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These old shit cans

It's a little bit like bringing out the dead with State Transit for both customers, carriages, and cars whenever cold weather rears it's ugly head.

As I sit here in this railway shit can, a man to my left vents his frustration by glaring in my direction and flexing his shoulder, a move that cracks his joint back into place. He once had full reign of this small piece of seat but I've forced his hand and he doesn't want to share.

Not when he has his important photocopy to read on SQL streaming, anyway.

To my right is a couple who have more space on their right but are hiding from the cold metal wall of this carriage. The man on my right side and his girl on his right, they sit far enough so that they still squish me even with their room to move.

Should I mention that they're French? Or is it too important not to note for fear that their snobbish ways on this rainy day could be misconstrued or interpreted as that typical Parisian attitude which seems to forge the stereotype.

This old shit can is packing up now but it's still better than the shit can I took to get here.

A bus down Bondi Road, I don't even know where they're grabbing them from. Junkyards I suspect as the only qualification must be "roof" and "four wheels" because the term "functional" seems missing from the equation.

I would sit in the middle of this unusually cold bus on an unusually cold and wet day in October, a heavy jacket day for Spring. Thank you El Nino, danke La Nina.

I would sit on that bus and be glad I'm bundled up tight, my arms sitting in a polyester furnace while the bus decides to show how impoverished it really is and drip droplets of merciless rust-and-grime stained cold onto our hands, heads, and anything else we were for some reason foolish enough to leave bare.

These old shit cans don't care though. They merely function and they barely function at that.

Poetic justice for a crumbling state.

Skinny crack whores that ask for money

Well that's a first. I've never been approached by a skinny crack whore asking for money before.

Not me. Not me in my swanky hat and vintage tanned jacket with a slightly daggy striped Country Road shirt hanging a little too loosely over my crispy blue Kenji Urban low-riding jeans. 

Not me coming home from work and walking through the city after buying myself some newer clothes to look more presentable than I did that moment.

And yet there one was, walking alongside of me as I walked past the French Connection on Pitt Street towards Martin Place. She walked up beside me quickly; I must have looked like an easy target.

"Are you from Sydney?" she started, a voice from out of nowhere coming from this strange heap of flesh that I guess could resemble a woman if you perhaps squinted through broken glasses and sneezed backwards twice.

"Yup," I replied continuing my walk.

"God, I feel like such an idiot for asking this," she babbled on, stumbling over words that she didn't really care about in the first place. I just replied "don't be" and she went on.

"I'm from Melbourne and I've just arrived in Sydney," she said, her sucked-in cheeks looking like used condom wrappers against flesh with too much foundation. She was probably a twenty-something or an early thirty-something, but she could have passed for a withering sixty year old decaying rocker jumping out of her last pornographic film not three minutes ago. 

"I feel silly asking this," she said again, but asked anyway. "My car has stopped on Clarence St; do you have any change?"

I kept on walking and said "sorry, I don't have any money on me," a freshly packed Industrie bag hanging off of my right hand speaking the contrary.

"Not even any coins?" she asked. 

Desperation… riiiiigghhhhttt… I must have looked like an easy target. I just walked on. Her pleasant ass-kissing attitude changed as quickly as I'd ever seen one when she immediately said "well I thought you looked like a bum" and turned around pacing back.

A bum? Geeze. I don't want to give a skinny crack whore who can't apply make-up money and I look like a bum? 

Wow. That hurts, skinny crack whore. That really fucking hurts.

Random Notes from Leigh’s Brain, two days in July

Ah yes, the last couple of days. I've done some good work over the course of the last forty-eight hours.

You know, because I rule and stuff.

July 8, 2008
8.21 am

Holy shit! That's the second dazed & confused mullet I've seen in the past two minutes. That leads me to believe one thing…


8.34 am
Ten minutes from Town Hall to North Sydney? The trains must be sharing tracks or something.

And one of the doors on the carriage next to me won't close. I bet that makes the passengers feel safe.

Continue Reading

I know, I know…

…my posting has been crap lately. I apologise.

I'm sure the frantic pace with which work treats me would apologise too were it not for the fact that it is not a being in and of itself so it can't.

Plus it probably wouldn't anyway.

In any case, I'm now working on three books, the latest of which involves quantum mechanics and coffee. Will I be talking about the worlds upon worlds theory while black coffee finds its ways into universal orifices?

Probably not.

In any case, here's a nice picture I shot the other night.

Why do the trains bother to have timetables?

Why do the trains have timetables? Wouldn't it just be easier to have some random prick with an STA vest on telling people in a calm yet authorative nature that the train will be arriving eventually and if you manage to get where you're meant to be going, you're one of the lucky ones.

It appears we're in a train crisis… or a time crisis. Or a train time crisis.

Trains don't work. Carriages are getting fewer in number. I'm leaving earlier and arriving later than I had when I'd left later.

What the hell is wrong, Mr. Iemma that you can't fix something as puny as a transit system running to a a schedule and not to a concept plan that exists in the mind of a man perpetually late to a never ending wedding.