Jecca Zane
Sandra 1On the Road-The journey
September 20th 2007 03:29
As most of you have probably deduced by now; SecretMelbourne concerns itself with all things Melbourne. And as some others of have also deduced; SecretMelbourne also concerns itself with all things philosophical about living in Melbourne. Secretmelbourne is really the reflection of a life, any life; your Nana's possibly, led in a city.
Now after I have finished defending my next action. I announce that the following post is a removal from the name sake of my site because the main event of the post takes place in another city; I shall launch into it now and we will all know what I seem to know already.
4.30 Friday afternoon. At this time the pheromones of an impending weekend waft into my sinuses and set me on full arousal. The weekend; wearing jeans, watching Rage, drinking beers, sleeping in, sharing witticisms with friends (talking shit), eating kebabs, going to parties, drinking beer , bacon, and eggs and going to gigs. This is my natural state.
And it was a primal urge to leave my desk and begin my devolution back to this natural state that saw me on my feet and out the door 15 minutes early. I'm a rebel. "Watch out for that crazy man", I hear you all say. If you see me in this state at this time, look out I might be about to catch a marsupial...in my teeth.
So, I'm outside of work and on the phone to my travelling companion Kirk; he enjoys his job thoroughly and it took several of my firmest sentences to cease any overtimeistic behaviour he might be considering undertaking.
The city grid meets the world at the corner of Elizabeth and Victoria Streets, and it is here that I am to meet Kirk. I am earlier than our deemed time of meeting so I go into the Stork Hotel to purchase myself a six pack of Melbourne Bitter and retire to some steps across the road to drink them. Many of you may consider me to be a common Bogan for doing this, we'll that is partly true, but you must know that what I was doing on those steps; masking my alcohol consumption with a brown plastic bag next to a road with another five waiting for the same treatment, was really a way to ready myself for my destination. A short of exercise to deter the possibility of being struck down by culture shock.
Kirk arrived around 5.30; I'd just finished my first beer and was ready for a journey. We were on our way and got out of the city in quick time due to an E-tag Kirk was able to acquire from his work on the pretext of completing work related tasks in his car over the weekend. Blasphemy, I said. But I'm sure Jesus would have done the same thing
I will tell you the destination of this tale in due time, for now I will regale you, the reader or Australian Censor Committee, with the story of our journey. For as one, possibly homeless or lost person once said; "it's not the destination that's important, it's the journey" Idiot.
A phone call from an old school friend as we were passing Calder Park boosted our dinner reservations at The Bridge Hotel from two; Kirk and myself, to three; Kirk, myself and Luke Willis, the Kyntonian. I then called my mother around Malmsbury pretending I was an encyclopaedia salesman and questioned her about her referencing capabilities. She was fooled for about half a minute. Malmsbury is boring place, although it is on a hill, which is also boring, unless you're a dung beetle and you need a rest from the weight of the heavy ball of dung you're pushing, unless or have to push it up the hill, then you would hate it more than I do, but maybe Dung beetles aren't capable of hate, then you, the Dung beetle, would just keep pushing your ball of shit up the hill. When teleportation is invented, no one will go to Malmsbury; their particles will just whip past in the atmosphere on the way to Melbourne. The next piece of interest was a bathroom break I took about 86 kilometres from our destination. The rain was coming down like it wasn't coming down at all, more like it was lingering in the air with the sole purpose of wetting me. "Go wet a farmer" I said to the rain, to which it continued wetting me.
The rest of the journey continued on without much of interest. I saw a cow and a bridge, not very interesting at all. Unless you're into that sort of thing.
The six pack I had brought with me for company and also the tube of Pringles were becoming depleted. We would soon be there and could replenish both. "Where are you going", I hear you scream at your screen. I can hear you because I'm standing behind you. I'm not really. Or maybe I am. But I'm not. But maybe I am.
I will end this instalment of the journey because it's going to go on for awhile and I'm sure you've got toast to butter.
I will tell you all the name of the place I have just arrived in, well I'm in Melbourne right now, but where the story is to be played out, no actually I wont. I'll give you a clue; it starts with BEN and ends in DIGO. Figure it out. The next collection of syntax with concern the arrival, meal, the following party and a Black Swan.
Now after I have finished defending my next action. I announce that the following post is a removal from the name sake of my site because the main event of the post takes place in another city; I shall launch into it now and we will all know what I seem to know already.
4.30 Friday afternoon. At this time the pheromones of an impending weekend waft into my sinuses and set me on full arousal. The weekend; wearing jeans, watching Rage, drinking beers, sleeping in, sharing witticisms with friends (talking shit), eating kebabs, going to parties, drinking beer , bacon, and eggs and going to gigs. This is my natural state.
And it was a primal urge to leave my desk and begin my devolution back to this natural state that saw me on my feet and out the door 15 minutes early. I'm a rebel. "Watch out for that crazy man", I hear you all say. If you see me in this state at this time, look out I might be about to catch a marsupial...in my teeth.
So, I'm outside of work and on the phone to my travelling companion Kirk; he enjoys his job thoroughly and it took several of my firmest sentences to cease any overtimeistic behaviour he might be considering undertaking.
The city grid meets the world at the corner of Elizabeth and Victoria Streets, and it is here that I am to meet Kirk. I am earlier than our deemed time of meeting so I go into the Stork Hotel to purchase myself a six pack of Melbourne Bitter and retire to some steps across the road to drink them. Many of you may consider me to be a common Bogan for doing this, we'll that is partly true, but you must know that what I was doing on those steps; masking my alcohol consumption with a brown plastic bag next to a road with another five waiting for the same treatment, was really a way to ready myself for my destination. A short of exercise to deter the possibility of being struck down by culture shock.
Kirk arrived around 5.30; I'd just finished my first beer and was ready for a journey. We were on our way and got out of the city in quick time due to an E-tag Kirk was able to acquire from his work on the pretext of completing work related tasks in his car over the weekend. Blasphemy, I said. But I'm sure Jesus would have done the same thing
I will tell you the destination of this tale in due time, for now I will regale you, the reader or Australian Censor Committee, with the story of our journey. For as one, possibly homeless or lost person once said; "it's not the destination that's important, it's the journey" Idiot.
A phone call from an old school friend as we were passing Calder Park boosted our dinner reservations at The Bridge Hotel from two; Kirk and myself, to three; Kirk, myself and Luke Willis, the Kyntonian. I then called my mother around Malmsbury pretending I was an encyclopaedia salesman and questioned her about her referencing capabilities. She was fooled for about half a minute. Malmsbury is boring place, although it is on a hill, which is also boring, unless you're a dung beetle and you need a rest from the weight of the heavy ball of dung you're pushing, unless or have to push it up the hill, then you would hate it more than I do, but maybe Dung beetles aren't capable of hate, then you, the Dung beetle, would just keep pushing your ball of shit up the hill. When teleportation is invented, no one will go to Malmsbury; their particles will just whip past in the atmosphere on the way to Melbourne. The next piece of interest was a bathroom break I took about 86 kilometres from our destination. The rain was coming down like it wasn't coming down at all, more like it was lingering in the air with the sole purpose of wetting me. "Go wet a farmer" I said to the rain, to which it continued wetting me.
The rest of the journey continued on without much of interest. I saw a cow and a bridge, not very interesting at all. Unless you're into that sort of thing.
The six pack I had brought with me for company and also the tube of Pringles were becoming depleted. We would soon be there and could replenish both. "Where are you going", I hear you scream at your screen. I can hear you because I'm standing behind you. I'm not really. Or maybe I am. But I'm not. But maybe I am.
I will end this instalment of the journey because it's going to go on for awhile and I'm sure you've got toast to butter.
I will tell you all the name of the place I have just arrived in, well I'm in Melbourne right now, but where the story is to be played out, no actually I wont. I'll give you a clue; it starts with BEN and ends in DIGO. Figure it out. The next collection of syntax with concern the arrival, meal, the following party and a Black Swan.
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