Had to go to the city to see some wrestling. At home spending hours homing in on the requisite state of drunk & high to catch the damn train. Arrive hours later and rush to the hotel to check in. Nice place, steady elevator with no smell, tiny narrow hallways that can’t possibly be as silent as they are. Tiny room that has more than enough space and frivolous bullshit for these rural boys. I thought the previous guests had left some casual drinks in the mini fridge which was safely encased between 2 inches of fake marble. I went to grab a Peroni and feel its malty refreshment. God how naive I was. Then my much more well-travelled friend told me I was a jerk off and that we’d have to pay for whatever we consumed afterward. That nothing was free once you left the hermitage of your bedroom, that they were trying to intrude costs into there as well. It turned out there was a small drinks menu (un-professionally typeset [noted]) on the counter in a plastic upright that you might see at a kitsch-as-fuck eatery where previous dining experience was not assumed. Even though my friend explained to me the rules of engagement out here in real life Parker Bros world, I continued to be stitched-up. Like, we’re in a room with two beds and when I see two water bottles on the bedside tables I think, What a lovey concession. Nope. They have specially designed and printed labels around the top saying they can cure your thirst and realign your bodies pH balance for just $2. As with the fruitbowl- life for a price.
There are iPhone chargers (with extensions for every other imaginable phone brand) provided which are free so I go off on an intelligence-gaining jaunt around the 12-foot room. It turns out it’s only things you need that cost money; i.e, all the food and drinks. All the unnecessary amenities are free. This is great marketing because everything you need to consume the pay-only items are free, but also bad because obviously you have to purchase a pay-only thing in order to employ them. It good for Quest because then you have to purchase a $9.20 beer to use the free can opener, or order over-priced food to use the free cutlery on the fake granite bench. I do a shit and wonder what it will cost me but it turns out flushing the toilet is free, as is the tiled glass-doored shower, which is in the same small room and only separated by an opaque green wall of glass. After pacing a circuit into the perimeter of the room my dogs are barking so I sit down on this fluffy chair in the corner that has gone lumpy from the passage of non-coordinated buttocks. My ass sinks in deep when I sit and I wonder if their isn’t some spring-loaded mechanism that’s gonna click and send a surreptitious message to the front desk that one of the patrons have sat on the comfy chair and will have to be billed later. I don’t care, I look out the unclean window panes at the free view.
Catch a silent uber to a crazy NXT show. Joe vs Nakamura in a cage, Dillinger, Roode, Regal, more $9 Heinekens, $7 buckets of chips, overpriced merchandise, $50 Strong Style hats, promo girls in black jeans and heels that make your heart feel vertigo handing out WWE store discounts. It’s all good business but god does it feel alienating. Not because you can’t get what you want, but because when you’re there you feel like you want things that you know you don’t, so you begin to feel isolated from yourself. Like, I’m pretty cocked when we get there yet I stand in a lengthy line to buy 4 beers that cost nearly $40 just because there is a line and there’s nothing else to do and I am out in the city for once. There’s sound and light and garish merchandise and other people running to their seats with trays of beers and it all engenders some sort of sperm competition to buy things you know you don’t want but think you’ll feel better when you have. As a result I’m standing there with my paper thin wallet and tray of beers considering buying the last ‘Glorious’ shirt in large knowing damn well a piddly L will never fit me. I find my seat and try to sit there without incurring extra costs.
After the show we head to a bar that has $5 Captain Morgans and bouncers that all apparently share the same HGH dealer. I can’t remember the name of the place but they are playing the WORST commercial pop from like 4-5 years ago. My friend goes put to the smokers area with his beer in hand and is nearly F-5’d by a bouncer who is downright incredulous someone could have made such an oblivious decision. We drink rounds of Cpt Morgs and spend spare change playing games of skill, silently acknowledging that we could be saving our money for the uber home. And I mean to the hotel room, not home.
I have been drinking red wine lately because it makes me feel worse than smoking weed. The logic is that hopefully I’ll hit breaking point and drive myself to quit both soon. Aversion therapy. There’s nothing worse, for me, than the onrush of memory that assaults me everyday as I wake up. All the debauchery and impetuous decisions of the night before shown to me as if in a dream, a dream of a louche young thug destroying himself slowly and leaving nothing behind but a impecunious corpse. When I wake up still drunk from the wine this doesn’t mean anything to me. Good.
I haven’t been writing as many music reviews lately. There doesn’t seem to be much coming out that isn’t accorded either unanimous worship or revulsion, so what will my queer little voice add to the composition? Plus I’ve nearly finished a short story and, while it isn’t actually good, it made me feel better to write. I might post it on here soon if I can get fucked-up enough to re-read through it and do the necessary editing. If more reviews or reading this story interest you let me know.
Speaking of fucked up, at Earthcore this weekend someone (allegedly) got waterboarded. Like there’s footage of it happening so it’s not alleged, but I think they were just have a laugh with their mates so it’s alleged to me because part of torture is that it is intended to inflict pain on an unwilling participant. (Isn’t ‘unwilling participant’ an oxymoron? ‘Hostage’ seems to imply the same thing without the incongruity.) The good old Australian larrikin misrepresented by the paranoiacally afraid and out of touch media in this country. If anyone is glad they dropped out of journalism school it’s me. I’m just surprised they decided to bash the youth of this country with this piece and not angle for some headline-garnering anti-muslim fear mongering (very fashionable right now). How long ’til Andrew Bolt appears in the tabloids like the intermittent period stain he is and declares “Immigrants at music festivals torture fun-loving youth just trying to suck down nangs and GHB in peace.” People over forty seem to always need a (un)-common enemy. Anyone who’s just a little different from the 45 racist bumpkins they went to year 10 deb with back in ’63. The same people who think they’ve succeeded in life because they drive a new Senator (on payments of course) and get to hang a tribal-tattooed arm out of their driver’s window while they blast Pink or the Eagles in traffic and claim to be ‘free thinkers’ and anti-corporate. Bless ’em and their high speed drive-by vitriol and popular control of public ignorance.
Anyway this seems like it would have been one of the tamest highs a person could achieve Out There anyway. Out There in the middle of the Dread Bush, where all manner of illicit pleasures seem to pullulate in the arid soil. Couldn’t go unfortunately. What with being broke and trying to minimise my intake of mind altering molecules. Spent the weekend at home instead, yelling at the missus and watching nightly news, sharpening my pitchfork for fear that the neighbours would murder me. If you’ve never been to a Doof (Australian rave in the middle of the wilderness), it’s kind of like this doc from the 80’s called Threads, which is a docudrama about nuclear fallout. Besides being one of the most unflinching and un-glossy portrayals of nuclear hysteria, it accurately sums up both the Id-satisfying immediacy of people going to doofs, and the jingoist attitude of people in small rural towns watching 1000’s of mesomorphs enter their gates with cars full of recherché chemicals. Everyone is so concerned with protecting their little patch (whether it be physical, metaphysical or metaphoric); everyone thinks that someone they don’t know is trying to take from them. The only damage that occurs is to employability, and only because employers genuinely care about the reach of their influence and want their employees to bow down to not just what they say here and now, but years ago before they started working there too. The whole world is ran by imperialists wielding weapons of symbolic violence, so disempowered all their life they take to their platform like Mussolini. Welcome to modern Australia, where waterboarding is preferable to spending 20 minutes with anyone outside your limited demographic.