Sydney - Part Two Point Six - Fight Night... Sort of...

Fight Night 2010--Or More Appropriately Named: The Night I Was Properly Fist-Fucked In The Face...

One evening, in the midst of mayhem down in Side Bar, part of the place went up in flames. Apparently, there was an electrical fire in one of the back rooms or some other ambiguous location. Plausibly one on par with the ones in our bloodstreams. We were lit to shit. And even though the fire department had arrived to kick out the swarm of drunkards and put out the fire downstairs, we weren’t exactly ready to extinguish ours. We stood on the sidewalk amongst the boozy breaths of our displaced comrades and plumes of cigarette smoke, openly deliberating the situation.

“Shit man, I was having so much fun. Goddamnit it!”

“Kevin, the fucking place was on fire. What were you going to do, dance around the flames?”

“No, but there’s got to be something we can do. It’s still early, and this mass of people has got to be going somewhere.”

“You boys know where you’re headed off to?” interjected a soft Sheffield accent from over our shoulders. There was an inflection in the voice that cordially requested a response while simultaneously apologizing, in case it was intruding.

“Ha. Hey, Rob. Not too sure yet, you?

Rob was plain awesome. And while I type this, humbled and chuckling in reflection in this library, I must once again apologize to him for the fate that would meet his face later in the night on accord of involving himself with us.

Sorry Rob...

He was young. In fact, when he told Kevin and I that he was born in 1990, we instantly exchanged ‘O fuck’ faces. But he had a big heart and a curious constitution that I regarded as a relief. I’ve come to realize, that in my later years, the youthful curiosity that allowed the world to seem so much bigger and magnificent back when we were kids is far too easily relinquished by both me, and some of my peers these days. And whether it’s because we got lazy, or jaded, or both, it’s really kind of sad. Too often, we don’t ask questions anymore. We’re convinced that we know the answer to everything, or simply don’t care, and in the process, we end up robbing ourselves of some possibly enlightening information or experiences.

Rob was always asking questions. While so many other’s wrote us off as Americans who they figured they understood on a personal level--because of what they had seen on our TV shows, or the way the US, en masse, had been portrayed on their news--Rob was asking questions, to really find out.

Was he naive? To the bone. But the difference between naivety and ignorance is the willingness to learn. And I’ll take the extended company of a naive, know-nothing, determined to learn something, over the company of an ignorant, know-it-all who’s convinced there is nothing left to learn. And I say ‘extended company,’ because I’d be foolish to say that there isn’t something that I could learn from the know-it-all. And I’d even be foolish to say that I’m void of naivety myself. Sure, at this point I may know a few things about anthropological theory, or making my way through a city, or about the finer art of making a wicked peanut butter & jelly sandwich, but given the ever-expanding spectrum of human knowledge, or spectrum of the human experience, I don’t know shit.

And perhaps the most incredible part about Rob was the fact that his naivety was only outweighed by his benevolence, and his optimism. He had every right to become a bit jaded, or angry with us after what he experienced, but he didn’t. He woke up the next morning, looked at himself in the mirror, laughed it off with us, and continued about his jovial interrogation of our lives, and life around him. I don’t know. Maybe he was just convinced that we were way cooler then we actually were. Either way, he had stuck with us days before his minor curbside surgery, and would continue to do so, until the day we left Sydney. I’m glad that he did.

“Well I think there are a couple of pubs just up the street if you boys would care to make the journey.” He replied.

“I’m down.”

“Yeah, me too. Let’s do it.”

We headed up to a corner pub called the Carlton. It was a bit of a dive, and they were hesitant to serve us based on our apparent impairment, but they did anyway. Probably far too much. Rob had become fascinated with the phenomenon that is chugging beer, and we finished about six jugs in thirty minutes before they asked us to leave. Somehow I remained the most sober out of anyone. Rob could barely find the exit even with a 250 pound bouncer physically pointing him in the door’s direction. And Kevin had started to sway like a six foot buoy in choppy water. Apropos, as sizable raindrops had begun bombarding every surface outside, while we drank inside.

We stepped out of the pub, into pouring rain and started walking downhill back towards the hostel. Rob and I had gotten roughly a half a block ahead of Kevin, as our feet carried us more efficiently. We passed two hooded figures beneath an awning on the way without any extended regard, and kept walking. I turned to see if Kevin was still coherent, and saw him from a distance, traversing his way slowly but surely in our direction.

He’ll be fine.

About a half a block later, I glanced back to check on Kevin again.

Oh shit...

He had engaged in conversation with the two hooded figures, and although I couldn’t hear exactly what was being said, it was obvious that it was escalating into an altercation. Two seconds later, one of them stepped forward, and I saw Kevin pivot and book it as fast as his liquid legs could carry him down that rain-soaked sidewalk. The two hoods trailing him like tails. Oh yeah, and I forgot to mention that he was wearing sandals. We all were. As it goes, Kevin ate shit and rode that sidewalk like a concrete slip and slide. Not far though. And as soon as his one hundred-eighty pound, booze-infused frame slid to a halt, his tails had begun wailing on him.

“Fuck!” I turned to Rob, “Stay here.”

I gunned it towards Kevin as fast as I could. And the shorter the distance quickly became between us, I noticed how insanely short his assailants were. They were tiny. They looked like they belonged to a Rodney King LEGO set. Now, I know that I’m not huge, but I’m not exactly pint-sized either. I’m about six-foot-three and one hundred-ninety pounds. And I’m no Ferrigno, and I’m no Jet Li, but I’ve spent enough time in the gym and in a kick-boxing ring, to the point where I should have felt confident enough to defend myself and Kevin against those fucking jawas and their hooligan haymakers. And while I should have spent that time running, considering which one I was going to level first, a series of other thoughts went through my head, that prevented me from taking such direct action.

What if they have a weapon? If Kevin gets gutted, where the fuck do I take him? I’m in a strange city, and I don’t know what these guys want. Jesus Christ, Kevin can barely even stand he so drunk. If one of us gets hurt, this trip is over. We need to get the fuck out of here.

I’ll be open. Those ‘ifs’ and ‘ands’ had me frightened. In retrospect, perhaps far too much. Either way, I did my best to try and just get us out of there. I pushed both of them back as soon as I reached the mess, and pulled Kevin off the ground. I turned to push them away again, and was just as soon turned inward by a barrage of fists and feet that cracked about my face and ribs.

Jesus Christ!

I struggled to shield myself behind bent elbows. Kevin, now standing, took a swing I swore he could have stolen from Super Macho Man on Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out. His whole body went windmill. And it most likely would have been rather effective, if he wasn’t four feet away from his targets. Instead, he spun himself a circle and a half, and ate it again into the pavement.

Shit.

And that cycle continued for about another thirty seconds. Kevin would lose the big battle with balance, and I’d take a beating trying to pull him back up and push him away from the tiny war. The whole time, with those fuck-wits unloading their bullshit.

“You’re not from around heyaeh, ah yah, beetch!”

“Thees eez how we do it in New Zealand, muthah fuckah!”

“It seems like a lovely place.” I couldn’t help myself, even beneath the battering of boney knuckles.

Around the fifth time or so of trying to pick Kevin up, I took a boot beneath an eye that took a second of sight out of both. I felt the dizzy of impending consciousness collapse in that momentary black-out, and realized this had to end before I did. I suppose I had neglected the fact that even though their small stature seemed to make the majority of their hits knock-out incapable, enough of them might do the trick. I stood up and grabbed the next foot en route to my jaw. I held it high into the air and attempted to reason, while its owner hopped on the other one he still had control of.

“Listen, we’re heading out. Just fuck off and let us go.”

A moment later, I took a hard right hook to the left side of my face from the other assailant that connected like a lead pipe. I dropped the foot, stumbled back, and tried to comprehend what had just happened with a quick look around. Kevin had finally heeded my efforts and retreated, leaving both to concentrate on me.

“Fucking really!?” I barked at them, in a manner that suggested that our promised retreat, and my unwillingness to fight back rendered their double-teaming front a bit excessive.

It seemed to sink in a little. At that point, content with the slugs they had gotten in, their advancement had ceased. Which subsequently led to that mutual and cautious backwards-stepping stare-down, that seems to follow some fights, until both parties are at a safe enough distance from each other to turn and walk away. It was over, and I was glad.

I eventually spun around to find Kevin holding himself up against a wall about a half a block down. Spitting out the blood and rain he sucked from between his teeth.

“You alright?”

“What the fuck, bro!?”

“I don’t know, man.” I gave a quick survey of our surroundings, and felt my stomach drop. “Where’s Rob?”

Instantly, the street answered as it carried his buoyant babble down the sidewalk, to my battered ears. Straight from the spot we had just fled from. Straight towards the figures we had just fled from.

What the fuck!? How did he get past me? This won’t end well...

And like watching all of the chaotic components that make a car wreck come together from a distance, and knowing that there is nothing that can be done to prevent the impending collision, I swallowed the moment with equal amounts of distaste and acceptance. I knew there was no way I’d make it in time. I gunned for it anyway, back up that hill for the second time. Sliding about the entire sidewalk through the entire sprint.

Fuck these sandals.

By the time I had met ten yards from Rob, he had met the assailants and lured their attention to his courageous query. His voice was as shaky as his stance.

“Why don’t you boys just leave Kevin and Preston alone?”

My heart sank.

Maybe I can make it in time...

*Pop!

Guess not... Fuck!

With little hesitation. One of those outstanding gentleman answered Rob with a swift punch to the center of the face. His head snapped back, and the rest of him followed suit until the wet concrete caught him. I pushed the pace and arrived in the moment his head hit the ground to shove Twat-waffle A and Twat-waffle B back with an unrestrained charge. And whether they had grown cautious of the visible rage that had fired up within me upon seeing Rob take one to the face, or they realized they were late to an important Dickhead meeting, they hurriedly exited the scene without a word said.

I glanced down at Rob. Laid out like a horizontal Jesus. Thick ribbons of red rapidly unfurling from his nostrils. His eyes rolling about in his skull.

“Rob?” I began to pull him to his feet.

God, I feel like such an asshole. Why did he go back?

“I think those gentlemen just hit me.”

“Nah man, you just attacked that guy’s fist with your face.”

“Oh my god! Am I bleeding!?” He touched his cheek and then stared at stained fingers.

The bottom half of his grill had been completely Picasso’d. His nose flattened. I couldn’t believe how much blood their was. He donned giant, crimson stage curtains, opened just to expose his mouth. And the rain had started to steal the red from them and carry it down to his shirt like water color.

“A little bit.”

Jesus. Looks like a fucking murder scene...

I pointed towards Kevin, attempting to direct his attention elsewhere, and he started to shuffle down the hill, while blabbering to himself in disbelief. And I began to consider either how sad, or humorous this entire situation had become. Confused, I was somewhere between rage and hysteria. This poor fucking kid’s face looked like Texas Chainsaw Massacre. But in hindsight, the ludicrous nature of this whole fiasco might just end up hilarious.

Did all of this just happen? Holy shit...

Kevin greeted us upon arrival in a manner that let us know everything was alright on his end.

“Holy shit, Rob. Did your face just get it’s period?”

And though Rob was still in shock, and I later felt somewhat sorry for being less than sympathetic, Kevin’s commentary compounded with my previous thoughts, busted my belly up into an uproar. It tipped the scales unto hysteria. I bursted out laughing so hard it hurt my lungs. I couldn’t help it. And it might have been on account of the drunk, but a deluge of delirium had washed over me and away any anxiety. It cleansed the confusion and clearly revealed the situation for what it was. We had just flown eight thousand miles around the world to get the shit beat out of us by two hobbits from the Shire. And all in all, I could either laugh about it or bitch about it. And bitching wouldn’t change a thing. So I laughed. Both Kevin and I did. Because honestly, sans injury, it was pretty fucking hilarious.

“Oh my god! Why are you laughing?” Rob frantically questioned.

“Sorry man, I can’t help it.”

“Does it look that bad!?”

“Jesus, Bro. Did that guy hit you with a fist or a shovel?”

“Oh no! Is my nose broken?” He was starting to panic.

“Probably.” I had to be honest. “But we’ll get it fixed, man. There’s not much we can do right now.” In empathy, my sentences were rejoined by some sincerity.

And I think as soon as he heard it, his unease started to subside. And I couldn’t help but commence once again.

“Dude, if you had a cowboy hat on, you’d look like Yosemite Sam.”

“Yeah, sweet mustache, Bro.”

“Oh god!” He gasped.

At that point, Kevin started rolling, and so did I. And there seemed to be enough momentum to move Rob along. He began to chuckle a bit too.

Thank god...

Eventually, exhaustion brought the three of us down to the curb on that sidewalk. We sat with our swollen mugs, buried in our knees. Shooting the shit amongst busted faces, blood and rain, about the entire situation. It’s become one of my most valued moments.

Sometimes you’ve just got to fly halfway around the world to get your ass kicked.

There’s a lot that you don’t plan on. There’s a lot that you don’t expect. Sometimes expectations bail, while fate comes back with a fight. Either way, you deal with it, and learn to roll with the punches. Literally. However unpleasant they may be. You learn all you can from the moment. Whether it’s learning not to talk to strange figures in an alleyway, or not to wear sandals in the rain while pissed off of your face. You learn who your friends are. You learn who your friends will continue to be. You learn that maybe next time you should swing instead of pushing. And kick instead of talking. Either way, I wouldn’t trade all of what happened for anything. Even amidst the battered bones and egos.

A few minutes later, I had to retire. I was wiped from the night. I bid adieu to Kevin and Rob on that curb, and headed off to pass out at Wake Up! And as if the sisters of fortune decided to toss my conscience a cookie after the whole ordeal, we would later discover--via the cops that later met Kevin and Rob at that curb--that those assaulting Ass-Tulips were immediately arrested after fleeing the scene. The whole thing was caught on CCTV, and the cops were in the area after dealing with an incident on the other side of the block. The incident being a stabbing.

Could have been a whole lot worse for us... May have dodged that one...

Sydney - Part Two Point Five - Dick Von Disco

The Birth of Dick Von Disco...

The low-lying atmosphere of that city is densely trafficked with sounds and music. The streets, alleyways, and commercial buildings are congested with various tunes piping in from every direction. I love it. Kevin loved it more.

Ever since I’ve known the kid, I’ve been aware, and wary of his propensity for letting himself become too absorbed in a moment or activity that he finds fun. Sometimes to the point where the consequences seem far from worth the fun in the first place. They usually are worth it though, especially in hindsight as they provide for a decent story. At least to everyone else. Like all the times that he drank too much back home, and pissed himself, and whatever bed, couch, or lucky lady that he passed out on. Not too big of a deal if you got to throw some newspapers beneath him before he nodded off on one of those things. And it worked doubly well if the lady was homeless, and the newspapers were already there.

And I’ve been one to empathize to a degree from time to time, because for the most part, I’m the same way. I get a taste of euphoria, and I’ll spend the rest of the night or day chasing it, until I crash and burn. I’ve done it plenty of times. Even to the point where I’ve lost control of my bodily functions. Even to the point where my moral hangover was worse than my physical one. But we’ll get too that later.

This time with Kevin however, his submersion in the moment wasn’t as consequential--at least, at this point--as it was downright fucking hilarious. He had begun to sincerely feel music that surrounded him, and had also felt the need to express himself through the art of emphatic dance. And ‘feel the music,’ might not do it justice, it might be better exclaim, he felt the shit out of that music! Now the beauty was, that the music was everywhere, all of the time. And it was usually electro-pop, techno, or other genre possessing some pulsing pattern of the like. Or, La Roux’s, Bulletproof. Sydney seemed to have that song on repeat, and I’ll admit that Kevin and I both were admirers. Anyway, suffice it to say, Kevin had begun a dance marathon, and the lengths for which he dedicated himself to that dance made you believe that nothing was going to stop him. He made fatigue his bitch, and consistently turned it away with the turn of his torso.

During the day, the solo rhythmic rodeo was rather restrained. There were still a few twists and shimmies, but they were carried out in a careful manner as to keep from alerting all eyes. They still did though. From afar, he looked like a two hundred pound infant doing the pee pee dance in public. Anywhere from the grocery store, to the city streets, he was moving. I remember the first time I saw his subtle movements progress into the early onset of his footloose fever. We were standing in line at the cell phone store awaiting further service as our attendant had run to get something from the stock room. It began with a tapping foot, until he stepped back to start stealthily cutting up the air with dance karate.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I don’t know, bro. I can’t stop dancing.”

“You look like you’re having a seizure.”

“I know, it’s awesome.”

At night in the bars, the ‘awesome’ went twelve-fold. It usually took anywhere from three to four drinks to elicit a character to the likes of which those venues might have never seen, and will never see again. A character with presence enough to set the ambiance of the entire place. Kevin’s, pretty much harmless, Mr. Hyde. Dick Von Disco...

Dick Von Disco was a middle-aged immigrant from Eastern Europe. He had grown up rough in the streets of his war-torn homeland, and had little to occupy himself as a poor child, with the exception of his factory-working father’s fairly limited 1980s, VHS collection. For hours every afternoon, Dick Havel--he was ‘Havel’ before he was ‘Von Disco’--would sit and watch movies like, Flashdance, Footloose, Dirty Dancing, and Scarface, and dream about making a name for himself, passionately love pumping chicks like Jennifer Grey--even before the nose job--and doing tons of really good cocaine. But he knew that before he was going to walk that red carpet, he’d first need to learn how to cut up the rug. So as Beals, Swayze, and Bacon tempered his skills atop the fires of his passion, Dick Von Disco was born unto your world, and his dance floor. But as far as you knew, he was a fucking dance juggernaut from the Dance Galaxy in outer space, and unless you wanted to tussle with his tango, you best step back.

He dons an orange polo shirt brighter than any light in that bar--apparently Kevin’s only going-out shirt--and his dark shoulder length hair is greased back in a way that says, not only is he setting the standard for style, he’s also setting it for aerodynamics. He’s got an air about him that tells you he might wear a banana hammock to your little sister’s pool party, and bang your mom behind the toolshed with his aviators on when you’re not looking. And aside from an occasional head nod, or stare that says, “you vant to play vis dis fire, don’t you?” he doesn’t say much to the ladies. He doesn’t need to. They can barely understand him through his accent anyway. He knows that they’ll soon enough be mesmerized and drawn in by his art. He knows what ladies love. They love dance movies, and he’s a one man theater performance of Step Up. If Step Up actually took place in 1987. And even if he is the only one on the dance floor, and there are only nine people including the bartender in that joint, he is Dick Von Disco, the coolest mother fucker in that venue, and he will trip and flog the shit out of the light fantastic, straight into your goddamned heart.

Until of course, he passed out after drinking too much, and we’d wait another eighteen hours or so, before he’d return.

In all honesty though, D Von D was one of my favorite parts about Sydney. And an inspiring one at that. Aside from super sweet moves like ‘the shower,’ and ‘the landscaper,’ that Von Disco stole our attention with, Kevin was unknowingly, yet earnestly able to remind me that sometimes you really do have to dance like no one is watching. Because in all reality, who gives a shit if they are. It’s your short life, and as long as you’re not hurting anyone, don’t be afraid to have fun. Sometimes we end up spending so much time worrying about what we look like, or stressing about coming off as cool, that we forget to just let go and enjoy the time that we have.

I was further inspired by the fact that Dick Von Disco’s commitment to his art was unhindered, after being subjected to a substantial ass-beating. Although comparatively, my face would speak to the fact that I took the brunt of that beating.

Sydney - Part Two Point Four - Le Booze

The Booze...

Unfortunately, the booze in the southern hemisphere failed to put tumescence in my trousers in the same matter that the women did. As I suppose it should be, I’m far more partial to women than I am to imbibition--though the two have seemed to share a rather complex, symbiotic relationship through my life--but as an alcohol enthusiast, I’ve been prone to popping a boner over a good brew or two. Especially in San Diego. That place is a mecca for mastered brews. Ballast Point, Karl Strauss, Stone, and the list goes on. Even some of the spirits that are distilled there locally are more than pleasant to the pallet.

But before I come off as some pretentious prick, with refined taste and a finicky liver, I’ll tell you that I have neither. And though I have an immense appreciation for good grog, I’ll pretty much drink whatever is available, save for Charles Reibenbach Lager, and urine--although I have been known to make concessions. The quality of the contents in my glass has often been limited by the quantity of contents in my wallet. Which wasn’t awful at all in the States. I could usually afford an eighteen pack of Miller Light to get me through a Friday night with friends, and I actually enjoyed the shit out of it. And luckily, between the privilege of working with some fine breweries through the radio station, and my lovely employers at the High Dive, I was able to indulge every now and then with some of San Diego’s finest beverages.

That being said, in regards to my former comment on tumescence, trying maintain my rather modest drinking standards in Australia was like trying to maintain tumescence while repeatedly taking a swift kick to the dick. The kick of course, being supplied by the heavy foot of commerce. I’d never seen alcohol so highly priced in my life. In fact, the first time I saw a case of Coronas in a liquor store for fifty-five bucks, I swore it had to be a typo. But sure enough, every other case of beer in the joint was forty plus, and priced comparably at other clinics around the city. And, as you’d imagine, the over the bar charges were weighty as well. Even just for the low quality domestics. Not that it deterred us of course, we had a job to get done, and the resources to deliver us unto success--on top of the fact that I figured our celebratory circumstances allowed for acquiescence on the matter. But in any other circumstance, paying ten dollars for a pint of moderately palatable piss water was something that I wasn’t keen on making a habit of. Ten for a pint of Karl Strauss, Tower Ten? No problem. But the day I start paying ten dollars for a pint of Bud Light, is the day I invest in heaters for hell, or I check myself into rehab.

And there are some really delicious beers in Australia. Some, that I got to enjoy as employee of a couple bars. But they are few and far in between, and might require that you hock some of your mother’s jewelry before you plan to have a night out on them. And there’s a reason for that. It really all just comes down to taxes.

Australia has one of the most complex alcohol taxation systems in the world. Looking at it, you might have figured that a text book and a Scrabble set got into a knife fight and ended it all with a grenade. And I could try to explain it technically, but the boredom might have you seeking such a grenade, and I... Yeah, fuck it. I’ll just be honest, I can’t explain it technically. I’ll leave that shit to Hawking and Pissarides.

Essentially, in an effort to reduce alcoholism and the detrimental costs of alcohol abuse, both socially and economically, Australia began placing heavy levies on alcohol. Beer and spirits on one hand, are taxed based on the alcohol content. Which basically means spirits take the high cost cake--unless it’s Brandy for some reason, which is given a concession. A bottle of Smirnoff Vodka, or spirit of the sorts, will run you around fifty-five in most places. Wine on the other hand is taxed based on the initial value of the wine. Which given the quality of some of the wines we’d end up drinking, left me wondering if they had been taxed at all. And yes, there are good ones, they just tended to be a bit out of my budget most of the time. Furthermore, wineries throughout Australia are given excise exemptions as well. Which subsequently equates to a ton of established and establishing wineries throughout the country, including some of the world’s finest. If you’re a bit of wino, it’s not a bad place to be. You’ll definitely get the best BAC for your buck.

Anyway, given the taxation laws, there are far fewer breweries. Unfortunately the small fries trying to make a name for themselves, and give the people a sample of their sauce, are subjected to the same levies that the big fish are, which makes it fairly difficult for them to compete. And unless the people begin sucking down their insanely high priced independent brews, they get sucked up. And I should say, the Big Fish, ‘is,’ as Foster’s Group--yeah, the whole, ‘Australian For Beer,’ Foster’s--controls nearly all of the alcohol manufacture, sales, and distribution in Australia. Mostly bad ones at that. However, I would be remiss, and dishonest if I didn’t mention that their Matilida Bay, Fat Yak, is exquisitely delectable. Though even that one, is just so goddamned expensive.

So, that primarily put us in the wine section, once the funds began to fade. Specifically, the boxed-wine section. You can steal yourself about four liters for roughly twelve bucks if you aim towards the low shelf. On the backpacker trail, they call it ‘Goon,’ though nobody seems to know why. I’d hear at one point that it was actually the Aboriginal word for ‘pillow’, as the bladder inside, once emptied, can be blown-up with air and used as a pillow after the contents knock you down about six flights of the unconsciousness stairs. And as far as the ingredients are concerned, they list traces of everything from fish, eggs, milk, and nuts, which leaves you wondering where in the fucking hell the grapes are. Although after about a glass or two, you stop wondering, or caring for that matter. And after a hard night of anywhere from five to twenty-five glasses of it, you’re crippled with a hangover the next morning, that feels like Frankenstein is repeatedly dragging you back up those unconsciousness stairs with his fingers through your eye-sockets. I’d become rather familiar with those stairs.

Now as far as Australia’s plan for reducing alcohol related damages... In 2008, they accumulated 6.1 billion dollars in revenue, verses 15 billion in damage recorded in 2004/2005. The United States on the other hand, with roughly fourteen times the population, accumulated 5.7 billion in revenue and recorded 220 billion dollars in damage in 2005. And whether the 15 billion dollars of damages in Australia accounts for costs involving productivity losses due to alcohol abuse, I’m not sure. I’m not exactly looking to write a dissertation on the matter. I just found the figures fairly formidable. And whilst it could have been a coincidence, or a phenomenon made possible by other factors, Kevin and I began to notice a few results of Australia’s program.

“Hey man, you notice how few drunk and delirious homeless people there are here, I’ve barely seen any?”

“Probably because rent it is cheaper and booze is so expensive.”

“Yeah...”

And please don’t think that I’m advocating we tax alcohol in the same manner in the States. I hope that I’ve made it apparent that I’m a fan of cheap drinks. And I’m sensible enough to know that it would probably just boost the production of moonshine like it’s done in some areas of Australia. I know as well as anybody that sometimes, you’ve just got to get fucked up. But I do imagine that something could be done to help prevent the social, and economic damage created by the abuse of it. In fact, I think that there is a substantial amount of much needed reform that the country could consider. Like even the way that we view alcohol in relation to the young people who will be drinking it for years to come. I think it says a lot to someone to tell him we trust him enough to vote, to operate a firearm, and get shot at on a battlefield, but we don’t trust him to have a beer in a bar. This of course is something that I could write a dissertation on, but we’ve got more ground to cover. I’m just going to say that America has the potential, after all,I know it’s trite, but we did put a fucking man on the moon.

Sydney - Part Two Point Three - Beaches

The Beaches...

One morning after breakfast, while walking through the lobby of Wake-up! I strolled past a swarm of souls and voices congregating near the front doors. I slowed my pace to see what was going on, when a thick Nova Scotian accent buttered the ambiance from just behind me.

“Hey, is this the free beaches tour?”

I turned to find an eager-eyed kid, sporting a pasty complexion and branded attire that told me he might spend a good amount of time on a snowboard. Whether he actually did or not, I’m unsure. I guess I should have asked him. Either way, he was a genuine, outgoing, and all around good guy, and I’m glad that I got to know him a little during my travels.

“I’m not too sure.”

“A bit strange, but okay, I’m Steve.”

“Ha. Well played, sir. I’m Preston.”

The pleasantry was succeeded by a pleasant surprise as four dolled-up college cuties stepped to our sides.

“Do you guys know if this is the free beaches tour?” questioned the curly haired brunette in front.

Steve and I glanced quickly to each other to make sure we were both on the same page. Subtle smiles confirmed that we were.

“Yes it is,” I assured with a--now far from subtle--shit-eating grin on my face. “I’m Preston.”

“I’m Nicole. Nice to meet you,” she beamed back with a bright and innocent smile.

If this isn’t the tour, you’re really going to expose yourself for the scumbag you are.

“Alright!” a voice boomed from near the doors, “everybody for the beaches tour head this way.”

Lucky me.

I shot a quick text to Kevin to make him aware of the situation, and he was downstairs and ready within the next minute. The seven of us hopped on the bus, and were taken about five miles from the CBD to the shore.

We wouldn’t bare witness to the scantily-clad beach scenery that we had imagined. The air had begun to grow teeth as the winter weather had started to set in, and it might have made swimwear unsuitable. We even had to bring our jackets. In addition, I think it was a Tuesday or some other mundane point in the week at eleven in the morning, which made for anything but peak beach hours. Suffice it to say, the beaches were deserted. Even so, for the world famous Bondi. The place sees over one million visitors a year, and over forty thousand people alone on Christmas Day, and I could count on one hand, the number bodies that punctuated vast stretches of sand. Of course there was the occasional jogger stringing a mutt along on the boardwalk, but that was about it. And I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

I consider myself lucky at this point to have been first introduced to the awe-inspiring spectacle that is the Australian coastline in the manner that I did. Breezy, and uninterrupted by the commotion that might thrive on better days there. Every facet of the geological process that accounts for its being was brimming with life and color via the sunlight that poured into them. And they were colors like I’d never seen. A vivd continuum of blue that churned over and over through every wave. Sometimes it would crash into the rocks and splash into bright white, or simply spill over itself and fizzle into illuminated white over the soft sand.

“I don’t think I’ve every seen water that blue.”

“I wonder why California’s isn’t like that.”

“I’m going to guess it’s something involved with the sediment... And the sewage...”

Aside from the houses, the shore was accented with thick greens, giant cliffs, and walls of limestone that had been carved for centuries by the liquid gems in that water. There were a few parks along the way that reminded us of home.

“This feels like La Jolla.”

“Yeah, except without all the rich people threatening to evict all of the sea lions with diamond-studded fire hoses.”

Our tour guide announced we could have about fifteen minutes to ourselves to walk around or get some food if we needed. I took the time to fuck off by myself, and get seated somewhere with a nice view. And incase your considering that I might have wanted to get a bit reflective, Chris Carraba style, I did. Maybe it was all the Dashboard I had been listening to. Either way, it felt right, so I went ahead and did it, regardless of the fact that I might have looked like a total pussy. I hiked up to the top of hill took a deep breath, and attempted to take it all in.

There’s something about the shore that I’ve always found a bit transcendental. Like no matter how fucked up my thoughts or mood proved to be, or how chaotic everything else in my life seemed to be, I could always head down to the sand and feel all of the bullshit filter out from my brain. Not a goddamn thing mattered. Kind of like that moment I had on the Harbor Bridge to a smaller degree. I think I found something soothing about the consistency of it all. The movement of the water. The sound. It was unrelenting. Those waves were pounding on that shore long before I came to see or hear them, and would continue to do so long after I left. I could find peace in that. It’s a shame to consider I didn’t spend more time at the beach when I was in San Diego. I could have used the therapy. Unfortunately I had a knack for letting the flood of all that bullshit I filtered out, return like a fucking cyclone after I vacated from those soothing sights and sounds.

And I didn’t script a sonnet on that hill, or write some banal ballad that’s bound to get me laid thirty times over. The moment was far from revelatory. But it was pleasantly affirming. It was reassuring to try and put things in perspective, and realize how awesome they were, and how lucky I was. I had made it down here on my own accord and be it a small victory for some, it was a huge one for me.

I am on the other side of the world staring at the same ocean I used to stare at back home. And I just put my feet into the same ocean I used to put them in back home. Awesome...

We all met up a few minutes later, and hopped back on the bus. Rush hour traffic swamped our return to the hostel, but on the bright side, it gave us all some time to push past the formalities and get to know each other. At least as far as the girls were concerned. Steve had been hanging out with Kevin and I for most of the day, and would continue to do so until he left Sydney a few days later. Long enough for us to discover that he was a twenty three-year-old graduate from Halifax, who had taken some time to travel, an avid fan of booze, hockey, and women, and that the three of us would get along swimmingly.

The girls were four, semester abroad students from Purdue, and might as well have stepped off the set of one of those college, sex comedies. Midwest to the max, they gave off a vibe that let you know they were something your mom would be proud to see you with, but had no problem going a bit Lohan during the weekends. Or in another country on vacation before school starts.

After minimal persuasion on behalf of the boys, the girls decided to join us for a few drinks at Side Bar. Because after all, we were on holiday.

Sydney - Part Two Point Two - Beetches

The Women...

I’ll be real fucking honest. I have yet to travel throughout the world and assess this statement to the fullest, but I’ve been to enough places in the States to give it a bit of breath. California is blessed in abundance with some of the most beautiful women that have ever blessed these baby blues. There’s a reason that Biggie rapped about them, a reason Kiedis sang about them, and a reason that Mr. Hank Moody will constantly fuck himself into trouble over them. And whether it’s the sun or the waves that carve their curves, or it’s the idiosyncratic allure of both that merely concentrate them there through some metaphysical, cosmic attraction, they are their own breed of beautiful. A statement, of course, especially exemplified through my experience in San Diego. From the sexpots at State, to the sultry suits Down Town, the tattooed temptresses en el Parque Norte, the uppity bitches in the Northern Beaches, and all that I missed in between, some California girls, in the words of one herself, really do have that shit “on lock”.

You haven’t always seemed to feel that way.

I know, I know, that’s something I’ll get to. Shit.

As it goes, befittingly, a gentleman at a bar in Cairns would be the first to ask me a question I’d hear a good number of times during my travels, after his initial inquiry, “are there really girls in California like there are in that one Katy Perry video?”

My response to this question was then and there, preceded with a poignant vacillation, that was succeeded by a notably awkward hesitation, and thereon conceded with an emphatic nod of affirmation.

Quaint...

The nod itself, accompanied by a smile of humility that spread across my face and lifted my spirits as they were able let go of a burden I’d been carrying for far too long.

“Yes...”

His eyes widened, and he asked if he could visit.

“Anytime, man,” I spoke into the bench of that bar, as thoughts of those girls swam circles in my head like the beer I swirled in the glass before me. I was left a little lightheaded and lighthearted by the movements of both, and laughed.

And though that conversation was fleeting, I still find myself chuckling about and reflecting upon that brief bit of banter every time that video comes on and my eyes go glazed and glue to that screen. Mostly on account of how heavily loaded that question turned out to be for me. I had been the one who was asked the question, and somewhere on the bridge between reticence and concession, had come away from the exchange with a bit of epiphanic information that was rather unexpected. I was graced with the luxury of also being able to dump a bit of baggage over the railing. The second time I crossed it in Melbourne was even more cathartic.

We’ll cross it when we get to it though, where it belongs, in Cairns.

Fair enough...

Anyway, the point is, to provide for some frame of reference. I feel fairly confident to assert that I was spoiled as shit by the scenery In California. Not to say there aren’t gorgeous women in all of the other places I’ve traveled to in the States, there are. I suppose I’ve just found something especially enticing in the essence of some of California’s queens. And when you step foot into the court of one of those major shoreline cities there, they and it, seems to surround you with a prolificacy that leaves your head spinning in ways that your neck didn’t think was possible. So, for me to make my way from California to another point on the globe, eight thousand miles elsewhere, and find myself spun halfway to vertigo by the abounding beauty that strides along Sydney’s sidewalks, I think speaks to the incredible caliber of hot that constitutes that city’s army of sirens.

And I’m not even accounting for the bombshells we'd see in that backpacker bar. They’re an entirely different story altogether. I’m simply accounting for the other women who have become a part of Sydney as much as Sydney has become a part of them. Some, whose beauty is part of what makes that city such a beautiful sight to see. The ones Kevin and I became familiar with in the CBD.

From the way their black skirts hug their hips, to the way their hair is pulled tight to the back of their heads--or even the way that slightly transparent fabric in some of their business blouses offers rather innocent evidence for your less than innocent imagination with the display of slender silhouettes--their style is rife with sex in the most sophisticated of manners. In fact, I might find more merited representation in saying that it screams sex, just in a voice that is void of vulgarity or extraneous volume. No lurid cosmetic compounds, no skirts that look like they actually might have initially been manufactured as elastic headbands, and no amount of cleavage that calls desperately for the attention of all on-lookers. Their chic is poised and pro from head to toe, and still beckons like a beacon, sans such showy fashions. And not that I have any problem with the aforementioned trends, I’m a fan of all fashions as long as they fit--especially the vulgar at times--but I think there is definitely something special to be said for a woman who can embody sophistication and elegance and still exude an air of eroticism that carries your cognition to the most carnal of places, far from sophistication and elegance. Like if Aphrodite were to take on a profession as a Museum Curator, or a Professor of Law or Literature. Or perhaps, for a more perceptible analogy, the sleekly suited knockouts from that Robert Palmer, ‘Addicted To Love,’ music video. There was nothing sexually explicit about those women, yet something about them and the way they moved sucked your attention through that screen, left you boner-fied, and all subsequent daydreams doused in depravity for periods long after they left your sight. And of course by ‘your,’ I mean ‘my,’ I suppose I’m just hoping that a few other viewers can concur. There’s a reason that video became a classic.

Appositely, there were days I spent walking around Sydney that felt like there might have been a city-wide casting call for that video, just with less make-up. And I loved that--the whole, ‘less make-up’ thing. Anymore make-up on them would equate itself to throwing graffiti up onto a Michelangelo. And the fact that they know that, is just a sliver of the self-assurance that adds to their appeal. I suppose part of what makes them so uniquely sexy, is a certain confidence that emanates from every inch of their existence. It saturates every aspect that accounts for their appearance, and every move that they make. As if they are fully aware that their ways make waves, but they’re ones they’ve mastered with ease, through the grace of their natural talents, and would have no problem mastering anything else, even in high-heels. They don’t need all that make-up. They don’t need to spend too much time trying to look beautiful. They know that they already are, and any extended effort would be superfluous, and hinder their other efforts and daily conquests, whatever they may be. And when the clack of their stilettos on the concrete commandeers your attention to the sultry legs that throw them forward, it does so in away that warns against leering for too long. A practice that place left me prone to. They strut those sidewalks like catwalks, and had the dog in me running the length of the leash of my conscience.

And I’m not saying at all, that collectively Sydney’s women are any more stunning than California’s, nor California’s anymore so than Sydney’s. They are both incredible in their own ways. And I guess the assertion of such striking natural beauty, en masse was an approach we just took in as a breath of fresh air for two kids hailing from the land of Hollywood highlights and synthetic sexy.

“These women are gorgeous.”

“I know man, and it’s like they’re not even trying.”

“Yeah, and I don’t think that I’ve seen one pair of obnoxiously sized implants, or any implants for that matter yet.”

“If all Australian women are fundamentally this hot, I can’t wait to see what other parts of the country look like.”

“Fuck that for now, I just want to see what the beaches here look like first.”

“Good call.”

An Interjection

An Interjection...

I’m twenty-four thousand feet in the air right now. Given new perspective to introspection. Staring at the clouds that sporadically cover the coastline below like poorly placed stepping stones for the gods and giants of the stratosphere. I consider how much more time I’ve been given to take such an angle in the recent past. Especially, in juxtaposition to the countless hours I’ve spent staring at the underside of those stepping stones in the more distant past. Then I consider if giving such consideration is totally ghey. Possibly. I’ve been listening to a lot of Snow Patrol lately. Fuck it.

*An interjection unto the interjection: I consider why the fuck I’m always sat behind Nancy McFidgit, who feels the need to treat her seat like it’s a goddamn Lay-Z-Boy trampoline. You forcefully recline that seat any further back into my lap your boyfriend might start asking questions. You’re 5’ 2”, if you want to stretch out you can do it in the fucking overhead compartment.

I apologize. And with my laptop beneath my chin I’ll continue. Even though I feel like a giraffe in a gerbil cage at the moment, it’s all pretty sweet.

Point being, It’s a bit of a trip to take into account all of the elements that have put me on this current trip I take. Decisions made by me, decisions made by others, decisions made by chance, time, biology, chemistry, physics, addition, subtraction, cosmic attraction, made flights, missed flights, dream filled days and sleepless nights, friends, family, and the ties in between. And utmost, the manner in which I’ve decided to deal with those elements. And whether blessed by Miss Fortune at the time I faced them, or oppositely butt-fucked by Misfortune, or my own foolish forethought, I think I’m rather happy with the way things have turned out at this moment, and will continue to be after it has passed. Mostly on account of this...

A few months ago, Miss Fortune and a friend fed me a favor I’ll forever be grateful for. In the midsts of digital discourse on current dilemmas we deliberated over, he tossed something at me that took to my frontal lobe like a brick from a canon.

“...so many of us, me included, just expect to be happy and when the world doesn't accommodate my every need, I get frustrated. "Striving" to be happy just hadn't occurred to me. I have always presumed that I was put here to be happy and that if I am not, it must be someone else's fault. But that is total and complete bullshit. Like anything else, we have to put in some effort to get what we want and something as "simple" as happiness is no fucking different.”

Now, I’ve never really been one to shy away from accountability. In fact, it might be safe to say that far too often in the past, I’ve blamed myself for shit that was far beyond my control. And at times that I haven’t been happy, I’ve blamed no one else but myself. This, I was well aware of. The “striving” bit was what loaded that brick. I was forced to think of how many times I found myself knee deep in bullshit and lost, contemplating the adoption of complacency in it, albeit with heavy reluctance. Knowing goddamn well that I wanted to be elsewhere. But wanting won’t make it so. Striving for it will.

Hearing those words in my head brought about familiar ones I heard once before in a song. Ones that stuck with me so well, I had them stuck in their own fashion along my ribs. I grant gratitude to Mr. Kensrue once again.

They serve to remind me that “striving” is a requisite. As I look back on all of the decisions I’ve made throughout my life, the ones I’ve made--as much as this may seem stripped from a Dashboard Song, I apologize--with my heart have always seemed to serve me in the most rewarding fashion. I’ve come to conclude that just behind a few ribs of mine, lies a space in me that works like a compass. But that’s only half of the equation. The other half rests in the ability to find the balls to follow through. To step out of that bullshit, follow that compass, and make towards those desired destinations.

And at times, that compass may have led me into a minefield, but I’ve garnered a good amount amongst the shrapnel. Strength, resilience, a little wisdom and a lot of faith, as it’s subsequently led me out of the chaos every time. It’s taken on the elements, taken me through the elements, and found Magnetic North in those elements... And though I know I steer the ship, for the time being I can’t help but to take guidance from the compass.

Anyways, those elements and that compass have put me on the path I’m on today, at this very minute, and I guess I’m grateful to them. And though I walk it with empty pockets for the time being, I also do so with a head full of ambition, and a heart full of... I’ll spare the sappy shit.

So, I guess I’d like to give thanks.

To my Father and Mother, to my Sister and Brother, and the two of those monikered in a similar fashion on behalf of matrimony and the State of California. To the Friends I left amongst the sand and sun of San Diego. To San Diego. To the Friends I made amongst the sand and sun of that big southern continent. To that big southern continent. The Friend that followed me there. To the friends and family that lent ears on my darkest days throughout the years. To the blank pages that made like ears on my darkest days throughout the years. To the music that always shed light on those situations. To music. To guitars. To pianos. To planes. To Chance or Cosmic Attraction on a Friday night. To couches and wine and bad movies. To subsequent laughter. To first...

Shhh... Slow it down. You gun’ OD on disclosure again. It’s an interjection, not a fucking dissertation...

Fair enough.

To those who made their homes like mine. To those who made me feel like I never left it. To those in whom I feel a new one. To all that made me push this through my pen.

“And I’ve been placed in pseudo-paradise, but can’t help but to feel something pulling me elsewhere. Like I left a sizable chunk from the bottom part of my chest in the last place I parted with. Anchored. And there’s a few thousand mile tether I feel tugging on raw nerves around my guts. It’s like it’s begging me back. It’s like I’m sick over the tangible loss of what I left behind. It’s like it won’t subside until I follow it back.”

Wrap it up, Homie. This bitch is about to land.

To all that’s put me where I am. To all that’s given me new direction...