The Observatory - Mans Worst Friend

The Observatory, Hobarts third best nightspot with a y at the end, isn't feeling like a magical wonderland as I stand in the corner. It's a farewell party for someone, technically a friend, but someone I kinda sorta stopped thinking about at some in 2005, but we're kept together by the chords of fantasy sports games and jibing e-mails that refer to long gone incidents far too tedious to recall. In a moment of eerie presience the DJ seems to be fixated on playing that Brittany Murphy song from a few years ago over and over, which is the first time I've thought of her since my DVD of 8ight Mile got stuck in my Mums player and I had to pull it apart with a screwdriver. The bouncers don't even care anymore, they stand in a semi circle around the dancefloor talking about Manny Pacquiao while a minor disagreement threatens to spill over, and in the far corner, a man with a ruddy complexion and a nose you can use to cut cheese is standing up against the wall, asleep while standing up, long beard flowing across the dance floor, drink precariously hovering in mid air about to crash down onto the ground and scatter glass at the feet of idling school leavers awkwardly sharing a 1st kiss. 1ne of the bouncers pokes him with a fat Samoan finger, but it doesn't stir the man, and he gives up after a while, going back to his discussion and making ribald suggestions about Rihanna that he would never have the self confidence to assert if he actually met her. My friend is tired, and I realise I should say something profound about our friendship - but there's not much to say, and so I just buy him another drink as he begins to talk idly about how the barmaid won't accept his gift vouchers. It's 2wo in the morning, when such things really matter. The 2wo guys who were fighting are now being ticked off by a bouncer, and shaking hands like naughty school kids caught in the playground punching on and made to apologize by the teacher.

The barmaids name was Carmela. She was younger than I ever remember being, the kind of young where every birthday is still exciting and lifes horizons are no broader than finding out the latest sparkle to stick on your mobile phone. She has a tattoo on her arm that snakes and cascades, and she says it's tribal. I say it's shite, because cocktails provoke forthrightness. She giggles in a corporate way all service staff are required to and pours me a cocktail. It's my final drink, and I indicate as much. I'm miles away from being drunk, having drunk water for most of the night in a follied attempt to stay up for some soccer later on that night. My knowledge of popular culture allows me to talk openly about the band of youngsters cavorting around the stage. It's lucky I'm not drunk, I'd think she liked me, but I can see she doesn't. Since her eyes trail 1ne of her co-workers around the bar and back again, and our chat, while brief, is meaningless, and I don't think I'm 100 times cooler than I actually am. There's a thumping dance beat on the video screen, but no thumping dancers. She's peturbed by the empty dance floor, the lack of business tonight, and in the middle of her chat drops in the word perspicacity, which you certainly don't get from the tiny blonde hairdresser barmaid at Customs House. That 1ne couldn't spell perspex. Her co-worker wipes some spillage off the bar though, and she turns into the hairdresser barmaid, speaking in short, breathy sentences in his direction, and saying no words longer than cat for the whole conversation. She finishes by tossing her hair and giggling like an idiot. When he leaves, she tries to pretend nothing has happened and return to normal, but I must have an expression on my face of surprise at her suddenly beimg dumb struck. She shrugs, says like you've never pretended to be something to get a girl, then goes off to tell 1ne of the bouncers the girl with the angel wings on has vomited again. The girl with the angel wings, I can confirm, is vomiting, although it's short, struggling gasps rather than anything significant or messy. She has 3hree colours in her hair that don't conform to nature, a big hole at the top of her tights, some hastily created angel wings, and she's vomiting on the floor of Hobarts 3hrd best nightclub that ends in a Y. She looks plaintively up at a bouncer who's about to kick her out and 2wo of her concerned friends who are stroking her wings in consolation and says she's too old for this shit. Whatever this shit is, I'm afraid I can only concur, but I've some well worn anecdotes to recount over my final expensive cocktail of the evening...

I don't know that I've ever pretended to be something to get a girl, I can't imagine wandering around a nightclub saying I was a spy or a merchant banker just to impress some1ne. I don't have the presence, I don't have a great ability to lie under disco lights. My cousin, the 1ne who died, used to buy sports tracksuits from his local market and pretend he just signed for whatever team tracksuit he had bought. His attempt at a New Zealand accent 1ne night was Guttenbergesque, but he still picked up a Blackpool barmaid. I tell this to my friend, as another of the travelling party we're hanging out with - who earlier bought me drinks and said his wife was his "better ho", Stephon Marbury style - has decided the girl with the angel wings is his perfect pick up, and he nods but he's not really listening. The girl with the angel wings somehow managed not to be thrown out despite her stomach troubles, or lack of support from her store bought Kayser Platinum. My farewelling friend looks quite sad to be honest, which for a man of exceeding self confidence is surprising, but then it is his farewell. I can only hope at this point he doesn't put his arm around me and say I'm his besht mate. Luckily the man asleep in the corner wakes up and causes a kerfuffle - I love that word so much - and is dispatched into the street with pretty aggressive kick. It is, in the words of Christian Bale, fucking distracting, but in a good way. My friend had wanted to say something I'm sure, a thankyou for coming or something like that, but in the end it was all lost in the kicking up the arse, appallingly sloppy pashing on the dancefloor, and the fact that the kerfuffle allowed him to simply go with the tried and tested conversation - remember that time at work with the water bottle. Oh yes...see I'm male. It's far better this way. When my Dad is proud of me, he doesn't tell me, he just puts a cup of tea on and breaks out the good biscuits. It's better to leave on these terms quietly and quickly with a short wave...and far better than awkward morning regrets when you stay out too long and see, and I mean these on both sides given the pashing going on on the dancefloor, exactly what you've picked up the night before...

The man asleep in the corner at the Observatory is 1ne in front of me in the queue for the taxi on the way home. He's doing an involuntary Tassie 2wo step, hopping from foot to foot, at any moment likely to snap in the kind of violent outburst the Mercury warned me about. He folds him arms, then unfolds them, then puts them by his side, then folds them again, perpetual motion, all leading to a grievance of some kind. He also has a cut lip, and the taxi driver at the front of the queue won't pick him up, instead driving off and leaving both of us standing there. I know the grievance look by heart - my Dad has it all the time when he's drinking. It's usually about how his Dad never loved him. Sadly for me, I've got 1ne of those retro New Zealand cricket tops on, the beigey 1ne Richard Hadlee used to wear. Mums right, I shouldn't wear it out, but it's so damn comfy. I think for a moment he's going to racially abuse me, but instead his gaze falls on the girl with the angel wings and my earlier Stephon Marbury aping friend, who are walking along the path engaging in a quite open, but utterly wrong display of open mouth pashing. He stops moving and narrows his eyes as he watches them disappear down a lane in Salamanca, his entire body leaning forward, as if the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders. He then swears really loudly into the air, and begins laughing. Out of nervousness, I laugh to, as if to say, hey, yeah, that's pretty messed up those 2wo huh, now please don't stab me. He then begins to walk all the way towards to Irish Murphys, on unsteady legs, just yelling something that I think is supposed to be get a room, but ends up being geratraotoon, and he collapses giggling face down on the path, where he still may be for all I know. I look up at the Observatory as I get into my taxi, and my farewelling friend is now on the top deck. At least i think it's him, sitting on 1ne of the couches, talking to a girl I know works in the ANZ bank who manages to mix the hotness of the average 60tys model - big beehive look, very Longet - and somehow the earnest sadness of a suburban poet as she stares across the counter. At least, that's what I think I see, I can't vouch for it. I hope that's what I saw anyway. Farewell my friend - we will always have the water bottle...good times...truly, good times...

As for me, I go home, put some Megan Washington on, and go straight to sleep, having picked up nothing but fatigue...

Solipsistic Postings from Burnie - If I can't be a star I won't get out of bed

It's 6ix am on a sunny mid December morning. I'm somewhere in the middle of Tasmania spooning beans onto toast, having realised my complaints that the Angry Angus advert was racist wasn't providing enough fodder or interest to turn random words in a conversation which would henceforth kill enough time for me to fail to notice I seemed to be eating beans which tasted like eggs and vice versa. My Mum on the way up to Burnie had told for the umpeenth time about how I stood at the bottom of Mission Hill in Penguin and said Australia sure was a beautiful country. I don't recognise that person of course, how optimistic they were, before slow moving Volvos and batteries that always seem to cut out at the wrong time broke me down tiny grudge by tiny grudge against the world. As part of returning to Burnie for a family re-union we pieced together a large group of photos on card to put on the kitchen wall of the party venue, like the kids from Why Don't You, and I got obsessed and maudlin with all the 1nce youthful faces frozen in photographs that were going to be at the party withered and depressed, although I didn't apply that standard to myself of course. I just saw 9ine year old me at the Irvine Magnum ice skating rink in a top I would kill to own now. You don't communicate any genuine thoughts or feelings though while spooning beans onto toast in the middle of Tasmania surrounded by your parents, truckers, and someone elses kid you've squeezed into your car at the last minute. It doesn't help that the owner of this retro fitted truck stop style diner has decided to blast Kid Rock at full volume, as if his Alabama tinged party invocations have any relationship to this setting. Trying funny things? Yeah right pal - these beans are hilarious, and if I smoke any funny things, my Mum will give me a clip around the ear. That's the thing with these weekends, if I ever get into a car with my Mum and Dad it's instantly like I've regressed into a small child. I even sit in the back, and even though I'm reading a Malcolm Gladwell book and trying to make intellectual conversation, objectively if I applied memories of past behaviour to this situation of being trapped in the back, I should be shuffling a collection of Mercantile Mutual Cup Cards and praying Mum doesn't find out I haven't done my homework. It's the straggly kid who makes the most attempt at conversation. The last time I saw this kid he didn't understand object permanence, now he's talking about his girlfriend and his new job. He says new job with such confidence, I think he's going to start working as a junior associate at Jackson-Steinem. Instead, he's handing out cheese on sticks in a mall. He calls it a career opportunity. Maybe he's right, but my Dad has already started giving him "the rubber ear", and has drifted off into his own little world. Come to think of it, he had that expression on in the ice skating photo, a world where fuzz and static replace the pain of thought, and a man can comfortably chew on a lukewarm 3hree day old diner sausage without hearing a word, and pretend to himself it's quail on a cracker...

My local shop in Burnie still, just about, stands to this day, although it is noticably run down, the shop traffic seems to be low, and I'm sure the same Bubble O Bill I didn't have enough money to buy after the school cross country championships in 1994 is still in the freezer next to the faded Peters standee, probably from the time Wil Anderson advertised Maxibons. Or was that Rove? I see someone out of the corner of my eye I went to school with. He used to write letters to WWF wrestlers in primary school, but hardly any of them wrote back. He wrote to a lady wrestler called Desiree Petersen 1nce. She wrote back. I think only her and Bobby Heenan wrote back now I think about it. He had asked her about why she lost all the time, and she wrote back a ridiculously nice letter on fancy notepaper that explained a win wasn't far away and she was working really hard in practice. I was thinking about him the other day because I saw a picture of said lady wrestler still lady wrestling in 2009, and she has Queen Mother teeth now. I realise that I've boiled down what is now no doubt a 31 year old man with all the complexities, subtleties, highs, lows and life experiences that age brings down to a glib anecdote from 1985, but he would just remember me as that kid that cut his knee and needed stitches after we ran down the hill following the school fete. I'm not sure what type of conversation we could get out these mutual memories, but I'm not sure it would be meaningful. He's got a basket full of baby food and flavoured milk, and argues with the shop keeper when his change comes back piled up with coins instead of notes. He makes a gesture that indicates he has no pockets, but the shopkeeper is un-moved. He turns around to me, grunts, and says service at this shop has gone down hill. I say something incredibly like I hear that or something, and he nods as if to say this guy gets it. He obviously didn't remember me, but there we are, now stuck together in a 2nd glib anecdote about change, milk and the decline of the service industry. It's only as he walks away I realise something about his T-shirt. It's a John Cena T-shirt, and if you don't know, John Cena is a wrestler. I have a feeling this whole thing, this whole incident is some sort of manufactured welcome back to Burnie set up, and would have reflected on this moment a bit more had, at that moment, the shop keep not called my wrestling fan school mate a very rude word, handed me change in notes, and said he does it every day to wind him up but don't tell him. Don't worry mate, your secret is safe with me...

There is, when I get to the party venue - when I say venue I obviously mean someones unmowed back yard - an inordinate amount of cheese on sticks. There is some cold meat cut into little circles, but there's so much cheese it's lucky I'm not lactose intolerant. I would bring out my lactose intolerant joke I stole from Greg Fleet 1nce upon a time, but not yet, save something for the twilight hours I say. As it turns out, this proves to be a prescient decision, the kind of divine omniscience you don't expect to have in a backyard full of cheese and small children kicking you up the arse like you have the Toyworld Bear costume on. My cousin, 1nce stout of mind and robust of prank, has decided that I'm the person to divulge marital and family woes to. I wonder on the Sunday why me, by the Monday I've been invoked as the cause of a row and then apologized to profusely for incorrect interpretations and by Tuesday it's like it never happened and I've done nothing more offensive than eat too much cheese on a stick. My cousin doesn't blink for 10en whole minutes, his beer is undrunk and untouched, his brow is furrowed and there seems no escape for me. The girl with the large breasts who seemed to agree with me Powderfinger sucked seems to be slipping further and further away from my follow up chat we had promised each other, and here I am playing a Celtic top wearing Docca Phil. Ah Docca Phil, curse you and your need for everyone to talk about their problems. You want problems? I can't get a Samboy chip for love nor money at this party. Plus I can see my old house from this backyard and seems to now be being used for drug deals. My cousin and I aren't especially close, but I'm nothing if not a good nodder. I know I'm old now because I'm attracted to conversation. This isn't the conversation I wanted to be attracted to, and later when the girl with the large breasts sort of lead with like don't you find like the rise of like Lady GaGa like really amazing...like I have to go now, there's a drug deal being done in my old back yard. Damn you Samoan "quick purchaser"...I think my cousin is ready to belt someone, since his wife has been ignored for about an hour by everyone here and really isn't welcome at this party. I think I would like someone in my life I could just e-mail 10en conversational topics to per week, and then just bat and forth ideas with. Fat chance right, it would break down immediately when 1ne of us cracked and fwd a picture of a cat wearing a santa hat with "OMG CUTE" in the subject line. No wait, he is going to punch someone. And then I see out of the corner of my eye a big plate of cheese, make the joke, and he calms down, laughs and sips his beer. As he does so, his wife runs her fingers through her hair and looks so desolate, I would feel sorry for her were she not kinda sorta evil. I'd pass her some cheese on the way past, but the girl with the large breasts is over by the drinking fountain...



It's still sunny when I'm drunk anyway before all that happens, fading sunlight, but still bright, a typical Burnie day where the sun is out but you need 3hree coats on. I'm narked I haven't had a chance to go into town yet, narked that they only have Perroni beer and 28eight types of cheese to pick at...the kind of concerns that could comfortably be picked apart as trivial by a war veteran. I'm sitting on a plastic bucket seat, my tracksuited self is pushed forward on the edge of the seat, and I'm agitated. 1ne of my traits I hate about myself, other than my addiction to wearing a Celtic "Bogan" top from 91/92, is that when I'm drunk, I'm likely to find a particular aspect of popular culture annoying and feel the need to tell people about it. In this case, it's an otherwise innocuous sentence at the end of Tadgh Kennellys book where he says he watched the Hangover and it was really funny. Why is that in a book? It just seemed such a terrible piece of writing, like the worst kind of hackneyed Twittering. I'm saying his aware that no one is listening to me but I don't care. Someone across the fence across the way has turned their sprinkler on and my auntie gets a tiny bit of water on her blouse, and everyone is paying attention to her and no one is paying attention to me. Except for 1ne wrinkly old 1/2lf blind lady with a reasonable stab at a mullet that like all 1/2lf blind old people at a party gets the most comfortable chair and first crack at the fudge, much to everyones secret chagrin. She says something about me and my books...I didn't know there was a me and my books, but that's what she associates me with. A learned man, a man of letters and words destined for higher educations highest peaks. Or just a book about cricket, I don't know what the reference is. She says it again, and I shrug aimlessly. Burnie is making me uncomfortable, all these references and faces with more wrinkles and bits of trivia that don't quite make it into an anecdote. It's only on the way home I remember this old woman and I had a conversation at Burnie market (loosely described, a rather feeble attempt in the Roelf Vos car park 6ix weeks into 1993 that didn't catch on) where I had used the word solipsistic in a sentence. She had simply said "you and your books" then said are you buying some of my jam or not? It was a fair point, and I bought 6ix jars for a fiver. I was 8eight. Yes, me and my books...and my jam...and the old house where I snuck a girl in 1nce and then nothing happened because we ended up watching Rage...

Solipsism is the philosophical idea that one's own mind is all that exists, or to put it Glaswegian the idea that you are the centre of the fucking universe...after 1/2lf a bottle of rum, it's entirely possible to feel a whole town stopped when you left and never moved on...ah, philosophy is wasted on the drunk, pass me another slice of Edam...