Bookfaced with boredom!

Reed: Why dont you come to canada! We could do a documentary!

Dewse: Yeah I can see it now..

..........................................................
The Lion's den - Writen by Juice
..........................................................

Narrator: Deep in the alpine forest lives a Lion,

Camera pans in on Reed sleeping deep in the alpine forest, butterfly circles his delicate whiskers then lands, his lip twitches then reed jumps to life growling furiously at the camera.

Reed: Growl... (In French as it has a sexy time essence...)

(note: grammy right here)

Then a young attractive lady named Bon Appétit, clad in nothing but forest leaves enters from the side of the screen, a wind blows up and the leaves rustle leaving a hint of fleshy goodness..

Bon Appétit: Oh Lion, you big.. and powerful creature you.. (Spoken in broken English with French accent)

.........................

"Cut!!" Reed shout's across the set, "Dewsey, it's supposed to be a movie about epic adventure where I can display my uncontained talent, not another sweet porno"..

"You do not like my director" (French accent for aesthetic reasoning) Dewsey shrugs across his directors chair with a complexed expression on his face..

What can he do to turn this movie.. It's brilliant, oh the shame to lose it here.

"It's not that, it's just I was hoping to get good money for my sterling ability as an actooor".. Brenton throws his fist from his chest and into the air.. eye's fixed on the lofty clouds above. (Very emotional)

"Hmmm" Dewsey muses, then thumbs thoughtfully at his luscious moustache.. "Yes Reeeeed, you are right! We need more drama and suspense. I have an idea" and he set's off to the directors van..

Three minutes later...

"Okay" he muster's, "take your places" winking at Bon Appétit, and licking his lips with seeming delight.

............................

"Action"..

Reed: Well thankyou Bon Appétit, I am a very powerful lion. And you..(The words linger in the air like the scent of a freshly plucked rose peddle) You are a beautiful lady with fair skin and wild hair.. Oh but not down there (His eye's glance down), I did see when the wind blow through"

Reed chisels a hansom thick jawed grin at her, Bon Appétit blushes and palms down the leaves shyly.

After the resent downfall of the "Teletubbies", a popular children's show on prime time television,Tinky Winky, a once famous actor became suddenly unemployed.. Longing to break into the world of movies and show his more masculine persona, he was ecstatic to hear a small new Canadian adventure film was interested in him for a role. He was later reported saying in a interview with Oprah: "I've watched Rambo a couple of times, It's probably my favourite movie at the moment. And you know what Oprah, one morning after a heavy night snorting eight balls off a cheap naked ladies chest, I looked into the mirror... I didn't see Tinky Winky anymore.. No I saw a new breed of Tinky Winky now, a stronger, a tougher and basically better freak man.. A quickly painted myself in blue and pink fluoro SP30+ zinc which I had lying around in the bathroom. A red hanky tied neatly around my head matched my blood shot eye's and I screamed into the mirror..Adrianne!!!!. Instantly I knew I had what it would take".

Tinky winke (Who is sporting a Flynn style pencil Moe) enters the screen from the left, large deadly sword drawn in his right fist.

Tinky Winky: This women is mine you see, you have no right taking her from me!

The sword waves dangerously in front of Reed..

Reed: Does this coward with a sword speak thy truth fair lady with the perkiest of breasts?

Bon Appétit: Unfortunately this is true strong lion, I was a present from his crew.

Reed: F*#K

Tinky Winky: Prepare to reach thy end oh dearest Lion fool..

Reed: You twat!, I have no use in fighting you, you are but weak and fleshy, an easy meal!

Tinky Winky: But I'th have thy sword laced in LSD... You sir.. Are no match for me!

Tinky Winky swings violently at reed's head narrowly missing his handsomely huge square jaw and jams the blade hard against the tree..Bon Appétit gulps loudly, Reed moves with hast, licking the flat of the blade profusely.. then, with precision gives Tinky Winky a round house kick to the face, Knocking him, and his dangerously sharp sword to the ground..

Reed: Hahahahahahaha (The laugh grumbles from deep inside his belly) Quiet contrair dear good sir you are but... no match for me!

Reed then turn's to face Bon Appétit..

Reed: Dearest gentle women, who has'th come to thy for reason I do believe.. May I fondle thy sweet breast..

Bon Appétit's eye's widen in shock.. she points timidly with her finger..

Bon Appétit: Heee...Heee... Has thy gun good Lion

Reed turns..

Reed: Oh F*#K!

Tinky Winky: You don't think it would'th been thy easy do you?

Reed: Well for a second there.. I did!

Tinky Winky: Hahahaha

Then out of no-where, well no not no-where, Out of the pond close-by, leaps a HUGE Great White Shark.... And on it's back, covered in nothing more then a flimsy pink bikini rides Johnston! The Shark loops forward through the air doing an impressive full revolution, then comes down on Tinky Winky head first and in one swift bite, swollows him whole!

Johnston: Gooday'th guys

Reed: Hahahah

Bon Appétit: Hahaha

Johnston: Hahahah

Narrator: And they lived happily ever after..

..............................

The curtain's close and the crowd cheers wildly, reverbarating thoughout the great hall... "It's a master piece" they shout, "Pure genius" another is heard.

.............................

And thats that..

Dewse

The Salmon Shack - Indecent dealings

It was an uncomfortable deranged kind of scene which had a foul odour that lingered long after the joke tasted sour. Down near the beach perched precariously amongst a tall stand of peppermints stood an old decrepit shack, red orca in colour and dilapidated by sight.. Some old broken cars which were parked out front had hidden the windows, and the untamed tree’s blocked out the rest. The door, a broken flywire and lockless gig was located at the side of the house, under a rusty, dainty, two column carport which ever threatened to fall away.. We would hang off the perlin’s to test its strength “This isn’t too bad” I would protest in its defence, “could lift a motor off’a here”, pointing to the centre truss as if to direct the nearest fool to set up a block and tackle in anticipation. Inside there was always a bunch of seedy degenerate drunken types, tattoos, big dreams, swollen heads and little, if any, motivation. They sat up against the wretched free couches which when you sat against the armrest it would stick to your skin like a strong napalm concoction, locking you in for a hell of a ride, we joked amongst ourselves when the girls weren’t present. Who cared we all thought, and we didn’t. We didn’t care for much really except for just maybe, cheap booze and that distinguished unforgettable stench of even cheaper women. It was always like this. “Welcome to the Salmon Shack” I would cheerfully announce through my wine stained teeth, “I hope you enjoy your stay, I know we will” concluding, as if by suggesting a more sinister outcome. I knew this was the Salmon Shack, everyone did. It was written on the back of an old beer carton box and hung loosely across the door. Salmon Hunters!!

Sunday mornings were useless as long as I could care to remember, and today wasn’t any different. I woke with that instant intangible feeling my head was still bouncing to the beat to the music from the night before, long after it had been switched off.. Swiftly and accurately, as if practised many times before, I reached over grudgingly hoping to scoff another handful of pills. The packet of painkillers was empty, just my f*$king luck I thought. Under the bed I rattled through some empty beer bottles from weeks before, clashing and clanging amongst each other infuriating my lousy head until eventually I found what I was looking for, an old green tinged plastic water container full of stale content. It did little for the pain as I brought it firmly against my lips chugging its tasteless fluid. Large drops spilled down across my chest, caught first by last nights stained white button up shirt which I still wore, then dripped carelessly down onto my uncovered mattress. I gasped for some air and then fell back, head against my yellow marked pillow and lonely double bed. I felt weaker now and fell back into another shallow sleep.

It took some time before things came to life but by midday our festivities were in full swing, the hustle of woken disgruntle drunkards carrying on about some fight and strong fists. I could hear the sound of unfamiliar voices calling down the short corridor which wasn't all that unusual, and I shrugged it off as if to get another minute or two of rest. I remember one time when I was drunk and alone on a dark and cold night, casually stumbling home from the Pub I approached the top corner of the street. In the darkness of the night I made out four figures huddled against each other, sitting on the kerb and I greeted them in a chirpy voice which broke the sullen silence. I never thought it be a good idea to ignore someone in the dead of the night, especially when you’re alone. Nothing worse then fearfully looking over your shoulder suspiciously as you had rudely walked on past, not knowing if they had a clenched fist or something worse, prepping to let go of some twisted fear and dreaded anger, cracking on the back of your weak skull for no good reason.. No I’d prefer to know what I’m dealing with even if it’s a crazed goon coming at you full of drink and compounded hate. Anyway tonight was much different, it was three girls and a boy.. Young, I presumed by there story but couldn’t quite make them out in the darkness. “We were getting drunk on the beach, when we were robbed by some guys with a car”. I laughed. They went on telling me about how they couldn’t go home, an intricate lie meant the parent’s house was closed. “Come back” I said, “You can stay at mine for the night”. A little scared I noticed they hesitantly but took up my offer and followed me down the hill then up the steep drive and under the terribly gloomy peppermints. “Don’t worry I’m not a freak” I reassured, but it just made the feeling worse. They stopped in the dark and whispered amongst themselves. I heard one say.. “Should we really be doing this”. Unfortunately I knew they didn’t have much choice and a few moments later they followed me to the door. They came in across the dirty stained brown carpet and sat in the filthy sticky couches. “It’s not much” I assured as I searched though some scattered disc’s which were lying on the floor, “but its better then sleeping on the beach hey”, “Would you guys like a drink”, I put a inappropriate Guttermouth track into the cheap DVD player, then went over to the fridge, stepping through the puddle in the kitchen were it had leaked and pulled out some beer. “No thanks” the boy whispered cowardly, as if answering for them all. “Suit yourself, but there in the fridge if you change your mind” and I opened one, drew hard at the cold firm glass lip then turned back to face them. At first they said little, but soon warmed to me and one of the girls showed some interest in the music. “Do you mind if I change the CD”, “Yeah sure I have some more in the room” And came back with a bag. She was sitting on the floor sieving through the ones already in the room. We got talking, and I drunk some more, and then some more until a tidy stack of bottles were lying on the floor, my eye’s were blurred and I started on some evangelical speech about drink. “You guys shouldn’t be drinking” I enforced loudly with my hazy drunken voice, “How old are you guys anyway?”.. I slurred my way through some serious parenting and bad speech. They nodded in agreement but didn’t say much, they were frozen in bewilderment as some sad delusional degenerate stood up on an old broken soap box dictating some unlearnt message. And I looked back at them, makeup ran down from there scared little faces and they crossed there legs tightly covering up thin cotton underwear which showed beneath short lousy Supre skirts. It turned out they were only fourteen, and I went to bed, grumbling something about wasted booze..

Finally the noise became too much and got out of bed wearily, Craig was resting on the futon at the other end of my room. “Hey man,” and I walked out towards the toilet. It was a small shack and from the hall I could see right into the lounge. Some naked female was busily looking around for her clothes. A sleeping bag pulled up and hung across her beasts. The Parasite was sleeping on the pull out bed beside her, I came out of the toilet without washing my hands, “You should probably see a doctor” I helpfully interjected, and smiled a rotten toothy smile. Twon sniggered from in the kitchen. She was still looking for her underwear with a pained and twisted expression. She hinted a weak smile, a kindly jest. I knew she wouldn’t find her clothes and we’d all sit around and enjoy her feeble efforts. It was The Parasites little game. I taunted her with some more helpful innuendo’s, no time to waste with pleasantries and idol conversation. This girl knew the score when she opted to take a “walk” with The Parasite, and hell, anyway she’d be leaving soon enough. Sometimes they would handed me a number on a scrunched piece of paper to pass on to the Parasite who pretended to be asleep. Other times they just left.

The parasite laughed as he reminisced about the night before. “Oh man, I rooted some fat salmon in the disabled toilets last night! I asked her for a root and she said she would f*^k me for a drink. It cost me a Jacks and coke, what a slut!!..” His voice in a flurry of excitement, “So then I cracked onto the chick behind the counter” Pointing to the now empty space on the couch which was occupied only minutes before.. “Ohhh.. wow.. hoof.., And man did you do a job on her this morning, did you hear her saying that s&%t about me being the joke, all discussed and defensive like she was playing me, And you told her to go see a doctor because you were pretty sure she just got infected with the clap. Ho, f*%k, I was stuffing my face into the pillow trying not to laugh!, Ha, lets head down the beach and go look for some chicks”.. Then he drew a deep breathe, leaping out on the bed naked. The Parasite was full of energy, thin framed, muscular, blonde hair, blue eyes and one serious weapon against the opposite sex.

He is THE Salmon Hunter.


Quite soon we heard the tireless grumble of a V8 coming up the drive. "Oh wait until Daisy hears about this!” he exclaimed all excited, and crashed through the flimsy door. He’d now had a moment to perfect his story, and he was going to lay it on thick. Daisy knew this, as it was the purpose of his early morning visits. Usually he would bound in through the door looking for some remnants of last night’s activities. He was always excitable and energetic in the morning, impatiently waiting for tales of indecent self indulgence and depravity. He was just about to get married, and would joke about living through our eyes. He was the sensible one and he never hung around the shack long.

Later in the afternoon after a tasty feed of indo-me noodles we shambled down the road off towards the beach. Luxury homes loomed up hard against the verge longing for attention from its foreign owners. The foot ball flu wildly through the air bouncing off one of the windows with a terribly loud crack then came hurtling back into the street, and with another quick fumble, it careered off again further down the street hitting a letter box this time flicking up sand everywhere as it came crashing against the road. Bourbon always tasted sweet on a Sunday, I thought to myself. The beach was pretty empty, even for a nice warm summer day and we splashed in the water and threw the ball around waiting for some activity, Parasite, a keen watchman made sure we wouldn’t miss a beat. We didn’t wait long before three slim fit looking girls came along and set up there long colourful beach towels just a couple of hundred metres from where we stood. “Oh it’s on” Parasite blurted “Go long” just like in the movie he ran out over the water off towards to where they sat. I hitched a huge kick and let it loose through the warm stagnate air.. It was a perfect well practised drop punt which landed dead centre amongst them and Parasite was already within a few metres. He quickly started a conversation and I wondered what he always said in times like these, because what ever it was it worked like a charm. It was stupid actually, I remember one time after a few weeks of steroid’s he once walked up to a girl and asked “Who’s muscles are bigger”, a bigot pretender, they blushed bright red and made some move to test it with there hands grabbing at his biceps. These girls had warm radiant skin which drew from the crisp white beach sand, with flimsy coverings of cloth concealed the spoils of our fascination. They smiled at us as we approached and one moved to take off her tight denim short shorts revealing a small delicate pair of red bikinis. I gasped, kinda loudly “Don’t worry about him, he hasn’t had sex in a while” Parasite shot off, and now it was my turn to blush. They invited us to sit down with them and I offered up a drink. Accepting willingly I passed a popular cheap vodka mix, one which none of us drunk but had brought in sly anticipation. They giggled as they took the drink from my hand, we smiled and the sun warming our backs.. “We have some more drinks back at the shack” Parasite later announced when the esky ran dry, “we’ll play some drinking games?”..

2006...

A rough scetching

... a world full of rucksack wanderers, Dharma Bums refusing to subscribe to the general demand that they consume production and therefore have to work for the privilege of consuming, all that crap they didn't really want anyway such as refrigerators, TV sets, cars, at least new fancy cars, certain hair oils and deodorants and general junk you finally always see a week later in the garbage anyway, all of them imprisoned in a system of work, produce, consume, work, produce, consume, I see a vision of a great rucksack revolution thousands or even millions of young Americans wandering around with rucksacks, going up to mountains to pray, making children laugh and old men glad, making young girls happy and old girls happier, all of 'em Zen Lunatics who go about writing poems that happen to appear in their heads for no reason and also by being kind and also by strange unexpected acts keep giving visions of eternal freedom to everybody and to all living creatures... Jack Karouac

Eye’s watering, lungs stinging, legs burning. My well greased “Mutiny Burlish” bmx careered down a ridiculously steep Hume road.. An easy 80 clicks I’ll assume - by the way the front wheel wobbled stupidly – reverberating through to my firm grip. I focused laboriously on the traffic lights at the bottom of the hill – praying for a safe passage. With hast I glanced over my shoulder checking for the traffic coming up behind.. A big Toyota 4WD dashing down the hill close behind.. But I’m pulling away effortlessly, putting distance between me and this concoction of death and ignorant one man mediocrity – the hill keeps descending. I focus again on the goal.. a crash at this speed – nothing other then a loose worn pair of boardies, a singlet and a set of clean Dunlop volleys – would have me grinding bone against bitumen.. Fleshy skin folding back like a knife to warmed butter. I bow my head down so my teeth almost bight the cold stiff metal handle bar, with my arse millimeters off the open rear wheel which is spinning ferociously – as to expelling some drag, lightening speed….

It’s a balmy afternoon - here in Scarborough - a coastal suburb north of Perth. The sun hovers somewhere on the horizon, just a lazy slack burning light illuminating my path down this reckless atavistic bum slid.. No brakes.. Sweat cools against my skin as the air bursts across my flush face.. I’m scared. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way.. That flooded river in the bows of Tasmania maybe– too deep to cross – too strong to attempt – just waiting, praying, my only path of refuge lay seventy odd kilometres south. Seventy kilometres of leech infested waist deep mud, rain, mountains, rivers and dense overgrown shrub. Cut from the world I know and love, left here to ponder - the stone cold soberness of reality grabbing sharply at any loose nerve ending. “I could die here” I though as I watched the tannin coloured river pace forcefully through the brush and trees on the flooded banks. I had woken startled in the middle of the night as some rat like creature clawing at my arm, seeking refuge from the hellish cold and wind. I ignored it at first, the pain in my leg muscles being my primary focus, but then as it moved closer around my face I gave it a gentle shove.. “Get me the f*&k out of here”, waking dad from his drowsy slumber. He had few words, sour and twisted.. He grumbled some then rolled over and unzipped the tent, stepped out into the darkness. “You got to be kidding me, come check this out”. By this stage I was wide awake, barely sleeping to begin with, as the pain of torn muscle worked feverishly to repair itself on an insufficient diet of dried food. I folded out of the layers of warmth.. my thermal liner and duck down bag – searched around in the darkness for my head light which floating up around my makeshift blow-up pillow. Finally I found it in the darkness and switched it on – stepping out of the tent. Instantly I felt the freeze between my toes and as I looked around I become somewhat dumbfounded.. Everything was covered with over an inch of icy hail.. It was thick, like nothing I’d seen before. I hurried myself out of the cold and into the tent now, huddling into the warmth of my sleeping bag. A wave of depression rushed over me, and I listened intently to the mad rush of water 20 odd metres over.. Was there any hint of slowing, would we be able to cross tomorrow?

I slammed my foot between the tire and the seat stay.. at first the tire just burned across my sole until it jammed hard enough to lock the rear up.. The back end skidded wildly over the road, clinging to the bars defying I summoned the front to stay in line. I was close to the bottom of the hill when it all went wrong. The lights had changed and I could see a long line of traffic now rushing forward.. I was out of control and had few choices.. I guided the bike towards the curb – now worried this sudden change in speed would have me dead with the force of two tonne all metal madness rushing me down flat. I hit the soft curbed and ejected myself over the bars, taking a short dive into the grassy verge. The bike toppled over and came to rest nearby. My nerves went full steam into electrifying chaos… I lay there momentarily gripping myself from the inside.

That morning I woke restlessly, looking at the roof of the small tent.. Some leeches moved slowly across the fly working relentlessly trying to find the quickest path to my blood. I flicked at them, sending them off in another direction.. I shook the bag off myself quickly, and rushed through the zipper.. I hoppled swiftly to the banks of the river.. I had read in some guide book that flooded river’s recede quickly.. But not this cold and icy morning. The river was now higher then the night beforehand. Another wave of depression hit… the pure isolation left me shaking. Such a desolate place, so venerable and lonely.. Dad and I chatted a little but it was too somber to carry on. I wasn’t hungry and neither was Dad so we huddled back into the tent and waited.. The day was long, cramped and cold. I turned intermittently when my back ached too much, or my hip got sore through the thin thermal mattress. The whole time, flushes of stress gripped at me as the realization came that I was stuck.. There was no way back and no way forward.. I was forced to be still, to meditate. By chance, I was reading at the time the philosophy novel “The Zen and Art of Motorcycle Maintenance”.. kindly lent to me by Alex, one of the intrepid two from earlier adventures. Maybe it was fate.. Page 286 – “Some people are true master’s of stuckness”.. I got up and walked around camp a bit, trying to stretch my tired legs and meditated on those few words. I had left in such a rush – and I knew I had left something behind. A piece of puzzle that was hidden under the couch.. like that silly game I would play on my brother when I was younger.. I’d hide a piece so that I knew I could finish the jigsaw puzzle at the end. But this time I hadn’t, not sure why, but I knew I hadn’t and now I was firmly stuck. Stuck in this rut of life I had built around me and stuck next to this stupid f%$king river. It seemed so clear now, not then.. I needed to go home, back to WA, tally ho! But first, this creek!

I collected myself from the gutter and hopped back on the bike.. All nerves now as I peddled off up the hill on the other side. The intrepid two were having a BBQ and I was going to drop the book off and have a few quite ales. Back at the river Dad and I woke for the second morning. Our hopes were high that the river would have settled. We had observed the day before that it was receding slowly, and it hadn’t rained too hard during the night. At first sight it didn’t look like it was any lower, but as I peered into the water I could just make out the bottom.. Not what I had hoped for but it would have to do. We rushed to pack the rucksack’s again – dad talked about technique which left me concerned.. His mind seems to be deteriorating in his older years and I tried explaining that he should keep his weight high and lean against the sticks, but he was adamant. “face the flow and lean into the current”. He was scared, as was I.. But the adrenaline had taken over his rational. As we approached the water I suggested we get in high as it wasn’t flowing so hard, but Dad in his crazy fueled flurry dropped straight off the bank directly into the fury of the rapid – following quickly with few words I grabbed at his pack… He went ridged, all stiff without words, eyes fixated against the opposing bank – as white as a ghost. He couldn’t move and the water soon started to overpower his stance, slowly sliding him across the slimy stone underfoot. I wrenched him back from the strap of his pack and he lost his balance, then forward as I used my extra weight to move to the safer, shallower water. Dragging him and his heavy pack all the way.. “I told you to get into the section which wasn’t so fast moving” I angrily reaffirmed – totally terrified – then marched off into the shrub leaving him to contemplate. I wasn’t going to leave him here like this – icy cold desolate river.. I needed him.

It was only Day 6…

(Sorry guys I haven't been posting or commenting.. I've been drunk and having way to much fun. Anyway I hope you haven't given up on me yet. Talk soon)

The new adventure begins..

It should not be denied that being footloose has always exhilarated us. It is associated in our minds with escape from history and oppression and law and irksome obligations. Absolute freedom. And the road has always led west. ~ Alex Supertramp [Into The Wild - Movie]



I tried sleeping last night, but I found myself tossing and turning, dreaming vividly of what has been or what may come of all this. I was expecting it though, the dreams you have before one sets off on a new journey. The excitement built up inside like a volcano ready to erupt.

So tomorrow sometime I’ll be arriving in Tasmania. The first on the agenda will be to catch up with Miss Em over at “Can you me point me to the bar?” ironically, as I hope she can point me to the bar herself. Anyway this will probably end in a nasty tangle, a silver sack and a park bench. Never fear, I’m experienced.

Moving right alone, what I haven’t declared at this stage is that I’m planning, with the Old Boy, who I have dragged along for the first month, is to take on a substantial tramp. If you can recall, Tasmania is a resource rich environment with mountains, river and all that sweet wilderness stuff. Some time in the past, 70’s or 80’s by recollection a large area of the island was reserved as National Park, and later recognised as World Heritage. This was much to the dislike of fat cats and greasy wheelers alike who had already handsomely capitalized by the industrial movement of earlier years without restrain.

‘Forty miles due west of Hobart is a veritable “No Man’s Land”, where any lone traveller would be taking his own life in his hands. It is an inferno of mountains, gorges and impenetrable forests’ ~ ET Emmett, Director of Tasmanian Tourist Bureau, 1953.

“That’s where I want to go” I mumble to Dad one late night in the softly lit lounge room. “Me too” he confirms, “I feel like I’m dying here, on this couch”.. He reaches over and takes another large swig of cheap red, grumbles a little then rest’s his head on the rocker again. I swivel the chair I’m sitting in to face the geek space. I quickly clatter at some keys, pull out the credit card. “Click, click, click”. “Happy 60th Birthday Dad” I resound, “Now you have no piss weak excuse”. “What” he grumbles from his shallow slumber. “We’re going to Tasmania to walk through the wilderness” I announce in a somewhat nonchalant voice. I’ve only been living with him a few week’s, as he moved out when I was pretty young. It’s apparent he has no idea how I operate through life, uneducated and ready to burn.

So this is how it all started. And now some months later we are ready to challenge ourselves beyond the mundane existence of dull suburbia. The plan, being that we are planning to spend 18 days in the wild with everything we need to survive carried on our back. We studied some maps and decided on four tracks, being 181km in total: The Huon, The MacKay, Port Davey and South West Coast, hence why I’ve been using the word training loosely around here.

Anyway with this I say goodbye to West OZ yet again. Let the adventures begin.

THE EARLY YEARS

Photo: WannaSurf

I woke early with board shorts on, hopped out of bed and rushed through the house. I knew I needed to get out before the dragon awoke, snarling commands: “Time to clean the windows”. It was always time to clean the windows. I made my way through the front door swift and silent so as to not awake her, and off down the street. Hurriedly I stepped my way along the smooth concrete kerb, often losing balance and having to catch myself on the abrasive bitumen road. It felt sharp as the stones dug into my fleshy foot, the worst when a stone stuck to my foot only to push up further again as I stood on the flat form. I hopped, bounded, all excitement, carefully placing each step. The air was warm against my back from the driving summer easterly. It rushed off the scarp, coming from out desert way, around Boddington I assumed, and then down across the coastal plain with certain urgency all the way to where I stood. The beach.

I cornered the last bend and came to the groyne car park. Nezza, a tall wiry fellow with thick-lensed glasses, and Brenton, a handsome fellow full of aspiration, were already there waiting with enthusiasm. They leaned up against the timber rail fence at the top of the dune, boards in hand. “Dewsey,” they called in eager accord as they caught sight of me. I was thin-framed, tanned and dressed in nothing other than a pair of tired boardies. I beamed a big joyous smile. The sun had just come over the land and now shone brightly against our bare bodies as we stared out on the pearlescent white shores. The ocean was crystal clear, low summer tide. A school of blowfish swarmed productively around the rocks, then out to sea and back again like a strong battalion marching efficient, precise, methodical, patrolling the shallows for any unsuspecting victim and the chance to feed this momentous festivity, sometimes this meant a nick from our little toe! A small wave occasionally heaved up from the depths, building speed until it came crashing down around the shallow bank just out off the groyne’s end and peeling left all the way to the shore, where, in a last attempt, it threw everything it had and broke simultaneously across the wide expanse of beach. The sound echoed up the dunes to where we watched, and then the morning silence took up its peacefulness. The waves weren’t of particular size, and we grumbled amongst ourselves. “When will this flat spell break,” Nezza argued with frustration. He loved his body boarding more than anything else. He was a tall unnatural fellow, goofy and uncoordinated until he stepped off those huge long stalks and lay flat on his skinny belly, where he transformed into a purposeful kid with a hungering passion. He yearned for good surf. Cutting across a wave with determination he would feel natural against all the confusion of youth and his bickering peers. “Shove it king,” we would shout jokingly, cheerfully. He replied with a huge flash of stark white teeth, while masterfully manoeuvring the board as to shower us down with a thin layer of cool salty spray.

We took to the beach where the white sand had already heated up for another hot day in the tremendous summer sun. “I can’t wait for tonight,” Brenton stated, girls and parties obviously on his young pubescent mind. I could sense the vibe and questioned, “Is there anything on tonight?” “Haven’t you heard?”, he resounded, astonished and dumbfounded, “There’s a massive party down at Tobes beach tonight.” He spoke with pure animation, the way he spoke about all things. I wondered if he sold honkynuts to bushies in his spare time. “You hold them like this, and blow.” The son of two predominant hard-working real estate salesmen from town, well one at least. His dad he reckons was just in it for the beer and golf, which he consumed fervently. It was his favourite joke, and he looked up to his failing dad with gratitude and admiration. The same as we all looked up to our Pa, unconditionally. It was hard not getting caught up in his crazy zealous nature. “Sweet. I’m up for that,” I replied.

We talked towards the water, our skin feeling dry against the hot air. The water lapped around our feet, it was the dead of summer and the water offered pleasant relief. Nezza was the first in, taking long ugly sweeps with his gangly arms. His head down, he paddled towards the breakers. Brenton and I watched on, laughing at this ridiculous activity. It wasn’t much deeper than our thighs, so we walked out, slowly accustoming to the cool water. This was all ruined as Nezza loomed up in front, playing his favourite trick. Brenton dunked avoiding the spray, still wet but pride intact. Meanwhile, not concentrating, I dripped, so I jumped in and hurried out towards the back. We caught a few waves, returning as soon as we could to get another. Paddle, jump, bound - it wasn’t the best surf but we would make up for that by catching as many as we possibly could. Between sets we planned our party preparation. Most importantly who could get the grog, and then who had money for it. We investigated all our resources, which could we trust. It was always a difficult task and it would take all day before our humble ten dollars would be spent.

As the day rolled on, we periodically rested up on the beach until it became too warm and we would return again to the cold revitalising surf. Others came and joined us during the day - Josh and his younger brother Brock. The Central Gang, Brad, Mileny, Macca, Wayne, Turner. The phantom, Damon who lived in a huge house overlooking the beach but rarely hung out with the rest of us... Then there were the chicks. Katie and her saucy friend Megan from up the street, Sarah with her mystical dark permed hair and soft voice. Kirsty, the younger, glamorous one we tore shorts over. The car park girls who sat around with Hedges smoking cones. And of course the constant blow of fresh talent. We told them all, we’ll see you down there, we confirmed. They all split sometime during the day, talking feverishly amongst each other. “Who can buy us drink, what money?” It was always the same old tired question, but it did little to curve this intense flurry of excitable adolescences all planning to get stone drunk, and maybe even laid.

The day was getting harshly warm, our hair crusted in dried sea salt, skin crispy. This was about the time Diesel Dyson came down, squinting in the bright light. It was always 1.00pm on the dot, never a minute earlier. He sheepishly skated the hundred-odd metres to the car park, looked at the now diminished surf, shrugged, yawned and began to aimlessly skate up and down the carpark waiting for us to catch sight of him and venture to where he was. “Let’s go for a swim in the pool,” he suggested. “Sure thing,” we agreed as we made our way to his beach shack. It was a refreshing feeling to get out of the sun, and into the cold depths of the fresh water swimming pool. Dyson standing near the kitchen window, wet and invigorated argued with his mum, “Can you get us some food mum,” Cheryl, a beautifully warm lady, resisted momentarily, then gave in to her boy’s commands. Dyson was the middle child, with an older sister who lived with an old biker, and a younger, intense brother who persistently looked up to him. And he hated it. Cheryl did her best for the boys, always understanding, tying to make the most of what appeared to be a terrible situation. I hadn’t seen Dyson’s dad in years, and neither had he, I gathered. Dyson, by default, had become the man of the house.

After we stuffed ourselves we decided we’d go for a skate down town. First we needed to change and collect some gear. I grabbed Nezza, I knew mum loved Nezza because of his mum, a strict old lady with a shriek voice. I knew if I was going to try dodging a bullet I needed a shield, a cover. He was the perfect contender. I had studied her movements over the years, watching carefully as she brought hell and breathed fire on my older siblings. She was a scaly menopausal lady ready to lash any disobedient kid. I treated it as a mind game of precise timing and cunning trickery. I walked in quietly hoping she would be somewhere else in the house, buying me time. “Where have you been,” she barked loudly before noticing Nezza was in tow. “Down the beach,” I smiled, “You remember Nezza”. “Hello Nezza.” I loved it when she used their street name. “How’s your mother.” That was the signal, and I slipped off to my room. Hastily I slipped from my wet shorts, kicking them under the bed as I grabbed at my baggy jeans which lay on the floor beside my junk-covered work desk. A shirt lay at the other end of the room. The scented condom was hidden in my school bag, which lay in the bottom of my cupboard all covered in clothes. Two unmatched holey socks were in the drawer, and one shoe was under the bed while the other was on top. I grabbed the skateboard from beside the door, wallet, phone, keys - check. I walked out, and before mum had a chance to fit in another word I signalled Nezza and shot off through the door. I could hear her scream behind me “Were do you think you’re going.” We were half way down the street, already gone.

We regrouped at Brenton’s joint, a ghastly bunch we were. Our baggy jeans hung low around our hips, wild hair, and shoes that had been patched with “Shoe Goo” from where the coarse grip of the board had worn holes effortlessly. This all doubled as our Sunday best, and no doubt would be tonight’s stunning attire. Maybe a quick squirt of Lynx Africa under the arm would finish it off. Speedily we took off down the road terrorizing anyone, especially old ladies on gophers. Just the sight of us unruly bunch taunted them with horror. The south west sea breeze blew through our muddled hair. It felt cool on this summer afternoon. I thought about many things, yet the same thing. It was always the about the girls. Their cute friendly smiles and soft joyous young bodies, just to make them once. Smell her fruity impulse spray which danced playfully around her neck, press my lips against hers. Would she pull away, or would she be inclined? I’m sure the others thought the same.

We skated around the park, then off around the local theatre. We had decided to get Nezza to buy us booze - it worked every now and then. He would take off his thick-brimmed spectacles, and march off blindly into the bottle-o. We were sure he’d get busted. His goofy, fumbling façade gave up his act before he even entered the store. We mucked around at the bottom end of the carpark on a small loading bay. Sure to stay out of sight. In a short while he came back beaming that glorious smile, in his arms a couple of bottles of cheap booze tucked out of sight. We carefully packed it away in Brenton’s backpack. The sun by this stage was hanging lazily in the sky. With an upheaval of excitement, we traced our steps back home high spirited. We had the beverages and the night was young.

The Bluff - Stirling Range

Photo: Wikipedia

Chewing lackadaisically at the third burger, followed with a long drawn slurp of sugary syrup cola I looked ahead to see the majestic silhouette of the Stirling Range tower into the cloudless sky. With my belly hung portly over my belt I enthusiastically swung the car right.... "When in Rome I guess".


Photo: Juice

One sure way to knock a triumphant Four Star Hungover to another world of hurt! Walk up a Mountain!

Four Star Hangover (****)
Life sucks. Your head is throbbing. You can't speak too quickly or else you might puke. Your boss has already lambasted you for being late and has given you a lecture for reeking of booze. You wore nice clothes, but that can't hide the fact that you only shaved one side of your face. For the ladies, it looks like you put your make-up on while riding the bumper cars. Your eyes look like one big red vein, and even your hair hurts. Your sphincter is in perpetual spasm, and the first of about five shits you take during the day! brings water to the eyes of everyone who enters the bathroom.

Find out more about the five star rating.

Rambling with whiskey

"They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn..."
~ Jack Kerouac, On the Road.

Today it occurred to me that I only have seven days of employment left. Yes that’s right after bitching about the taxing task of conscious melancholy it’s become somewhat apparent that well, it doesn’t really apply to me. I guess I always knew this but I was so lost in the whirlpool of enlightenment that I almost forgot I’m going to Tasmania in two weeks indefinitely. Most commonly recognized as the sweet wispy fluff of a female’s erogenous nether regions, Tasmania is a place of dense impenetrable bush. Oh the sweet tragic truth. To some this land of exotic fruit has represented wealth and vitality, and of course for those few who are now the richest in Australia it has not disappointed. I digress

No this is not out of a dodgy 70's flick!!

You see, some years ago I dreamt of a world, a world where I could suckle on the sweet bitter nectar of cheap alcoholic drink and indulge in the even cheaper girls under the balmy sun. All lips and nipples and oily skin, tantalising hands plunging through the icy depths of the crystal blue ocean. I treasured this idea as the epicentre of clarity, truth, beauty and understanding. I set to this as my chore, as audacious as it may sound and the years flew past. But this was without regret as I would learn. Over these “special” years I learnt of things more powerful then the jubilant pleasure of a supple “motor boating” and as skilful as the art of true happiness, or the fulfilling wholesomeness of wonton soup with the Art Director. It was fate some would say, others though like myself would be more inclined to suggest such terms; reckless excessiveness, exuberant alcoholism and pleasurable disappointment. Failure it would seem brought meaning to this chaotic perplexity.

They ask me, “What does this all mean, where will I go and how will I live? “I will write a book” I exclaim, “People will bow to its tremendous awesomeness and bask in its splendour”.. “D.I.L.L.I.G.A.F” <--(Hint; Kevin Bloody Wilson.)

Burn, Burn, Burn..

*Damn I wish I could find a picture of the Mambo art claiming the female anatomy to be a “Map of Tasmania”.. Seriously that was the best sex education I ever got.