mybestkungfu's Diaryland Diary

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christophering miguel

tried the Verandah again.
open this time but packed with cheap drinkers.
i ask for my 'usual' midi of Toohey's and an order of chips. for fucks sakes people (re: Sydneysiders), if you're going to refer to french fries as chips - please keep it consistent.
the bitch broke out a bag of potato chips (nationally known last week as 'crisps') and dumped them in a bowl...
salt and vinegar smoked mongoose.

i was hating on the 'chips' and getting
claustrophobic and had this bright idea
of going to The Rocks RIGHT NOW for pancakes.
walk, walk, walk, walk.

we decided on the meal
while standing in line...
The Choco Troppo. A monstrosity
consisting of 2 thick pancakes
topped with chocolate and vanilla ice cream,
fudge sauce, with bananas and
sprinkled liberally with walnuts.
(nuts and bananas oh yeah).

i half listened to a group of Filipinos
seated next to us.
they were just talking shit.
i don't want to hear about your aunt
Winnifred and her new car. i want to hear
about where you thought your husband
was last night yo.

we left the restaurant with cement in
our bellies and still no conclusion
as to Raoul's actual whereabouts yesterday
evening...

'what should we do?, what should we do?'.
the bats have woken and
are covering the darkening sky.
i know, ride the ferry to nowhere
in particular!
yes! pancake faces plus constant rocking motion!!
for an hour!!

we ride the tug boat-sized speed demon
and took in the city lights, views
from the water and the occasional smell
of a burning motor.

the idea of re-enacting the scenes
from the bow of the titanic (the movie)
was quickly brought up and quickly dropped.
everybody secretly
wanted to be the one to say,
'i'm king of the world!'.
and no one wanted to say
'i'll never let go Jack, i'll never
let go!'.

i had to admit. Syndey harbour views
are fuckingly, breathtakingly, beautiful.
picturesque houses from East Balmain,
the boats in the bay at Milson's point,
Luna park - which i've never
heard mentioned in any travel brochures
even though it's right across
from the Opera House.
it looks like a fairy tale at night.
except for the nightmarish giant
clown mouth that is the entrance.

at the smaller wharfs, handfuls of people
were outlined in the moonlight
as they stood on the docks waiting
to be picked up.

we ignore them when they board
because we're too cool for
touristy conversation.

instead we look to the sky,
note the blood-red moon and
wonder if the anti-christ is
being born...

half and hour and no rapture.
we walk back to the Rocks to meet
Michael and his coworkers who are
drinking it up at the Lord Nelson
(oldest pub in Sydney).
meet people, meet people, meet people...
i don't want to drink anymore
and Miguel has to get home
to pack as he is leaving for NZ
tuesday.

we run off drunk into the night.
i take the bus home.
Miguel buzzes at 1 in the morning
with all his belongings complaining
about australian citizens
harassing him because he's american.
'what made them think i was american'?
he muses aloud, dumping his shit
on the livingroom floor
'was it the opposable thumbs?'.

some black rapper has stolen
Michael's mobile and is sending me
random text msgs. the
level of drunkeness is proportionate to
the amount of profanity,
street slang ('u may git damaged')
to the tune of 'wear u @ ?'s'.

i wake up and it's Saturday morning.
there is one Michael asleep
in each room of the apartment.
i take pictures.

i will watch cartoons and count new
bruises.

3:34 p.m. - Feb. 25, 2005

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