The Leaving Of Brashs

There's this kid outside the library on Thursday, a big dopey looking kid with his hat on backwards. From a distance I can see he's trying to show up the library visitors to impress some girls, and when he gets to me, I see his schtick and raise it, subtly, for his joke is to shake hands with the visitors and say his name is Borat. Hilarious you'll agree. When I say back to him, yeah and I'm Bruno, he pauses a little awkwardly, and laughs in this hollow loud voice as if he's really got me good. I don't mind, if he gets a pash out of it, whatever. I used to get really sensitive about people trying to play pranks on me, especially the guy at Central who was trying to convince me that to get into the pub there was a cover charge and when I fumbled for my wallet laughed uproariously. I was so close to telling him to grow up like some camp sitcom character it was embarrassing. There was a huge lumbering fat guy behind me anyway that the big dopey kid was desperate to try and prank anyway, so we parted ways very quickly. Roadside Jesus is still around showing off his sign and making sure everyone knows the true meaning of Xmas isn't licking a Creme Egg or watching a Goodies Marathon on Foxtel, and everyone was in hustle and bustle mode as they finalised their Easter shopping. In the case of my Dad, this involved a last minute trip to Kingston shopping centre to buy my Mum some Rocky Road, his thanks generally involving some sort of quaint Glaswegian phrase like who did you steal that off or what happened to my egg? I just feel old though, not just because I've now got to an age where kids are playing pranks on me rather than the other way round, or because I can remember specific episodes of the Goodies and which TV dinner I was eating in Penguin when I watched them, but because I'm tired, I just feel mentally quite old at the moment. I know it's just because it's Good Friday, where nothing seems to move and inner reflections come in hammocks that sway even gentler than normal, but I feel like I'm spending far too much time lately talking to people pining for the 90tys. Perhaps I spend too much time thinking about Grant Dodwell and old TV shows, but I quite like now, I quite like my life now, and such meanderings on the phone seem to just age me more than I would like. Then again, I have a pet panda that's sitting on top of my TV, which is the other extreme - that makes me feel too young. There's nothing in my house that feels like balanced stuff to have for a 30ty year old. And on my phone, so proudly sold to me by a bogan chick in Big W Kingston as the phone Big Brother winners get, there's a long text pining for 1997, ah, such a good year, when I was sober enough to enjoy it...

When I first moved to Hobart in 1997, I wasn't one for playing silly youthful pranks or games - well apart from one late night game of statues that got out of hand. I spent my first few weeks getting used to the variety of flavoursome treats that North Hobart had to offer, adjusting to the little things like trying to find a milk bar that was afraid of experimental milkshake flavours, and spending my meagre allowance from John Howards government on un-necessary items like The Incredible Sound of Jo Whiley CD and a rugby league jersey. You know, I could have studied or bought books, but the Gold Coast Chargers live on through my jumper. For the first 6ix weeks I lived in Hobart, I would stalk around the local record store, a store called Brashs. I don't think we had Brashs in Burnie, I think we had the 7BU Record Bar for a while, a massive scam, and that shop in the mall next to Coles where the girl smelled of milk and was a bit too much of a fan of Lisa Loeb. There was a girl who worked in Brashs who I liked because she was personable and wasn't screaming about Shania Twain liked those pushy 7 Habits of Highly Successful Sales readers at Sanity. She was about 2ty 3hree, and didn't smell of any dairy products that I could discern, and our relationship never got to the stage past casual conversation where I'd either make an arse of myself, or she'd have a boyfriend, which were my main 2wo dating responses in 1997. Our nascent conversational relationship about orange vinyl floundered though when Brashs closed in a flurry of financial trouble and bad business decisions, and the girl who had seemed so cool and interesting suddenly got quite sad and wistful as the closing down sale whirled around her head, and the last conversation we had was interrupted by a burly man who shoved straight past me to haggle about the price of a U2 album. It seemed apt I couldn't find anything interesting to say in our final conversations, because she had an adult problem, losing her job, and in the first flurry of freedom from home, all I was doing was wasting my time with immature decisions and time on swings and conversations about Snagglepuss. It was a shame that I couldn't empathise, but we'll always have our chat about vinyl. An interesting discussion it was, until I realised I probably should have been in class - oh well, plenty of time to catch up I guess...

I come from a house where we never really played any pranks or practical jokes. My Mum hates them, plus she has a vicious streak of revenge. Her favourite motto is you have to sleep sometimes, and some of my childhood games of tag were vicious affairs. It's probably not surprising that when I lived in Ayrshire, I never tormented the old woman who lived on the corner. Due to her busybody nature and bolshie Ayrshire attitude, she would often come out and claim to all the kids she was going to call the police no matter what was happening, even if it was just because she didn't like their face. The kids, in the middle of this eternal stand off of kids vs the man, only the man was an old woman in an apron, would respond by knocking her door at 3hree in the morning and getting their dog to perform sinful acts on her lawn. It came to a head on water balloon Sunday, when all the neighbourhood kids decided on an assigned time to throw water balloons at her door. Except for me. It wasn't that I wouldn't have done it, my exploits in knock door runaway were semi legendary, I just didn't see the need to harass an old woman who hadn't done anything to me as far as I knew. And anyway, I had confirmation class to attend, in a nice part of town called The Village, and as I got off the bus, I saw a parade of flying balloons hitting the door and a confrontation beginning. I lingered around the back out of sheer curiousity, and learned a lot of words I didn't know. In fact, I saw a lot of people who really wanted the nonsense to stop and looked really weary, but didn't quite know how to back down. It was then though the old woman looked at me and said something about how come all the kids couldn't be like me, mature and sensible. It's amazing to me that I wasn't instantly beaten up, on account of being a swot, and I had to shuffle off embarrassed past policeman who had lost all respect for me and my immaculately pressed shirt. I almost for the sake of my self respect got up at 3hree in the morning and lobbed a water balloon through her window, but of course, I couldn't be bothered. I probably even got up, put my jacket on, and then saw something on Eurosport and sat back down again. I couldn't bring myself to hassle someone just for the sake of it - I still couldn't do it. Mind you, I had to do something to redeem myself, and when she brought round some Easter Eggs the next year, I didn't enjoy them...much...yeah, that showed her...power to the kids....

I've been immature and mature in the same sentence sometimes, said just the right things but not shown the right actions. However, I'm more than happy with the peace that Good Friday brings me, and don't feel the need to beat myself up. There's a perfect stillness to the day, until the phone rings, the only sound I hear all day. The sound disrupts my mood, and I notice that I never got my paper delivered and get upset that I had to move out of the hammock. Good Friday most people say is the most boring day of the year, but I appreciate the respite, I appreciate the afternoon nap and the way nothing is opened. I hope Roadside Jesus was still out there though, plugging his Xmas message. I've made some mistakes in my life, but today is not the time for reflection. It's a time for peace and quiet, and as a result, I'm going to give you the best gift of all - a short paragraph...

It's not an egg, but it's not too shabby...

Snagglepuss, Jesus and the rise and fall of the Easter prophet

It says a lot for my mindset that a man dressed as Jesus holding a big cross by the side of the road doesn't draw my morning attention away from anxiety and pre Easter stress. Yes, Hobart has this week accquired Jesus, probably on loan from a 3hree week stint at the Sands in Las Vegas, who has been booked to stand by the side of the road, usually across from VIP Driving school, to hold up a big sign about Easter penitence. I suspect it's not really Jesus of course - I don't think he had disciples who wore thongs nor had such a patchy beard - and it's best that I don't pay him any mind. Besides, Lily Allen is on my IPOD, and in this celebrity obsessed culture, well, Jesus hasn't released a new album for a while. I think though that the roadside Jesus - which is a great name for an album - on 2nd view is purporting some sort of John 3:16 message (which I can recite on request incidentally), and when I was growing up around Mexico 86 you would see people in the crowd holding up John 3:16 signs as Scifo scythed through the Iraqi defence. I fear for our Jesus though because it's bitterly cold, even by Hobart standards, and his religious powers of persuasion might be dimmed by sipping soup from a flask. When Joan Osborne said what if God was One of Us, I don't think she meant literally - literally a bloke taking a week of his annual leave from Officeworks to stand by the side of the road with a sign, literally an ordinary bloke. My priest at school incidentally one told me the story of his conversion at Easter, and it was such a simple story, well told, that I completely believed it but Roadside Jesus seems to be in it for the glory, for the notice, and to be honest he might as well have a honk if you give it up for Jesus sign. VIP Driving school, we always laugh and joke about that place, because I failed my driving test so many times, we think they built a special wing devoted to me. It is cold though, as my car winds and wanders through a mass of traffic. They are trialling some system where the buses have all the rights on the road and the poor plebs in the cars are stuck lingering while they take over. The car next to me is the gaudiest thing I've ever seen, lime green sports car with big wheels and a horrifically tacky personalised number plate devoted to a football team. As I finally drive off just as 22 fades out on my IPOD, I see Roadside Jesus catching a glance it, and I know he's probably thinking some pure thoughts about the commercialism of modern society in these troubled times, but surely even he is thinking, seriously, what colour paint is that...

I've never been big on Easter - I don't know why, obviously Good Friday can feel like the most boring day of the year. It's usually cold, and in Penguin there was nothing on but religious programming instead of Transformers - badly drawn cartoons and that whole in the jungle one day ad on ad naseum. I can't really talk too much about Roadside Jesus having played the role myself one Easter. It was in primary school, and I was given the role of Jesus in an Easter Parade through the school. Luckily it was the good bit, where people waved palms - well, weeds if I'm honest - as I rode through the school with regal purity. Incidentally, it bugs me to this day how I rode through the school, since obviously we didn't have access to a donkey. Was it skateboard, bike, trolley, or piggyback on a fat kid? It troubles me that I don't know. And since I had previously played Joseph in a Penguin church production - you won't recall the Joseph goes to sleep bit of the bible, that was pure Penguin, but when I woke up a woman in the front row either mouthed this is awesome or awful and I don't know which - it all feels a bit Springeresque in hindsight. My cousin - the one I don't like - has the distinction of playing Jesus more famously than me though. During his roughly 6ix week stint at my secondary school, he was cast as Jesus in a Grade 10en play, and decided to play him as a sort of Frankie Howard character camply accepting his fate as a martyr for the Catholic religion with swishes, swirls, interpretive dance and an accent that was pure Snagglepuss. My exit stage left joke would have been hilarious if anyone got it. Or I had friends that year. I love Snagglepuss a lot, but there's a time and a place. I like to think my reading of the role was a lot more subtle, but all I can remember about it was I loved the attention, especially given that it got me a free Violet Crumble from the tuck shop because I did such a bang up job. Obviously, and luckily, after lunch I wasn't crucified, but I was bowled for 2wo during after school cricket by a ball bowled by a little smart arse who's foot was clearly 2wo feet over the crease, a clear no ball. It would have continued the motif of the day had I been resurrected by an umpires decision and given a 2nd chance, but I wasn't, and the smart arse kid proceeded to hook my bouncers over the fence time and time again...lousy Easter, probably got an Easter bilby that day, stupid....

Jesus is a difficult role to play, but so was an 80tys Easter Bunny at North West Coast schools. It was a tough gig, less glamorous and more difficult to pull off than a Fitzgeralds Santa Claus, requiring a greater leap of faith from a child than Santa as well, and a far worse costume. I mean, Santa was plausible, you could basically tell that one of your teachers had just put some bunny ears on even at 5ive. Pippa - ah, Pippa - was always ahead of her time when it came to telling us all such home truths around the monkey bars, and I lost my Bunnyfaith when the designated bunny failed to give me an egg one year in a mad scramble, and I saw him driving away in a 1974 Ford Mercury Cougar Coupe with his bunny ears still on, and a Winfield Red in hand. It was the talk of the fort for weeks to come. Easter is an awkward one at the best of times, I never know whether to buy everyone an egg or not, and unless I get a Cadburys Creme Egg, I'm never happy with my lot. Big W had eggs in February, and they've still got lots left. I'm pretty sure Panda Eyed Girl has been flicked, and they still haven't fixed the light near the DVDs that keeps flicking, which makes my head hurt every time I walk under it. No one today seemed in any kind of cheerful Easter spirit, let alone me because I was snowed under with work and couldn't really get my motivation up at all. Everyone is just hanging out for their free government cash, and until then all commerce seems to have ceased. Blue Eye Shadow Girl had a weird haircut today, I'm sure it was her Easter treat to herself, but I'm not sure about it. My Easter treat to myself is probably just going to be my usual packet of football cards, and maybe a Creme Egg. As I walk through the shopping mall, a stern faced security guard pouts from behind a mask of toughness and leathery craggy lines. Someone got stabbed here the other day, a good samaritan - sadly we haven't had a roadside version yet - tried to intervene in a shoplifting situation and got a knife in the ribs for their trouble. It doesn't put me in the spirit of the season, whatever that is, as I walk past as quickly as I can, away from the cragg, away from the weird hairstyles, and out back into the car park, where no religious figures, fictional or real, are waiting on me, and there's no prospect of a virgin birth around these parts, because, well, you know the punchline...

Ah, Easter, what a web it has weaved. From the horrible despair of the 3hree days at Eddie McGuires house in Melbourne looking at my bicentennial medal and wishing I could do anything to live in Burnie again to the cash splurge of 97 when I recklessly spent all my uni book money on a Gold Coast Chargers rugby league top and got depressed that Brashs was closing - a post in and of itself by the way - to all those wasted fitful Good Fridays sitting around the house staring out the window at grey skies. I'm sure there's memories of egg chasing - literal egg chasing , not playing rugby - in there somewhere, memories of painting up and egg and then throwing it down a hill and some other bugger finding it, supressed by the cold weather and the lack of ingredients to make a lime spider. I'm unlikely to use the holiday season to be born again as a new person, since I'm set in my ways, and there will be no twists in the next few days to make me bold and positive. In fact, I suspect I will wile away at least one of these precious days wasting my hard earned free government cash at Syrup in a I thought this would be a good idea moments at 3am. Such is the flesh on display whether you want to see it or not around that big stripper pole, Roadside Jesus could have a field day encouraging people to repent. I think though my Mum would quite like me to have a kid, I think she's beginning to try and nag me into it. There's just enough time obviously for a Syrup pick up and time to...no, I'm not going to have kids. Given the hissy fit I've had trying to get lime spider ingredients, I don't think I could handle a child. Instead, I decide to head out on a possibly fruitless search for Halls Lemonade, and just enjoy my day, my time off, my own moods and my own sense of independence. I'm sure Roadside Jesus would appreciate the individuality of thought I'm displaying, after all, if you are out in the cold of a Hobart morning holding a cross, what are you but an individual....maybe we'd get on...mind you, the religious people want to ban Lily Allen from the radio...so maybe not...

I'm not sure he'd like Snagglepuss either...too fruity...