfriends like shit, but the always have a girl on their arm. Just a few examples of the arseholes (and guys I don’t like, in case you missed that!). However, these fuckheads are everywhere, and they don't all look the same, or talk the same. They come in so many guises: art ones, hot ones, grunge and emo ones. They are deceptively hard to track down.
Deceptively hard I say.
And then you have the nice guys. The non schemers, the ones who don't talk about the bitch they fucked last night (although most didn't sleep with anyone the night before mind you). They are sweet and funny guys, sometimes Rudy is one of these guys, sometimes. These guys are harder to spot, since the arsholes blend so well these days. They are just guys who don't know how, or don't feel comfortable taking advantage of a drunk chick. These are the guys that put those girls into cabs and make sure they get home safely.
Some people call them pussies, others might say they actually have respect for people, and like to treat people the way they would like to be treated.
These men, they actually do exist ladies. They really do. But let's not pretend these nice guys don't think about sex all the time as well: they do. They think about it all the time, and probably because they are not schtuping at this very moment. Why? Cause they are too nice it seems. Not much of an excuse is it? Being nice don't get you much on the mean streets. It gets you points with the olds, with their family, and they probably think you are really sweet, but they still go for the fuckheads every time.
Now Guido, Rudy is not complaining, or even whingeing - he is just confused. Yes, confused. I can't find a nice guy in this city. They are all pricks. Comments like this confuse me. I know many nice guys, I really do. All guys are just arseholes, she says the next day. I ask her, So, do you want to see him again?
Not really Rudy, he's a prick, so full of himself.
Was he so full of himself before this? Before the intercourse? I hasten to judge, but I think he was indeed.
Most indeed. I also fail to understand how attractive girls with wonderful brains love to go for the guys they consider to be fuckheads. Hang on, let me start again. How intelligent, great girls always go for the arseholes? How they bemoan this fuckhead or that arsehole, but hook up with the next one each time. They complain so much; but it seems they are getting what they want out of it. The fuckhead is usually hot right? He wouldn't be an arsehole if he was fat or ugly now would he? So, the hot fuckhead gets your blood flowing and your motor running right, then what has he done wrong or how has he acted in a way to cause such offence the next day or the next week?
How can they be so displeased by the arsehole, when, by all indications, they are getting exactly what they want from him?
Precious bodily fluids. That's what the fuckhead is about right? Does this make the girl a bitch or slut or skank or whore? Because she wants to share in those fluids, because she has a twitch that needs strumming? Is she as much an arsehole as him? Is she the fuckhead?
There are no nice guys in this city. All the hot ones are pricks, and all the nice ones I don't like.
And imagine if I had the inclination to reverse this? To talk about the lack of women in Melbourne, the lack of nice women. What would I say? Would I write about the girls that only go for the hot guys, and then complain the next day? Enough of these one-night-girls, where are the nice ones? Where are all the smart ones?
Oh yeah, I remember now.
Probably with their boyfriends; the great guys. That's where all those wonderful girls are. And that's where you’ll find the wonderful men ladies, with their girlfriends, partners, lovers or wives.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Chapter 10 - I hate old women
My recent interaction with a friend was awkward, and I should have apologised to her, but I really didn’t feel sorry at all, not one bit. I had no problem with my behaviour and felt it was satisfactory. Yes, satisfactory. I had a similar run in with and old flame. I didn’t feel the least bit ashamed about how I behaved nor my arrogant response to her response to my behaviour. In fact, I still laugh about it, and often to her face. But she doesn’t walk away, or tell me to get fucked. She stays around; she seeks my attention more and more. Rudy is a great guy, but not that great.
Josie was like that, even though she was incredibly selfish, unbelievably so, she also didn’t want to miss out on anything. Please keep in touch, write to me, call me, try and see me.
She really wanted to remain friends. We just must be friends, I think you are lovely.
I made a real effort to keep in touch, even though I knew I shouldn’t have. But she asked me too.
She asked me too and and of course I succumbed, like the idiot man I am.
I was so annoyed yesterday after we spoke. I was sitting on the train, travelling in town for a job interview, and decided to see if we could hang out. Roll your eyes patient readers, because I should have.
‘Hey Rudy, I missed you.’
‘Ah, that’s sweet. How you been?’ I was sweating a little at this point.
‘Great, great. Tom is just great…’ She continued like this for another 25 to 35 words, oblivious to how it would make me feel. Then again, I called her, so I deserved it.
‘Yeah, so I’m just on my way into the city,’ I threw in when she paused to breath, ‘and wondered if you wanted to get a drink or coffee later this afternoon?’
She responded right away: ‘I can’t. This week is bad, and so is next week. Maybe after that…’
She returned to talking about how happy her and Tom were like I GAVE A FUCKING SHIT and how FUCKING busy she was.
I am sick to fucking death of busy fucking people.
The interview went badly, very badly. The office was white and bleak, and the lack of anything really put me off my game. My anger and shame and hurt and pain had not subsided from the phone call, and the guy who interviewed me just plain didn’t like me from the moment he laid eyes on me.
Do I really want to work for a major corporation? Did I want to get further into a system I don’t understand nor want to understand?
The answer was yes, why? The fiscal benefits far outweigh my concerns about my soul? Money is money, and the more you have the better right?
So, the interview was bust, I headed to a dive to find a drink and saw a women who reminded me instantly of my mother. Relative height and build and age. And I was instantly saddened.
Whenever I see someone who is alone, poor, old, hungry, tired, thin – I am reminded of my mums and I feel sad. If it looks like the world is against them, or they have given up, if they look far from happy. If they plain don’t look happy. If they are gaunt, if their hair is dark and curly, I think of my mum. I think I should call her and spend more time with her. Seeing them makes me realise how much of a disappointment I must be to her.
Josie was like that, even though she was incredibly selfish, unbelievably so, she also didn’t want to miss out on anything. Please keep in touch, write to me, call me, try and see me.
She really wanted to remain friends. We just must be friends, I think you are lovely.
I made a real effort to keep in touch, even though I knew I shouldn’t have. But she asked me too.
She asked me too and and of course I succumbed, like the idiot man I am.
I was so annoyed yesterday after we spoke. I was sitting on the train, travelling in town for a job interview, and decided to see if we could hang out. Roll your eyes patient readers, because I should have.
‘Hey Rudy, I missed you.’
‘Ah, that’s sweet. How you been?’ I was sweating a little at this point.
‘Great, great. Tom is just great…’ She continued like this for another 25 to 35 words, oblivious to how it would make me feel. Then again, I called her, so I deserved it.
‘Yeah, so I’m just on my way into the city,’ I threw in when she paused to breath, ‘and wondered if you wanted to get a drink or coffee later this afternoon?’
She responded right away: ‘I can’t. This week is bad, and so is next week. Maybe after that…’
She returned to talking about how happy her and Tom were like I GAVE A FUCKING SHIT and how FUCKING busy she was.
I am sick to fucking death of busy fucking people.
The interview went badly, very badly. The office was white and bleak, and the lack of anything really put me off my game. My anger and shame and hurt and pain had not subsided from the phone call, and the guy who interviewed me just plain didn’t like me from the moment he laid eyes on me.
Do I really want to work for a major corporation? Did I want to get further into a system I don’t understand nor want to understand?
The answer was yes, why? The fiscal benefits far outweigh my concerns about my soul? Money is money, and the more you have the better right?
So, the interview was bust, I headed to a dive to find a drink and saw a women who reminded me instantly of my mother. Relative height and build and age. And I was instantly saddened.
Whenever I see someone who is alone, poor, old, hungry, tired, thin – I am reminded of my mums and I feel sad. If it looks like the world is against them, or they have given up, if they look far from happy. If they plain don’t look happy. If they are gaunt, if their hair is dark and curly, I think of my mum. I think I should call her and spend more time with her. Seeing them makes me realise how much of a disappointment I must be to her.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Chapter 9 – le mie scuse (my apologies)
But what of apologies? My auntie used to say it didn’t mean anything to say it. She didn’t want to hear the word ‘sorry’, she just wanted people to feel ‘sorry’ and then act in such a way that reflected their understanding of the action that caused them to be ‘sorry.’ We all say sorry, but then do the same wrong/shit/mean/selfish things again and again.
I am sorry, for this and that. I am sorry even though I don’t know why I am saying sorry.
I treat people badly, I do. And I am sorry about it, but I continue to treat those people in the same fashion come the following week or month or year. I am sorry for this, genuinely so, but I don’t stop doing it.
I am sorry, for this and that. I am sorry even though I don’t know why I am saying sorry.
I treat people badly, I do. And I am sorry about it, but I continue to treat those people in the same fashion come the following week or month or year. I am sorry for this, genuinely so, but I don’t stop doing it.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Chapter 8 - Melbourne Day 54: Sunny day
I sat on the tram, and had an idea for something. I had my notebook, my moleskin, with me on that sunny day on the tram. I cannot remember – the idea that is- if it was story, an addition to a story, a character note, an idea for a compilation or an addition to a previously commenced compilation. I do not remember if it was a note about a spontaneous idea I had, or something interesting I had observed, a tid-bit about a thing the night before, or a reminder note. A shopping list, a movies-to-see list. Was it something I read, something that made me especially sad, or made me chuckle out loud? A lyric in a song, a cool sound in the back of the percussion solo, a song I had never heard before on my Ipod.
So, I had my moleskin and I wrote something in it, and then placed it on the seat next to me. I do not like catching the tram to work, especially on sunny days, because I could be riding to work: getting fresh air, a tan, oogling girls. In a tram - especially the new ones that lurch and creech so horribly - I have to try and stop myself from throwing up. I can read, but not for long anymore. I cannot look out the windows of the new ones due to the excessive advertising covering the windows. I usually read a little, and then listen to some music, and let my mind wander.
But I read for long enough that day, because when I jumped out of the tram, I did not take my moleskin with me. Of course I did not notice right away. Of course it took me hours to notice. Of course I did not panic. I did the smart thing and went online and wrote to the Tram People (capitalised because they are special) and asked them to return it please. They gave me the number to the lost and found section of the Tram People's head quarters.
I rang the number, I rang the number. Nobody ever answered, not even an answering machine. I lost my moleskin, again. The second time in two years. In fact, the second one in two years. I hate losing my moleskin.
I was incredibly frustrated by the tram people's inability to answer their damn phone and send me back my moleskin.
Who knows what magic I had written in there that day? Or previous days? Hateful rants, funny diatribes, sorrow filled perorates about the day, my job, the weather or girls. Things I wanted to do, places to go. Old souvenirs that came floating back from the past. Pieces of uncomfortable incidents. Sources of pride. Someone's phone number.
So many little things, little things I do not remember. Who knows what truths and lies were scribbled down in blue and black ink in my moleskin? Who knows what magic I had written in there that day?
So, I had my moleskin and I wrote something in it, and then placed it on the seat next to me. I do not like catching the tram to work, especially on sunny days, because I could be riding to work: getting fresh air, a tan, oogling girls. In a tram - especially the new ones that lurch and creech so horribly - I have to try and stop myself from throwing up. I can read, but not for long anymore. I cannot look out the windows of the new ones due to the excessive advertising covering the windows. I usually read a little, and then listen to some music, and let my mind wander.
But I read for long enough that day, because when I jumped out of the tram, I did not take my moleskin with me. Of course I did not notice right away. Of course it took me hours to notice. Of course I did not panic. I did the smart thing and went online and wrote to the Tram People (capitalised because they are special) and asked them to return it please. They gave me the number to the lost and found section of the Tram People's head quarters.
I rang the number, I rang the number. Nobody ever answered, not even an answering machine. I lost my moleskin, again. The second time in two years. In fact, the second one in two years. I hate losing my moleskin.
I was incredibly frustrated by the tram people's inability to answer their damn phone and send me back my moleskin.
Who knows what magic I had written in there that day? Or previous days? Hateful rants, funny diatribes, sorrow filled perorates about the day, my job, the weather or girls. Things I wanted to do, places to go. Old souvenirs that came floating back from the past. Pieces of uncomfortable incidents. Sources of pride. Someone's phone number.
So many little things, little things I do not remember. Who knows what truths and lies were scribbled down in blue and black ink in my moleskin? Who knows what magic I had written in there that day?
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Chapter 7 – I am really pissed off at the moment, but will probably regret it later
'Not everything is black and white Rudy.'
'It doesn't have to be any colour at all John, it just needs to be.'
'Man, it was just easier at the time to say that Rudy.'
'And now Mary, is it easy now? Is this less "easier" or more "easier"?'
'The fact is, I don't know what I wanted at the time, which is why I said it that way.'
'Did you lie to me on purpose? Or did you really not know what you wanted?'
'Dang Rudy, you are so damn demanding. Sometimes that isn't fun...'
'I don't care it its fun...'
'Let me finish. You are so demanding, and that can get tiresome. I can't and won't tell you everything, all the time.'
'I'm not asking for everything, all of the time. It has happened so many times to me, I get told convenient truths or lies (if I could be so bold) so then I have to be there for someone or lend them my support.'
'Jesus Rudy, you act so goddamn righteous. As if you don’t lie or manipulate.'
So, the truth is something that means very little to some people, and a great deal to others. For little Rudy, much like my dear friend Sebastien, the truth is pretty important. I would rather know, then live in lies. Ignorance is bliss, true. But once I get to know something, then I need to always know it.
This is how lil' Rudy works. Sometimes it can be bad for me, very bad. Not because the truth hurts, or because the truth is wonderful, but rather the affects of non truths. Lies, I hate them. This includes kidding yourself (dear friend Sebastien is big on this one unfortunately), dis-respecting yourself, and trying to fucking fool me.
I fucking hate being fooled. I hate being leaned on and then learning that what I knew ain't shit. The truth is elsewhere, somewhere more convenient for the person, far more convenient than here and now.
'It doesn't have to be any colour at all John, it just needs to be.'
'Man, it was just easier at the time to say that Rudy.'
'And now Mary, is it easy now? Is this less "easier" or more "easier"?'
'The fact is, I don't know what I wanted at the time, which is why I said it that way.'
'Did you lie to me on purpose? Or did you really not know what you wanted?'
'Dang Rudy, you are so damn demanding. Sometimes that isn't fun...'
'I don't care it its fun...'
'Let me finish. You are so demanding, and that can get tiresome. I can't and won't tell you everything, all the time.'
'I'm not asking for everything, all of the time. It has happened so many times to me, I get told convenient truths or lies (if I could be so bold) so then I have to be there for someone or lend them my support.'
'Jesus Rudy, you act so goddamn righteous. As if you don’t lie or manipulate.'
So, the truth is something that means very little to some people, and a great deal to others. For little Rudy, much like my dear friend Sebastien, the truth is pretty important. I would rather know, then live in lies. Ignorance is bliss, true. But once I get to know something, then I need to always know it.
This is how lil' Rudy works. Sometimes it can be bad for me, very bad. Not because the truth hurts, or because the truth is wonderful, but rather the affects of non truths. Lies, I hate them. This includes kidding yourself (dear friend Sebastien is big on this one unfortunately), dis-respecting yourself, and trying to fucking fool me.
I fucking hate being fooled. I hate being leaned on and then learning that what I knew ain't shit. The truth is elsewhere, somewhere more convenient for the person, far more convenient than here and now.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Chapter 6 - You cannot find peace by avoiding life
‘What does it that matter? How does “didn’t you see it coming” make me feel better? And sure, they may be happier together, she with him, but frankly Sophie, how the fuck dos that make me feel better?’
I was pretty aggressive, I know. Her comment was meant to make me feel better…well, you get it.
‘Sorry Rudy, but in the end, that is the truth ‘cos… .’
Sophie gave me a look of understanding and “you’ll get over it”. We were sitting on her couch, in her newly furnished apartment. Just recently moved my Sophie was, I and was doing the best I could to ruffle her feathers. Splaying the magazines, putting out coasters I wasn’t going to use!
I am a fucking bad-ass.
‘I know it is, but like I said, why do I care about that shit? I don’t wish happiness on them. Now, you remember Claire? Now, I want her to be happy, I really do…’
‘..true, but Claire was fantastic. She was wonderful and just fantastic. Josie, well, I don’t even know what you saw in her to be honest.’
I shrugged. I drove home later on and had dinner with my mums. She was making exceptionally wonderful dinners of late.
‘With you not here, I never eat like this, too much cooking and effort. But now my boy is home.’ Mums smiled and squeezed by cheek. Don’t think she was always so lovely-dubby and we disagreed on many things - I don’t think anybody has quite the same opinion on things than your own mum.
I also quit my job not long after I moved back home. The monotonous monotony of that place was not helping me at all. I know am being dramatic and maybe over the top, but I didn’t feel like doing much really.
So back home, an rather indolent attitude and very little do, I spent a few weeks lazing about in my pyjamas, watching movies and the footy. There was one film in particular that really stirred something I had not felt in years, passion for art. It was called Mutual Appreciation, a low budget, black and white film about relationships and the such. It was fantastic, a little too long and a little too much talking, but it reminded me of my late teens and early adult hood, when I was so enthralled with film and literature and drama, when I went to the theatre and read anything and everything. Sure, I was a little bit of a wanker, but I was so young and hopeful then, so optimistic.
But it wasn’t like I was defeated, not at all. I guess I had to get a job, I had to pay bills and buy a car and clothes and shoes and shoes (I like shoes). I also like spending money, and you gots to have it to spend it, don’t ya? You are not defeated because you have to start working. This is just reality, we need to get serious don’t we?
Looking for work was easier than I had hoped, and it wasn’t long before I started in a little café, making coffee for people who had little to no appreciation of it. I missed living in town, but this was a good way to spend a few months I guess. A vacation at home.
I have been thinking about travelling again, Rudy has. Maybe South America? Aaah, the romance. Right now, there is nothing for me here. I find that a slow sadness has crept into me. The move home typified how I felt and my inability to deal with my problems, but this small darkness is blurring me. Occasionally at work I get caught just staring blankly over the coffee machine, looking at nothing at all. Some of the guys there think I’m just a quite, thoughtful type, but one of them said I looked like a sad clown the other day
I’m not feeling thoughtful at the moment.
I was pretty aggressive, I know. Her comment was meant to make me feel better…well, you get it.
‘Sorry Rudy, but in the end, that is the truth ‘cos… .’
Sophie gave me a look of understanding and “you’ll get over it”. We were sitting on her couch, in her newly furnished apartment. Just recently moved my Sophie was, I and was doing the best I could to ruffle her feathers. Splaying the magazines, putting out coasters I wasn’t going to use!
I am a fucking bad-ass.
‘I know it is, but like I said, why do I care about that shit? I don’t wish happiness on them. Now, you remember Claire? Now, I want her to be happy, I really do…’
‘..true, but Claire was fantastic. She was wonderful and just fantastic. Josie, well, I don’t even know what you saw in her to be honest.’
I shrugged. I drove home later on and had dinner with my mums. She was making exceptionally wonderful dinners of late.
‘With you not here, I never eat like this, too much cooking and effort. But now my boy is home.’ Mums smiled and squeezed by cheek. Don’t think she was always so lovely-dubby and we disagreed on many things - I don’t think anybody has quite the same opinion on things than your own mum.
I also quit my job not long after I moved back home. The monotonous monotony of that place was not helping me at all. I know am being dramatic and maybe over the top, but I didn’t feel like doing much really.
So back home, an rather indolent attitude and very little do, I spent a few weeks lazing about in my pyjamas, watching movies and the footy. There was one film in particular that really stirred something I had not felt in years, passion for art. It was called Mutual Appreciation, a low budget, black and white film about relationships and the such. It was fantastic, a little too long and a little too much talking, but it reminded me of my late teens and early adult hood, when I was so enthralled with film and literature and drama, when I went to the theatre and read anything and everything. Sure, I was a little bit of a wanker, but I was so young and hopeful then, so optimistic.
But it wasn’t like I was defeated, not at all. I guess I had to get a job, I had to pay bills and buy a car and clothes and shoes and shoes (I like shoes). I also like spending money, and you gots to have it to spend it, don’t ya? You are not defeated because you have to start working. This is just reality, we need to get serious don’t we?
****
Looking for work was easier than I had hoped, and it wasn’t long before I started in a little café, making coffee for people who had little to no appreciation of it. I missed living in town, but this was a good way to spend a few months I guess. A vacation at home.
****
I have been thinking about travelling again, Rudy has. Maybe South America? Aaah, the romance. Right now, there is nothing for me here. I find that a slow sadness has crept into me. The move home typified how I felt and my inability to deal with my problems, but this small darkness is blurring me. Occasionally at work I get caught just staring blankly over the coffee machine, looking at nothing at all. Some of the guys there think I’m just a quite, thoughtful type, but one of them said I looked like a sad clown the other day
I’m not feeling thoughtful at the moment.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Chapter 5 - Something less serious now
It was a funny story, how me and Marco met.
The November (horse) Racing Carnival was in full swing and it was also the last of the end of year exams for Year 12 students in the state.
I had finished work at 10:45 p.m., which was just enough time for me to say my protracted goodbyes and make it to South Yarra station in time for the 11:13 train home. The train usually arrived at Beaconsfield station at 12:22 a.m., and then it would take about 20 minutes to walk home. The train was full, which was off odd for this time of the night, but the regulars were all there. It was both sad and comforting that we all recognised each other.
The train was 8 minutes late that night.
I had made myself a cup of tea in a takeaway cup to keep myself warm, not that it was that cold a night. I felt like a yuppie-Starbucks-drinking-Ipod listening stooge rushing about, so important and on the go. The station that night was busier than normal, as the final dregs left from the races filed onto the trains to drunkenly and cheaply get home. Heels in hands, ties in pockets. Fake tans were dissipating and the moulded hair dos no longer held their shape. There was the girl wrapped in her boyfriend’s coat, hair tied back, smiling after the good day. Her effortless beauty was a refreshing change from the rest of the crowd.
Having no choice, I sat amongst a hoop-la of teenagers, and leafed to the page I was up to. I was back to On the Road, having just finished Death of a Salesmen. I am not name dropping by the way, attempting to appear cool cos I know stuff and can mention it ever so naturally (shut up Alastair). I was just reading On the Road again. So, head down, music on and deep into a Moriaty rant, I suddenly noticed I was alone.
I took off my new, fuck off headphones and as some guy sang about some girl he couldn’t have or had but lost or had and ruined or didn’t bother with and now regretted, a message came over the loud speaker in the training telling me to get the hell off, to disembark. I followed the orders but did so tentatively. It’s not that I didn’t believe it; I have no reason to doubt an “announcement”, but it was late, and I wanted to get home.
I saw I was at Oakleigh station, which meant I was at least 35 minutes away from home. I saw a railway worker nearby, and inquired politely,
‘What’s going on?’
‘There was an accident down the line, so you gotta get a bus to Springvale.’ He didn’t look at me while he spoke.
‘Okay,’ I said, politely, ‘and after this? I am going to Beaconsfield?’
‘Yeah, don’t worry mate. Trains running from Springvale, all the way to the end of the line.’
I thanked him and followed the stragglers to the crowd of people waiting near the bus stop. I was about to return to my tunes, when another employer of the metropolitan services made another announcement.
‘The bus that was meant to pick you up here has gone to the other side of the station,’ he paused to allow the crowds’ sighs to become groans, ‘but I can tell you know that it has been re-directed to come to this side.’
I felt like I was in a cartoon, it was such a ridiculous and pointless comment. We would have to keep waiting, and that was that right? Why bother to tell us our wait would be a further 3 or 4 minutes? The first bus arrive just as some drunken idiot was tearing down a road sign. I removed myself from squeeze, figuring there would be another bus soon.
It came 15 minutes later. I had decided, in the meantime, to not let myself get bored. I saw a kid who had caught the morning train with me, so I decided to say hi.
‘Hey, you get off at Beaconsfield right?’
‘Yeah?’
‘This is some fun huh? ‘ The conversation started a little awkwardly, but soon my sarcasm and supreme level of cynicism won him over and we were busy chatting away. The young ma, Marco, had just finished his last exam, and was heading home to rest before slipping into the drunken debauchery that would be his life for the next few months.
‘Well Marco, what a better way to spend your first night of freedom? Hanging out at Oakleigh station with drunken idiots.’
‘Yeah. I could have just stayed in the city and hung out with my friends, got drunk with my friends.’
‘True, but then we never consider those things do we? Who figures someone is going to commit suicide and ruin your night?’
We both laugh at this morbid, selfish and rather simplistic joke, and the bus arrived. Like a sickness slowly spreading, the suicide jokes started coming out think and fast, while the other passengers joined in. The driver, sensitive to situation, decided to make the trip as painless as possible. Each stopped was preceded by a very firm slamming of the breaks, and each time we were allowed to go, he accelerated like a fucking moron, causing people to fly backwards into each other. We arrived at our destination in record time, and the drunk who had original tackled the road sign, decided to focus his drunken boredom onto the vending machine, kicking and punching randomly, waiting for a response. Tempers flared, railway workers and passengers argued, but Marco and I stayed out of it, keeping our elitist, train-spotting conversation flowing. Time dragged slowly, and as it became abundantly clear our train was not coming, a new railway boob announced, to the brewing tempest,
‘I have another announcement. I have just been informed from Metropol (I can’t believe their head office was called that) that there are no trains running tonight.’
Back on the bus.
‘I like the way he said, “I just received a call from Metropol”…’
Marco agreed, ‘Yeah, pass the blame so you don’t get in trouble.’
We both laughed before being thrown into the people behind us when the new bus driver howled off into the darkness.
We reached Hallam station (5 stops still to go) at 12:45 a.m. The remaining few, and we had dwindled in size, walked to the train platform, the driver telling us a train was on its way. As we walked, someone said they had heard the train was actually 40 minutes away. We all huddled together. Complaints about public transport had funnelled to a muttering murmour here and there, as everyone just wanted to get home. Marco and I discussed the vale of Seinfeld and how future generations would judge our comedies today. Throwing in random Simpsons quotes, and odd references to Monty Python, we watched the bus driver walk towards us. As if being compelled by some inexplicably duty to the passenger, he had patiently waited for about 20 minutes to confirm a train was coming, and then decided to drive us to our respective stations.
Finally, Beaconfield station. A 20 minute walk home and then I would be in bed. Head down, head phones back on, and I was interrupted by a gentlemen in a car, who offered me a lift home.
‘You know what?’ I said, ‘Sure, I could have been home 2 hours ago, but I had a really great night.’
He looked at me, not convinced.
‘You’re being a bit positive ain’t ya?’
It was 2:11 a.m.
The November (horse) Racing Carnival was in full swing and it was also the last of the end of year exams for Year 12 students in the state.
I had finished work at 10:45 p.m., which was just enough time for me to say my protracted goodbyes and make it to South Yarra station in time for the 11:13 train home. The train usually arrived at Beaconsfield station at 12:22 a.m., and then it would take about 20 minutes to walk home. The train was full, which was off odd for this time of the night, but the regulars were all there. It was both sad and comforting that we all recognised each other.
The train was 8 minutes late that night.
I had made myself a cup of tea in a takeaway cup to keep myself warm, not that it was that cold a night. I felt like a yuppie-Starbucks-drinking-Ipod listening stooge rushing about, so important and on the go. The station that night was busier than normal, as the final dregs left from the races filed onto the trains to drunkenly and cheaply get home. Heels in hands, ties in pockets. Fake tans were dissipating and the moulded hair dos no longer held their shape. There was the girl wrapped in her boyfriend’s coat, hair tied back, smiling after the good day. Her effortless beauty was a refreshing change from the rest of the crowd.
Having no choice, I sat amongst a hoop-la of teenagers, and leafed to the page I was up to. I was back to On the Road, having just finished Death of a Salesmen. I am not name dropping by the way, attempting to appear cool cos I know stuff and can mention it ever so naturally (shut up Alastair). I was just reading On the Road again. So, head down, music on and deep into a Moriaty rant, I suddenly noticed I was alone.
I took off my new, fuck off headphones and as some guy sang about some girl he couldn’t have or had but lost or had and ruined or didn’t bother with and now regretted, a message came over the loud speaker in the training telling me to get the hell off, to disembark. I followed the orders but did so tentatively. It’s not that I didn’t believe it; I have no reason to doubt an “announcement”, but it was late, and I wanted to get home.
I saw I was at Oakleigh station, which meant I was at least 35 minutes away from home. I saw a railway worker nearby, and inquired politely,
‘What’s going on?’
‘There was an accident down the line, so you gotta get a bus to Springvale.’ He didn’t look at me while he spoke.
‘Okay,’ I said, politely, ‘and after this? I am going to Beaconsfield?’
‘Yeah, don’t worry mate. Trains running from Springvale, all the way to the end of the line.’
I thanked him and followed the stragglers to the crowd of people waiting near the bus stop. I was about to return to my tunes, when another employer of the metropolitan services made another announcement.
‘The bus that was meant to pick you up here has gone to the other side of the station,’ he paused to allow the crowds’ sighs to become groans, ‘but I can tell you know that it has been re-directed to come to this side.’
I felt like I was in a cartoon, it was such a ridiculous and pointless comment. We would have to keep waiting, and that was that right? Why bother to tell us our wait would be a further 3 or 4 minutes? The first bus arrive just as some drunken idiot was tearing down a road sign. I removed myself from squeeze, figuring there would be another bus soon.
It came 15 minutes later. I had decided, in the meantime, to not let myself get bored. I saw a kid who had caught the morning train with me, so I decided to say hi.
‘Hey, you get off at Beaconsfield right?’
‘Yeah?’
‘This is some fun huh? ‘ The conversation started a little awkwardly, but soon my sarcasm and supreme level of cynicism won him over and we were busy chatting away. The young ma, Marco, had just finished his last exam, and was heading home to rest before slipping into the drunken debauchery that would be his life for the next few months.
‘Well Marco, what a better way to spend your first night of freedom? Hanging out at Oakleigh station with drunken idiots.’
‘Yeah. I could have just stayed in the city and hung out with my friends, got drunk with my friends.’
‘True, but then we never consider those things do we? Who figures someone is going to commit suicide and ruin your night?’
We both laugh at this morbid, selfish and rather simplistic joke, and the bus arrived. Like a sickness slowly spreading, the suicide jokes started coming out think and fast, while the other passengers joined in. The driver, sensitive to situation, decided to make the trip as painless as possible. Each stopped was preceded by a very firm slamming of the breaks, and each time we were allowed to go, he accelerated like a fucking moron, causing people to fly backwards into each other. We arrived at our destination in record time, and the drunk who had original tackled the road sign, decided to focus his drunken boredom onto the vending machine, kicking and punching randomly, waiting for a response. Tempers flared, railway workers and passengers argued, but Marco and I stayed out of it, keeping our elitist, train-spotting conversation flowing. Time dragged slowly, and as it became abundantly clear our train was not coming, a new railway boob announced, to the brewing tempest,
‘I have another announcement. I have just been informed from Metropol (I can’t believe their head office was called that) that there are no trains running tonight.’
Back on the bus.
‘I like the way he said, “I just received a call from Metropol”…’
Marco agreed, ‘Yeah, pass the blame so you don’t get in trouble.’
We both laughed before being thrown into the people behind us when the new bus driver howled off into the darkness.
We reached Hallam station (5 stops still to go) at 12:45 a.m. The remaining few, and we had dwindled in size, walked to the train platform, the driver telling us a train was on its way. As we walked, someone said they had heard the train was actually 40 minutes away. We all huddled together. Complaints about public transport had funnelled to a muttering murmour here and there, as everyone just wanted to get home. Marco and I discussed the vale of Seinfeld and how future generations would judge our comedies today. Throwing in random Simpsons quotes, and odd references to Monty Python, we watched the bus driver walk towards us. As if being compelled by some inexplicably duty to the passenger, he had patiently waited for about 20 minutes to confirm a train was coming, and then decided to drive us to our respective stations.
Finally, Beaconfield station. A 20 minute walk home and then I would be in bed. Head down, head phones back on, and I was interrupted by a gentlemen in a car, who offered me a lift home.
‘You know what?’ I said, ‘Sure, I could have been home 2 hours ago, but I had a really great night.’
He looked at me, not convinced.
‘You’re being a bit positive ain’t ya?’
It was 2:11 a.m.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Chapter 4 – I’ve just seen a face I can’t forget, the time or place where we just met
I was flicking through the channels at home, sitting on the couch. Doing nothing. Mum didn’t have Foxtel, so I was over it very quickly. I decided to go for a jog, and returned about 40 minutes later, sweating nicely. I started reading a book, and then had a shower. I stunk.
I had moved back home about two months ago. It was nice to be home…really. To eat such delicious food again, to have my mum shower me with attention. The idea was mine too, which was the sad thing. 31 year old Rudy: unemployed and living at home. Very sad.
Her name was Josephine. She had been my neighbour for some two years. She lived on her own, but her boyfriend was always around, always around. I got to know him pretty well, and her a little. We hung a few times -me and the boy- and watched the occasional bit of sport together. I spoke to her from time to time (I’d have a party, she’d have a party, her boy had a party). I always had a crush though. From the moment I saw her.
She had long, wavy blonde hair. Maybe strawberry blonde, kinda dirty. She usually wore it tied up, but occasionally it would caress the small of her back when she walked. I didn’t know her surname, her middle name. I still don’t know how old she is.
So Josie and her boyfriend broke up some 6 months ago, and I found out a little later. She told me. One day, being the friendly neighbours that we are, we chatted while putting our rubbish out. She told me her news, and then suggested we get a drink.
I said “yes”, immediately, too quick. I was embarrassed by my eagerness but Josie laughed it off. I remember walking up the stairs and back to our respective apartments. I laughed later, but it was awkward.
She sad she would come by later, "round 8".
Our date was great. You know, when someone laughs, and you watch the way their body moves, where their hands go and how the gleam in their eyes …gleams? You know when you like or are falling for someone, and they laugh, and you can’t help but stare. It was like that, all night for me. And I was in fine form.
It was fucking great.
We kissed (at my door I believe) and said goodnight. It was fucking great. The next night, she knocked again on my door, and invited me over for dinner. I don’t remember what we ate, but remember this being the beginning of some really wonderful moments, when the passion and inklings of love fluttering in my heart were preparing to grow into something more violent and beautiful.
I had period of bliss, absolutely. I was a talk, dark, handsome, smiling face. Beaming actually. A few really great weeks went by, I think about 6 in total. I decided to have party. My roommate was out of town, and I invited Josie and lots of other people. Tom was one of these people. He was a pretty good friend - we have known each other since school.
He got along really well with Josie, and I guess I will stop there. About a week later, she broke up with me, claiming it was never anything, just a “thing”.
‘Rudy, it was fun, but just a thing, nothing more.’
I knew exactly how many weeks it was since we first kissed, not ‘around’ or ‘maybe about’. I knew the number of days we spent together.
She shut the door on me. Hours later, many hours later, I decided to go for a jog, and noticed Tom near the building. We chatted briefly; he declined my offers to come up for a drink. He came of the next night, uninvited.
‘Rudy, you and Josie, it was just a thing. Me and her, well, this is serious. This means something.’
A few weeks after this, I moved back home. The first time I saw him it was so goddamn awkward. And then I started seeing her more too. The bars and pubs I went too, the same places he used to go to, too. Seeing them about town wasn’t the worst part. Seeing him everyday at my home, in front of my door, near my letterbox. That was fucking awful. In the beginning he even tried to play it cool, or act naturally. He would knock on the door and invite himself around for a beer or something. I remember the first time, how hard the conversation was for me. My gut hurt, really hurt. I was so angry too.
I was allowed to be, right? He came over every few days, but I eventually made it very clear, in no uncertain terms ( I stayed in my room) that I wanted him to fuck off. But I still saw him, all the time, everyday. And I just couldn’t hack it no more.
It wasn’t long, our thing. It wasn’t the most beautiful relationship I had been involved in. It maybe wouldn’t have ranked in the top, the top 3.
But the rejection hurt. It always does. Always. And seeing him, and knowing they were together, now, tonight, right now…
So I moved home. I was devastated. Absolutely devastated. Maybe this might bring Chapter 1 into a more relative and less misogynistic scope. It was after Josie and Tom that I tried to break down every transaction with a girl into a purely physical exchange of bodily fluids.
Precious bodily fluids.
It didn’t work so well.
But you know that.
I had moved back home about two months ago. It was nice to be home…really. To eat such delicious food again, to have my mum shower me with attention. The idea was mine too, which was the sad thing. 31 year old Rudy: unemployed and living at home. Very sad.
Her name was Josephine. She had been my neighbour for some two years. She lived on her own, but her boyfriend was always around, always around. I got to know him pretty well, and her a little. We hung a few times -me and the boy- and watched the occasional bit of sport together. I spoke to her from time to time (I’d have a party, she’d have a party, her boy had a party). I always had a crush though. From the moment I saw her.
She had long, wavy blonde hair. Maybe strawberry blonde, kinda dirty. She usually wore it tied up, but occasionally it would caress the small of her back when she walked. I didn’t know her surname, her middle name. I still don’t know how old she is.
So Josie and her boyfriend broke up some 6 months ago, and I found out a little later. She told me. One day, being the friendly neighbours that we are, we chatted while putting our rubbish out. She told me her news, and then suggested we get a drink.
I said “yes”, immediately, too quick. I was embarrassed by my eagerness but Josie laughed it off. I remember walking up the stairs and back to our respective apartments. I laughed later, but it was awkward.
She sad she would come by later, "round 8".
Our date was great. You know, when someone laughs, and you watch the way their body moves, where their hands go and how the gleam in their eyes …gleams? You know when you like or are falling for someone, and they laugh, and you can’t help but stare. It was like that, all night for me. And I was in fine form.
It was fucking great.
We kissed (at my door I believe) and said goodnight. It was fucking great. The next night, she knocked again on my door, and invited me over for dinner. I don’t remember what we ate, but remember this being the beginning of some really wonderful moments, when the passion and inklings of love fluttering in my heart were preparing to grow into something more violent and beautiful.
I had period of bliss, absolutely. I was a talk, dark, handsome, smiling face. Beaming actually. A few really great weeks went by, I think about 6 in total. I decided to have party. My roommate was out of town, and I invited Josie and lots of other people. Tom was one of these people. He was a pretty good friend - we have known each other since school.
He got along really well with Josie, and I guess I will stop there. About a week later, she broke up with me, claiming it was never anything, just a “thing”.
‘Rudy, it was fun, but just a thing, nothing more.’
I knew exactly how many weeks it was since we first kissed, not ‘around’ or ‘maybe about’. I knew the number of days we spent together.
She shut the door on me. Hours later, many hours later, I decided to go for a jog, and noticed Tom near the building. We chatted briefly; he declined my offers to come up for a drink. He came of the next night, uninvited.
‘Rudy, you and Josie, it was just a thing. Me and her, well, this is serious. This means something.’
A few weeks after this, I moved back home. The first time I saw him it was so goddamn awkward. And then I started seeing her more too. The bars and pubs I went too, the same places he used to go to, too. Seeing them about town wasn’t the worst part. Seeing him everyday at my home, in front of my door, near my letterbox. That was fucking awful. In the beginning he even tried to play it cool, or act naturally. He would knock on the door and invite himself around for a beer or something. I remember the first time, how hard the conversation was for me. My gut hurt, really hurt. I was so angry too.
I was allowed to be, right? He came over every few days, but I eventually made it very clear, in no uncertain terms ( I stayed in my room) that I wanted him to fuck off. But I still saw him, all the time, everyday. And I just couldn’t hack it no more.
It wasn’t long, our thing. It wasn’t the most beautiful relationship I had been involved in. It maybe wouldn’t have ranked in the top, the top 3.
But the rejection hurt. It always does. Always. And seeing him, and knowing they were together, now, tonight, right now…
So I moved home. I was devastated. Absolutely devastated. Maybe this might bring Chapter 1 into a more relative and less misogynistic scope. It was after Josie and Tom that I tried to break down every transaction with a girl into a purely physical exchange of bodily fluids.
Precious bodily fluids.
It didn’t work so well.
But you know that.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Chapter 3 – The after affects of Bump and Grind
Affect or effect? My spineless friend Alastair suggested a night of easy drinks and wooden benches at a nearby pub. The venue lacked anything and most kinds of everything, so we settled down to dirty beer and stupid conversation. The usual banter; which girls you would bang (the ones you know), which ones you wouldn’t bang (the ones you know) and which ones you haven’t banged (ALL the ones you know).
Misogynists we were, sure, but it was the end of a long day, so it was either that bullshit conversation or bitching about our jobs.
We stopped banging our brains after a bit, topped up our drinks, and then I started this little bit.
‘So Al, the other day, after you birthday, I caught a cab home.’
‘Wow!’ he exclaimed, ‘You rebellious fiend you, you fox. A cab, all the way home? Oh sorry, was daddy’s Merc in the shop? Your poor thing…’ This went on for quite a while, it was pretty damn funny, I’ll admit.
‘Anyway, this cabbie was from East Africa…’
‘Where?’
‘He didn’t specify, which was weird. I told him my mums was form Seychelles, to see if that would make him more comfortable, but it didn’t. So, we were just driving along, chatting about stuff, our nights and all that, when a car behind us flashed their lights at us.’
Alastiar nodded, ‘Let me guess, another cabbie right?’
‘Exactly. Now my guy wasn’t all over the road or anything. He was in his lane, sitting on the speed limit too. The cabbie kinda sighed and said, “You will see, it is an Indian cabbie”. Well, I didn’t say anything, and just lent back and waited for the cabbie to drive past and lo and behold, he was an Indian. I didn’t say anything again, but then my guy started venting.
“Thirty years back, all cabbies Greek or Italian okay? No problem. Before this, they all Australian, no problem too. Then, maybe fifteen years, you start getting East Africans or other Europeans too, and also, no problem. We work, we work hard. We nice to customer. And then maybe five years ago, you get the Indians come down. Trouble start from here,” is what he said.’
I sipped my drink, to refresh my dry tongue. I tried, and tremendously failed to reproduce the cabbie’s accent.
‘He went on, “They fight, all the time. For ten cents, they fight customer. They fight to go here or there. They don’t turn on meter, they cheat customer, they lie. They steal mobile and bag instead of taking to police station. They stink, they stink very bad, very bad. They work 24 hours or more, they eat in car. Always talking on mobile. No respect. They stink very bad.” Now, I didn’t say shit, I didn’t quite know what to say. I prefer not to agree, but I don’t disagree either…’
‘-cos you’re a pussy?’ Alastair butted in.
‘Yes, maybe, but, I don’t need that. So, that was my ride. He finished pretty much as he pulled up in front of my house. The charge was $19.90. I gave him $20.’
‘Hmm,’ Alastair said and then proceeded to state the obvious, ‘How strange, and amusing.’
‘I know, it was so interesting to see how other cabbies feel to be honest.’
‘Yeah, and there aren't many shitter jobs out right now than driving a cab. People don’t give you no respect, so you don’t show them any. And you hear such bad stories about cabbies. I knew a girl who used to drink at a local spot each week right? Each night, when they pub closed – she lived close enough to walk home – there would be cabbies outside offering her and her friends free rides home. So one day, one of her friends was particular drunk and took this free ride home. So this fucking shithead, took this chick to some pre-arranged location and him and his buddies raped this chick.’
We both shook our heads, the way you do when you hear something fucking horrible and feel completely fucking helpless.
‘It’s that circle, the circle of shit. You know?’
Alastair silently applauded by brilliant conclusion.
I left not long after this slight down in conversation and jumped on a tram. I grabbed a window seat as usual, and was surprised to see cabs everywhere in the city. It was one of those nights, two hundred yellow cars waiting for your business and you not needing to bother.
Misogynists we were, sure, but it was the end of a long day, so it was either that bullshit conversation or bitching about our jobs.
We stopped banging our brains after a bit, topped up our drinks, and then I started this little bit.
‘So Al, the other day, after you birthday, I caught a cab home.’
‘Wow!’ he exclaimed, ‘You rebellious fiend you, you fox. A cab, all the way home? Oh sorry, was daddy’s Merc in the shop? Your poor thing…’ This went on for quite a while, it was pretty damn funny, I’ll admit.
‘Anyway, this cabbie was from East Africa…’
‘Where?’
‘He didn’t specify, which was weird. I told him my mums was form Seychelles, to see if that would make him more comfortable, but it didn’t. So, we were just driving along, chatting about stuff, our nights and all that, when a car behind us flashed their lights at us.’
Alastiar nodded, ‘Let me guess, another cabbie right?’
‘Exactly. Now my guy wasn’t all over the road or anything. He was in his lane, sitting on the speed limit too. The cabbie kinda sighed and said, “You will see, it is an Indian cabbie”. Well, I didn’t say anything, and just lent back and waited for the cabbie to drive past and lo and behold, he was an Indian. I didn’t say anything again, but then my guy started venting.
“Thirty years back, all cabbies Greek or Italian okay? No problem. Before this, they all Australian, no problem too. Then, maybe fifteen years, you start getting East Africans or other Europeans too, and also, no problem. We work, we work hard. We nice to customer. And then maybe five years ago, you get the Indians come down. Trouble start from here,” is what he said.’
I sipped my drink, to refresh my dry tongue. I tried, and tremendously failed to reproduce the cabbie’s accent.
‘He went on, “They fight, all the time. For ten cents, they fight customer. They fight to go here or there. They don’t turn on meter, they cheat customer, they lie. They steal mobile and bag instead of taking to police station. They stink, they stink very bad, very bad. They work 24 hours or more, they eat in car. Always talking on mobile. No respect. They stink very bad.” Now, I didn’t say shit, I didn’t quite know what to say. I prefer not to agree, but I don’t disagree either…’
‘-cos you’re a pussy?’ Alastair butted in.
‘Yes, maybe, but, I don’t need that. So, that was my ride. He finished pretty much as he pulled up in front of my house. The charge was $19.90. I gave him $20.’
‘Hmm,’ Alastair said and then proceeded to state the obvious, ‘How strange, and amusing.’
‘I know, it was so interesting to see how other cabbies feel to be honest.’
‘Yeah, and there aren't many shitter jobs out right now than driving a cab. People don’t give you no respect, so you don’t show them any. And you hear such bad stories about cabbies. I knew a girl who used to drink at a local spot each week right? Each night, when they pub closed – she lived close enough to walk home – there would be cabbies outside offering her and her friends free rides home. So one day, one of her friends was particular drunk and took this free ride home. So this fucking shithead, took this chick to some pre-arranged location and him and his buddies raped this chick.’
We both shook our heads, the way you do when you hear something fucking horrible and feel completely fucking helpless.
‘It’s that circle, the circle of shit. You know?’
Alastair silently applauded by brilliant conclusion.
I left not long after this slight down in conversation and jumped on a tram. I grabbed a window seat as usual, and was surprised to see cabs everywhere in the city. It was one of those nights, two hundred yellow cars waiting for your business and you not needing to bother.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Chapter 2 – Easy Girls, do you hear me?
I understand how sexist the opening rant may have sounded and how the term, “Easy Girls” is perhaps not fair. Men are fair easier then women aren’t they? But Easy Girls, why can’t you hear me? My pleas are loud and sometimes funny right?
I went to a party last week, and I’ll admit I was not looking forward to it. I thought I would get there, fall asleep right away and then be home by 2 a.m. I managed to convince my cousin to come with me, the whole time pointing out what a shit night it would be. My bottle of bourbon under one arm, Coke in the other, I was prepared to drink myself stupid, maybe throw up and say nothing interesting to anyone.
I am so negative sometimes…
So, I got home sometime between 5 and 6 am the next morning, some girl I met later in the night gave me a lift. It was so nice of her, and saved me cab fair. Isn’t that sweet?
So, we got to the party, and I needed to get some Coke. My cousin, Sophie, was overly rugged up for a cool summer night. I tried to convince her why.
‘If you start dressing like this, then you are only bringing Winter closer, forcing it upon us.’
‘You’re an idiot - watch the traffic- I am not moving the seasons anywhere, I am simply prepared. It rained yesterday, and was forecast to rain again tonight. I am being prepared.’
‘Boring.’
‘Right, ‘cos you are so spontaneous aren’t you? Come on, you have at least 5 toothbrushes stashed in at least 3 different locations, TWO at my place.’
‘Whatever…shut up!’
She laughed at me, ‘Your argument for everything.’
I brought the Coke and Sophie got a pack of smokes (yah!) and outside the convenience store, we ran into an old friend.
‘Rudy! Hey, how you doing?’
‘Mary! Hey! How have you been!?’ We all kissed hello and it was ever so quaint.
‘Sophie, I haven’t seen you in ages! You look great, and nice umbrella. I have one just like it!’ I sighed as audibly as I could.
‘Thanks. My idiot cousin hates it.’ They both rolled their eyes in my general direction.
Sophie went on, ‘I heard you got engaged!’
‘Yes! We kinda did it together. It was sweet, and fun.’
I missed the sound of my own voice, ‘Together?’
‘Yeah, a bit silly, but we both gave each other a month to organise the surprise, and then we both proposed on the same night!’
‘Wow,’ I said, ‘that is pretty damn romantic. That is awesome!’
‘Yeah, we both thought so.’
There was that pause, you know, when you are past the pleasantries and either you start having a real conversation, or you thank each other and part ways.
Sophie hugged Mary goodbye, and then I did.
‘That was an exciting conversation!’ I laughed and Sophie concurred.
The party was populated by people I had never met, and might never see again. It was great. I danced all night long, with everyone and anyone, and then with them again. The one dance I didn’t enjoy so much was the old bump & grind.
She was nice, we had been talking throughout the night, dancing together and slamming shots. We swung, and salsa-ed and even doo-wopped ( I think). And then the cheap, cheesy rap song started up. Maybe Tipsy, maybe Swing, maybe (I’m sorry), Hot in here.
So, there we were: I bumped and she grinded, I pushed and she pushed back. It was fun, I had never so –I will use the word "passion" I think- passionately hit up a dance floor. The beat, and the rhymes did what they do, beating and rhyming. Sweat pouring, rump shaking. It was at this point I noticed the guy staring/looking/checking out us and I thought, oh well whatever…
HANG ON! That’s, he is, this is his girlfriend’s arse smashing my crotch.
He was slamming shots too. He was dancing too. He was a really nice dude.
Dang! Awkward and weird. Fucking dang!
You just don’t bump and grind when your boyfriend is at the party.
Right?
I went to a party last week, and I’ll admit I was not looking forward to it. I thought I would get there, fall asleep right away and then be home by 2 a.m. I managed to convince my cousin to come with me, the whole time pointing out what a shit night it would be. My bottle of bourbon under one arm, Coke in the other, I was prepared to drink myself stupid, maybe throw up and say nothing interesting to anyone.
I am so negative sometimes…
So, I got home sometime between 5 and 6 am the next morning, some girl I met later in the night gave me a lift. It was so nice of her, and saved me cab fair. Isn’t that sweet?
So, we got to the party, and I needed to get some Coke. My cousin, Sophie, was overly rugged up for a cool summer night. I tried to convince her why.
‘If you start dressing like this, then you are only bringing Winter closer, forcing it upon us.’
‘You’re an idiot - watch the traffic- I am not moving the seasons anywhere, I am simply prepared. It rained yesterday, and was forecast to rain again tonight. I am being prepared.’
‘Boring.’
‘Right, ‘cos you are so spontaneous aren’t you? Come on, you have at least 5 toothbrushes stashed in at least 3 different locations, TWO at my place.’
‘Whatever…shut up!’
She laughed at me, ‘Your argument for everything.’
I brought the Coke and Sophie got a pack of smokes (yah!) and outside the convenience store, we ran into an old friend.
‘Rudy! Hey, how you doing?’
‘Mary! Hey! How have you been!?’ We all kissed hello and it was ever so quaint.
‘Sophie, I haven’t seen you in ages! You look great, and nice umbrella. I have one just like it!’ I sighed as audibly as I could.
‘Thanks. My idiot cousin hates it.’ They both rolled their eyes in my general direction.
Sophie went on, ‘I heard you got engaged!’
‘Yes! We kinda did it together. It was sweet, and fun.’
I missed the sound of my own voice, ‘Together?’
‘Yeah, a bit silly, but we both gave each other a month to organise the surprise, and then we both proposed on the same night!’
‘Wow,’ I said, ‘that is pretty damn romantic. That is awesome!’
‘Yeah, we both thought so.’
There was that pause, you know, when you are past the pleasantries and either you start having a real conversation, or you thank each other and part ways.
Sophie hugged Mary goodbye, and then I did.
‘That was an exciting conversation!’ I laughed and Sophie concurred.
The party was populated by people I had never met, and might never see again. It was great. I danced all night long, with everyone and anyone, and then with them again. The one dance I didn’t enjoy so much was the old bump & grind.
She was nice, we had been talking throughout the night, dancing together and slamming shots. We swung, and salsa-ed and even doo-wopped ( I think). And then the cheap, cheesy rap song started up. Maybe Tipsy, maybe Swing, maybe (I’m sorry), Hot in here.
So, there we were: I bumped and she grinded, I pushed and she pushed back. It was fun, I had never so –I will use the word "passion" I think- passionately hit up a dance floor. The beat, and the rhymes did what they do, beating and rhyming. Sweat pouring, rump shaking. It was at this point I noticed the guy staring/looking/checking out us and I thought, oh well whatever…
HANG ON! That’s, he is, this is his girlfriend’s arse smashing my crotch.
He was slamming shots too. He was dancing too. He was a really nice dude.
Dang! Awkward and weird. Fucking dang!
You just don’t bump and grind when your boyfriend is at the party.
Right?
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Chapter 1 – Do you want to have sex with me?
The thing I don’t like about some of the women I meet, is their constant need, their desideratum (that’s right) to talk about how much they love to screw. How much they want coitus, and how tonight -much like previous nights I imagine in my jealous blackness- they will get laid.
They lay their eyes on some guy across the room, and while chatting to you, they patiently wait for the guy to make eye contact, and if he fails to do this, they just go right up their and lay it out straight for him.
Okay, maybe not so bluntly, but sometimes it’s so obvious.
Now, I won’t beat around the bush. I am not an ugly guy, not by any means. I’m not a short guy, or a particularly angry guy. I keep in okay shape and can occasionally be found to be attractive to the opposite sex. Seriously. I do alright. I have loved and been loved. I have dated, seen, been involved. However you want to refer to relationships, been there.
But right now, I just want to…done that.
I want some non-committal fucking. Some schtuping, some banging, I want to punch her in the underpants (I am not proud of that, and I truly do find it shocking).
There I said it. No more seeing or dating or getting to know you, getting to know you. Just straight to the bedroom thank you very much. This sounds really bad I know, but there are times in a man’s life when he wants to be really bad.
In, out, see you fucking later.
Is that asking so much?
My favourite part of the night – seeing her walk right past me and smacks a kiss on any other loser in the place. Any other loser.
*** *** ***
So, I have recently been making more of an effort to get the girl in bed that night. A friend and me have been casing out the chicks at parties recently, looking for the more eager girls.
My game was sad and pathetic. I thought I would tackle the dumb ones first.
The lowest I sunk, shit this was low.
“Yeah, I thought that Brad and Jen were a good couple, and remember that episode of Friends he was on? That was hilarious.”
Was I really prepared to stoop so low?
The answer was and is yes, but I threw this one out there, and got hit out of the park.
“Ha ha. Listen, do you want go back to mine and have sex?”
Smart girls?
Italians?
Drunk girls?
Druggy girls?
Sex on leg girls?
Italians? I like Italians.
Nobody bought what I was selling, even though it was so cheap and could have been good, right?
Tall girls, short girls, short girls and tall girls.
Nobody bought what I was selling.
They lay their eyes on some guy across the room, and while chatting to you, they patiently wait for the guy to make eye contact, and if he fails to do this, they just go right up their and lay it out straight for him.
Okay, maybe not so bluntly, but sometimes it’s so obvious.
Now, I won’t beat around the bush. I am not an ugly guy, not by any means. I’m not a short guy, or a particularly angry guy. I keep in okay shape and can occasionally be found to be attractive to the opposite sex. Seriously. I do alright. I have loved and been loved. I have dated, seen, been involved. However you want to refer to relationships, been there.
But right now, I just want to…done that.
I want some non-committal fucking. Some schtuping, some banging, I want to punch her in the underpants (I am not proud of that, and I truly do find it shocking).
There I said it. No more seeing or dating or getting to know you, getting to know you. Just straight to the bedroom thank you very much. This sounds really bad I know, but there are times in a man’s life when he wants to be really bad.
In, out, see you fucking later.
Is that asking so much?
My favourite part of the night – seeing her walk right past me and smacks a kiss on any other loser in the place. Any other loser.
*** *** ***
So, I have recently been making more of an effort to get the girl in bed that night. A friend and me have been casing out the chicks at parties recently, looking for the more eager girls.
My game was sad and pathetic. I thought I would tackle the dumb ones first.
The lowest I sunk, shit this was low.
“Yeah, I thought that Brad and Jen were a good couple, and remember that episode of Friends he was on? That was hilarious.”
Was I really prepared to stoop so low?
The answer was and is yes, but I threw this one out there, and got hit out of the park.
“Ha ha. Listen, do you want go back to mine and have sex?”
Smart girls?
Italians?
Drunk girls?
Druggy girls?
Sex on leg girls?
Italians? I like Italians.
Nobody bought what I was selling, even though it was so cheap and could have been good, right?
Tall girls, short girls, short girls and tall girls.
Nobody bought what I was selling.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)