Monday, August 07, 2006
IT'S ALL ORGANIC CHICKENS AND NON ORGANIC HUMANS, INNIT?
On Saturday, I happened to spend some time in the nearest pub to my place, The Lidhurst Hotel.
It's an awful place and the only time I go there is purchase some beverages of the alcoholic variety.
It consists of three sections: the TAB ( where you spend your wage or pension on horses and dogs ), the pokies ( where you spend your wages or pension on electronic poker machines ) and the bottle shop ( where you spend your wages or pension on alcohol, which you can drink in the comfort of somewhere other than this god awful pub ).
I met Cam and Brenton there for a beer.
Cam was indulging his gambling bent by betting on number one in each race.
A unique if highly unsuccessful method of betting on live horse racing ( there was also computer horse racing, and it's beyond me why anyone would want to bet in these digital pots of glue ).
The first thing you notice in the TAB section is the high proportion of older ethnic men with really bad fashion, gold chains and hair cream holding their 'comb over' hair styles in position.
There are also some younger ( middle aged ) ethnic men and these also have bad fashion sense ( black suits with a black skivvy just never cut it in Milan, or anywhere else for that matter ), gold chains, but more hair.
Then there's the very young ethnic men who also have bad fashion sense, wear gold chains, but cover their hair styles with base ball caps.
A thin spattering of non ethnic bogans completes the demography of the TAB patrons.
These 'people' will win and lose their money with varying frequency and in varying quantities, but no matter how much money they have, they still fail to exchange this legal tender for better clothes and hair cuts.
Whilst smoking, drinking and gambling they will attempt to vocally communicate with the horses and jockeys through the many television screens hanging off the walls.
When they lose, they make their displeasure widely heard throughout the pub and punctuate with profanities.
Right next to this section are the poker machines.
Here, the population contains an equal number of men and women........with bad fashions and bad hair cuts.
Here though, there is no conversation between humans or humans and horses.
Instead all you hear is the sweet comforting murmur of electronic buzzes, bings, glissandi and the occasional clatter of $20 worth of coins paying out ( which is probably a sixth of the total amount spent by the 'winning' gambler that day ).
Although I haven't witnessed it myself, I have been told by a casino emplyee that these gamblers will sometimes relieve themselves on the stool in front of their favourite poker machine and sit in their own liquid waste.
Such is the power if the lucky 'poker' machine or the 'inevitable' win.
Combined with the bottle shop, this hotel gives so much to the community.
It gives the sad fuckers a sense of purpose and a sick kind of security blanket.
It gives them excitement and heartbreak.
It's in constant production, pumping out misery, depression, sadness, hopelessness, suicide, etc.
Not to mention the contribution made to the many families.
As I was crossing the road from Mars's record shop after a couple of quiet beers, I started to get a hint of worry that I may not get into the pub in my wheelchair.
But then my anxiety lifted when I realised that this hotel doesn't discriminate like many other shops and venues I've tried to enter and is actually designed to cater for the disabled.
How else are they going to blow their pensions?
Later that night I was taken to a house warming party in Northcote.
Pretty everyone there was on some sort of drug and I with my morphine tablets, fitted in quite well.
The only difference was that I could actually hold a decent conversation and not stare blankly at others after being posed a question.
For the majority, the guests were your typical dreadlocked, urban drug fucked hippies.
You know the ones who "....don't take pain killers and stuff", but are quite happy to ingest anything if they're told it'll get them high as a kite.
On display was a classic example of hippy passive aggressiveness.
There was a lovely 44 gallon drum in the backyard with treated pine nicely combusting away, when one of the chemically altered decided that it would be a good idea to burn the mermaid.
The mermaid on top of the shed, belonging to the ecstasy laden hosts, being half a mannequin with some sort of tail attached and painted in white and silver, was thrust into the fire.
And before long there were protestations against this clearly pointless exercise.
My main concern was that it was going to stink even more than the treated pine, but the host's sister was more worried that her brother might want to keep this mermaid abortion.
Anyway, after the owner of the now medium rare mermaid was informed, the passive aggression started.
"Ohh man! Why did you that? Why did you put her in the fire man? You shouldn't have done that man. Ohh no......."
Of course this was said with the tone of voice only available to those who have committed to forgetting the best part of the adult lives by keeping up a constant and steady stream of chemical ingestion.
Not to worry, I'm sure he forgot his distress soon enough.
I must be fair though, not everyone was that out of it and there was a nice vibe to the party .
There were also people playing guitars and mixing up some chilled beats on the decks.
My friends and I eventually made it home and after playing some late night vinyl we crashed out.
Sunday was spent suitably recovering and visiting Keli's new place where I met his new chickens, Wings and Drumsticks.
Keli has really taken to his new egg layers quite keenly and does spend a fair amount effort discussing their antics, egg production and general avian issues.
Cam however occasionally takes offence and points out that Keli moved into a house with a chicken coop and a run already built, whereas Cam and Mick had built the coop and read '30 page books on chickens'.
Cam is especially proud of his newly acquired theoretical knowledge of how to repair an eggbound chicken and loves to describe it, whilst demonstrating the action after licking his thumb, index and middle fingers and making a ' human egg claw removal tool'.
Keli's son Jade with the new chickens. More fun than goldfish apparently!
Overall, a pretty good weekend, not too slow, not too fast.
I had to restrain my movements a bit due to having one operational leg, but I needed to get out of the damned hospital, especially since it might be the last time for a while.
Although, I'm back in the pool now every 9am.
My house doesn't have a pool.........
So at least there's some compensation.
.
It's an awful place and the only time I go there is purchase some beverages of the alcoholic variety.
It consists of three sections: the TAB ( where you spend your wage or pension on horses and dogs ), the pokies ( where you spend your wages or pension on electronic poker machines ) and the bottle shop ( where you spend your wages or pension on alcohol, which you can drink in the comfort of somewhere other than this god awful pub ).
I met Cam and Brenton there for a beer.
Cam was indulging his gambling bent by betting on number one in each race.
A unique if highly unsuccessful method of betting on live horse racing ( there was also computer horse racing, and it's beyond me why anyone would want to bet in these digital pots of glue ).
The first thing you notice in the TAB section is the high proportion of older ethnic men with really bad fashion, gold chains and hair cream holding their 'comb over' hair styles in position.
There are also some younger ( middle aged ) ethnic men and these also have bad fashion sense ( black suits with a black skivvy just never cut it in Milan, or anywhere else for that matter ), gold chains, but more hair.
Then there's the very young ethnic men who also have bad fashion sense, wear gold chains, but cover their hair styles with base ball caps.
A thin spattering of non ethnic bogans completes the demography of the TAB patrons.
These 'people' will win and lose their money with varying frequency and in varying quantities, but no matter how much money they have, they still fail to exchange this legal tender for better clothes and hair cuts.
Whilst smoking, drinking and gambling they will attempt to vocally communicate with the horses and jockeys through the many television screens hanging off the walls.
When they lose, they make their displeasure widely heard throughout the pub and punctuate with profanities.
Right next to this section are the poker machines.
Here, the population contains an equal number of men and women........with bad fashions and bad hair cuts.
Here though, there is no conversation between humans or humans and horses.
Instead all you hear is the sweet comforting murmur of electronic buzzes, bings, glissandi and the occasional clatter of $20 worth of coins paying out ( which is probably a sixth of the total amount spent by the 'winning' gambler that day ).
Although I haven't witnessed it myself, I have been told by a casino emplyee that these gamblers will sometimes relieve themselves on the stool in front of their favourite poker machine and sit in their own liquid waste.
Such is the power if the lucky 'poker' machine or the 'inevitable' win.
Combined with the bottle shop, this hotel gives so much to the community.
It gives the sad fuckers a sense of purpose and a sick kind of security blanket.
It gives them excitement and heartbreak.
It's in constant production, pumping out misery, depression, sadness, hopelessness, suicide, etc.
Not to mention the contribution made to the many families.
As I was crossing the road from Mars's record shop after a couple of quiet beers, I started to get a hint of worry that I may not get into the pub in my wheelchair.
But then my anxiety lifted when I realised that this hotel doesn't discriminate like many other shops and venues I've tried to enter and is actually designed to cater for the disabled.
How else are they going to blow their pensions?
Later that night I was taken to a house warming party in Northcote.
Pretty everyone there was on some sort of drug and I with my morphine tablets, fitted in quite well.
The only difference was that I could actually hold a decent conversation and not stare blankly at others after being posed a question.
For the majority, the guests were your typical dreadlocked, urban drug fucked hippies.
You know the ones who "....don't take pain killers and stuff", but are quite happy to ingest anything if they're told it'll get them high as a kite.
On display was a classic example of hippy passive aggressiveness.
There was a lovely 44 gallon drum in the backyard with treated pine nicely combusting away, when one of the chemically altered decided that it would be a good idea to burn the mermaid.
The mermaid on top of the shed, belonging to the ecstasy laden hosts, being half a mannequin with some sort of tail attached and painted in white and silver, was thrust into the fire.
And before long there were protestations against this clearly pointless exercise.
My main concern was that it was going to stink even more than the treated pine, but the host's sister was more worried that her brother might want to keep this mermaid abortion.
Anyway, after the owner of the now medium rare mermaid was informed, the passive aggression started.
"Ohh man! Why did you that? Why did you put her in the fire man? You shouldn't have done that man. Ohh no......."
Of course this was said with the tone of voice only available to those who have committed to forgetting the best part of the adult lives by keeping up a constant and steady stream of chemical ingestion.
Not to worry, I'm sure he forgot his distress soon enough.
I must be fair though, not everyone was that out of it and there was a nice vibe to the party .
There were also people playing guitars and mixing up some chilled beats on the decks.
My friends and I eventually made it home and after playing some late night vinyl we crashed out.
Sunday was spent suitably recovering and visiting Keli's new place where I met his new chickens, Wings and Drumsticks.
Keli has really taken to his new egg layers quite keenly and does spend a fair amount effort discussing their antics, egg production and general avian issues.
Cam however occasionally takes offence and points out that Keli moved into a house with a chicken coop and a run already built, whereas Cam and Mick had built the coop and read '30 page books on chickens'.
Cam is especially proud of his newly acquired theoretical knowledge of how to repair an eggbound chicken and loves to describe it, whilst demonstrating the action after licking his thumb, index and middle fingers and making a ' human egg claw removal tool'.
Keli's son Jade with the new chickens. More fun than goldfish apparently!
Overall, a pretty good weekend, not too slow, not too fast.
I had to restrain my movements a bit due to having one operational leg, but I needed to get out of the damned hospital, especially since it might be the last time for a while.
Although, I'm back in the pool now every 9am.
My house doesn't have a pool.........
So at least there's some compensation.
.
