All posts in Random Nights Out

The Mardi Gras Transport Stuff-Up of 2009

In a little place called Sydney, a bunch of people in costumes with bright faces, make-up, and a sense of fun are all getting ready to go out and show the world just what it means to be themselves.

They've made floats and dresses and attached feathers and glitter and joy to all parts of their bodies. There'll be music that pumps and breaks through the crowd and Mardi Gras will show everyone that gays and lesbians are out and proud.

With parties being the order of the weekend, the police are out in full-force. It's only Friday and men & women in blue stand outside a train station while they hold teenage twenty-something drug offenders to the ground. The labrador who did the grunt-work sits ready to receive his pat, stroke, belly rub reward.

People walk by, walk on, wait for a bus or taxi, but mostly move on. No one wants to be a suspect or a criminal and no one would dare comment on the irony of ten officers nailing one person to the ground.

All throughout this, this little place's transport system attempts to serve the population by providing enough buses and trains to support demand. Enough means to get the people around, from place to place and point A to points B,C,D and F.

No one wants to go to E. We're all sick of it.
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32cm Soft Serve (Really, really big ice cream)

My brother decided to show me something a little different today after we had dinner at Ramen Kan.

What follows is big. 

I mean big. Really big. Big as in "this could seriously look like you're carrying it around making up for something you don't have if you're a guy".

You know… if you're cynical like that… which I of course am.

In any case, I now present to you the 32cm Soft Serve…


Click on the image to see it (disturbingly) bigger!

That is one big ice cream, and at $2.70 it doesn't taste too bad either (you know, for soft serve, that is).

That picture actually isn't quite 32cm because by that time, I'd already eaten a little bit off of the top. It's bloody close though. Disturbingly close.

I think they should have offered a mint version or an apple one or something because – with a little bit of green – it could look just like a Christmas tree! 

In any case, if you want a 32cm Soft Serve, head to the convenience store next to Hungry Jacks on George St. in Sydney. 🙂

At an art opening

I don't know anyone. I can't pretend to be friends I'd family of a single soul here, but no matter what I do

I feel I just don't belong.

I'm used to the penetrative stares that look through me as if to tell me I am not one of the group, one of the herd.

I get them here too. Me with my brown jacket, red shirt, yellow headphones, and old grey hat, I still get the glances to a stranger. A no-one. Anon.

It's not just my lingering depression- trigger happy but never willing to say why or what for – but rather the attitudes people convey in their eyes.

Lady with a tired face in the long brown coat: you don't think I belong.
Teenage boy in the technicolour trip-hop towel: you don't think I belong either.
Brown haired lady five years my senior – l what is it, is it my attire or my face: you know I don't belong.

And so I stand here in the cold. Unable to understand, confused as to why, for no matter how much I try to fit in not a single person will let me.

An artist at an art opening and I can't relate to a solitary soul.

The Stomach Of Doom…

I'm beginning to wonder whether my stomach has any other purpose but to shit me and / or give me the shits. In all senses of the word.

I began to notice long ago that the moment I have some sort of social event on, my stomach clams up and decides to launch itself at me with horrifying results (horrifying for the toilet bowl in question). It's almost as if it's an instantaneous reaction by my stomach as a means of protecting me from whatever the hell it needs protecting from. Or whatever the hell I need protecting from. Either / or, as is the case in this… err… case.

Case in point, I was originally thinking of going out this evening.

It was to be Edward's last pub crawl (and by last, I technically mean first as I'd never heard of him do a planned drinking night before this) before he leaves to work for Microsoft in America. I wasn't sure if I was to go – you know… me being socially inept and bored in crowds of people relatively quickly – but the thought more or less lingered in my mind with the prospect of my brother, Boris, Ross, Edward, Leora, and other random girls there.

I like random girls.

Anyway, as I decide to take a shower before I leave, The Stomach of Doom strikes rendering my gut unconscious and forcing me to take refuge at the nearest Porcelain Palace of Protection (this is my neat-o way of saying "toilet" in this blog post). I was at that Palace for god knows how long and while I did manage to get a fair amount of reading done, I felt uneasy the entire way through.

Sort of like how Indiana Jones would feel if he were told that his toilet was infested with snakes. SNAKES.

When I did decide to come out and cleanse myself of the stink that The Stomach of Doom presented me with (Christ, this movie would suck), I showered and then dried off trying to stave off The Stomach and see how long it would take before I felt… decent.

It's now 10.10 PM. The event started at 7.30PM. By the time I'd get out there, it'd be damn near 12.

I don't think I'll be going. 

I just had a yoghurt and that seemed to trouble The Stomach of Doom enough to reverberate all my back muscles and cause End Credits music to shake in its grave. Or something like that.

Thank you stomach. Thank you for thoroughly pissing me off.

Dee before I leave for the day

Without wanting the title sounding like an Eiffel 65 song which I wish didn't reverberate in the back of my skull, here is a picture of the lovely Deanna Mushins that I shot last night after our little NAS Photography reunion… which you're going to wish you'd had been invited to.

Well you will later.

By the time I'm through writing about it, anyway.

Cool picture, huh.