Jecca Zane
Sandra 1A Pram, a Tram and a Cask of Stan
September 11th 2007 02:56
Last night I decided to offer myself up to a higher power. An omnipotent being. A man called Stan. Stanley Fresh Dry White.
After making this decision I felt as all people must feel when they decide to live for a greater good rather than their own gain; at peace.
Once my traveling companion and I had latched onto the topic of Stanley we strayed only once, to discuss Nachos. But otherwise the conversation gently lapped, like small waves in a large lake, around the possibility of creating a garment with a compartment build into it for the purpose of carrying and decanting casks of Stanley.
When we did eventually arrive home, I did two things: Firstly I took a plastic glass brimming with the good man; Stanley (all our glass glasses being removed from use through smashing), from my friend and traveling companion, Caroline. The second thing I did was put into motion the dish that would eventually become Nachos.
Nachos may be the best thing Mexico has given the world. That and Corona. And the Dirty Sanchez. For many a year, I have been enjoying Nachos at far below its potential. Nachos previously consisted of only corn chips, salsa and cheese. (Possibly sour cream, but it would be the exception rather than the rule) I was like a Golfer taking to the back nine with only a putter, a 5 iron, a walking stick and the mast of a small sailing boat in my golf bag. Since the inclusion of Caroline and her culinary skills to my house, I have been seeing Nachos in a whole new light, much like the face of a seemingly stunning woman you met in a dimly lit nightclub presented in the cold harsh light of your kitchen. (Except the opposite of that) Nachos now regularly consist of mince, beans, curry powder, garlic, onion and even one fateful evening when they were baked in a pie.
Now I will reel back from the digressing nature of Mexican food into the natural orbit of the story. The consumption of nachos, near to that of our cask of Stanley and the completion of the evening's support act DVD: Super Troopers, marked the arrival of Caroline's friend Brittany. After a quick interlude where an attempt to remove a tracking device carelessly left imbedded in the fabric of Brittany's newly purchased garment, culminated in its destruction, and the actual completion of our cask of Stanley, we were off to the tram stop, alternating between being the pusher and pushee of a pram I secured from a hard rubbish collection on a late night scavenge.
It was not long before we deduced the reason our pram had been abandoned in our consume, reject, replace, consume culture; the tyres were as flat as a road dwelling possum. But we made the best of its diminished capacity and arrived at our sub-destination.
The people at Yarra Trams have recently installed a countdown timer representing the minutes needed to elapse before the arrival of a tram and this very timer said 6 minutes. Before this timer's inclusion, some two weeks ago, the waiting commuter would merely glance up the hill towards Dandenong on the road of the same name and check the stretch of track. On a clear night when then tram reaches the summit of the hill a kilometre up the road, the light energy from its headlights is fired into the waiting commuter's eyes, supposing he or she was looking that way. As the tram gets closer the tracks at its head can be seen to light up, like the tram is being pulled by a team of glowing ghosts.
A pram is a cumbersome thing to manoeuvre onto a tram, even with the subtraction of a screaming infant, but with a little effort I was able to ascend the steps and take a seat in the pram like a Joey in a pouch.
In Year 9 some of the people in my class learnt about inertia (other learnt how to use electricity to almost destroy our science block): An object traveling in a straight line will continue on that course until acted on by an equal and opposite force. I found this to be very true as my pram and I become the object being forced up and down the aisle of the tram according to the acceleration or deceleration of the tram. I was like a barrel of rum rolling up and down the deck of a pirate ship.
A change of trams at St Kilda junction had us on a course to the Esplanade Hotel and in the company of a very stoned young man. After a good 10 minutes of trying to convince this young man, our pram was actually the love child of myself and Caroline and that its name had been sewn into the fabric with a chisel, we alighted a stop too late and walked up the hill, pausing only to bid farewell to our pram and place it in the McDonalds drive through. God Bless America and all it's done for this country.
The esplanade hotel is always entertaining, there's always someone playing, a lot of the time for free and there is always someone who's been there since 2 in the afternoon falling about the place. This night was no exception.
A few jugs were consumed at the front of the hotel with Brittany's room mates, Matt & Phil, before we descended the stairs into the subterranean bar that lies where the old bottlo used to. A veritable cauldron of Kiwis were in attendance due to the nationality of the main act Tourettes and the flavour of music was Hip Hop. But my personal highlight was a man called the Purple Duck on his knees belting out his version of Ariel aka The Little Mermaid's number "Part of your World". As a child weened Walt Disney's fairy tale rip offs, I found it both funny and inducive of a warm a fuzzy feeling coupled with a stern moral lesson.
The moral, if I had to make one up, is this. If you cant think of anything to do with your evening: drink a cask of Stanley and go to the Espy, steal a pram on the way and hassle a stoned guy. Its the perfect way to spend an evening.
After making this decision I felt as all people must feel when they decide to live for a greater good rather than their own gain; at peace.
Once my traveling companion and I had latched onto the topic of Stanley we strayed only once, to discuss Nachos. But otherwise the conversation gently lapped, like small waves in a large lake, around the possibility of creating a garment with a compartment build into it for the purpose of carrying and decanting casks of Stanley.
When we did eventually arrive home, I did two things: Firstly I took a plastic glass brimming with the good man; Stanley (all our glass glasses being removed from use through smashing), from my friend and traveling companion, Caroline. The second thing I did was put into motion the dish that would eventually become Nachos.
Nachos may be the best thing Mexico has given the world. That and Corona. And the Dirty Sanchez. For many a year, I have been enjoying Nachos at far below its potential. Nachos previously consisted of only corn chips, salsa and cheese. (Possibly sour cream, but it would be the exception rather than the rule) I was like a Golfer taking to the back nine with only a putter, a 5 iron, a walking stick and the mast of a small sailing boat in my golf bag. Since the inclusion of Caroline and her culinary skills to my house, I have been seeing Nachos in a whole new light, much like the face of a seemingly stunning woman you met in a dimly lit nightclub presented in the cold harsh light of your kitchen. (Except the opposite of that) Nachos now regularly consist of mince, beans, curry powder, garlic, onion and even one fateful evening when they were baked in a pie.
Now I will reel back from the digressing nature of Mexican food into the natural orbit of the story. The consumption of nachos, near to that of our cask of Stanley and the completion of the evening's support act DVD: Super Troopers, marked the arrival of Caroline's friend Brittany. After a quick interlude where an attempt to remove a tracking device carelessly left imbedded in the fabric of Brittany's newly purchased garment, culminated in its destruction, and the actual completion of our cask of Stanley, we were off to the tram stop, alternating between being the pusher and pushee of a pram I secured from a hard rubbish collection on a late night scavenge.
It was not long before we deduced the reason our pram had been abandoned in our consume, reject, replace, consume culture; the tyres were as flat as a road dwelling possum. But we made the best of its diminished capacity and arrived at our sub-destination.
The people at Yarra Trams have recently installed a countdown timer representing the minutes needed to elapse before the arrival of a tram and this very timer said 6 minutes. Before this timer's inclusion, some two weeks ago, the waiting commuter would merely glance up the hill towards Dandenong on the road of the same name and check the stretch of track. On a clear night when then tram reaches the summit of the hill a kilometre up the road, the light energy from its headlights is fired into the waiting commuter's eyes, supposing he or she was looking that way. As the tram gets closer the tracks at its head can be seen to light up, like the tram is being pulled by a team of glowing ghosts.
A pram is a cumbersome thing to manoeuvre onto a tram, even with the subtraction of a screaming infant, but with a little effort I was able to ascend the steps and take a seat in the pram like a Joey in a pouch.
In Year 9 some of the people in my class learnt about inertia (other learnt how to use electricity to almost destroy our science block): An object traveling in a straight line will continue on that course until acted on by an equal and opposite force. I found this to be very true as my pram and I become the object being forced up and down the aisle of the tram according to the acceleration or deceleration of the tram. I was like a barrel of rum rolling up and down the deck of a pirate ship.
A change of trams at St Kilda junction had us on a course to the Esplanade Hotel and in the company of a very stoned young man. After a good 10 minutes of trying to convince this young man, our pram was actually the love child of myself and Caroline and that its name had been sewn into the fabric with a chisel, we alighted a stop too late and walked up the hill, pausing only to bid farewell to our pram and place it in the McDonalds drive through. God Bless America and all it's done for this country.
The esplanade hotel is always entertaining, there's always someone playing, a lot of the time for free and there is always someone who's been there since 2 in the afternoon falling about the place. This night was no exception.
A few jugs were consumed at the front of the hotel with Brittany's room mates, Matt & Phil, before we descended the stairs into the subterranean bar that lies where the old bottlo used to. A veritable cauldron of Kiwis were in attendance due to the nationality of the main act Tourettes and the flavour of music was Hip Hop. But my personal highlight was a man called the Purple Duck on his knees belting out his version of Ariel aka The Little Mermaid's number "Part of your World". As a child weened Walt Disney's fairy tale rip offs, I found it both funny and inducive of a warm a fuzzy feeling coupled with a stern moral lesson.
The moral, if I had to make one up, is this. If you cant think of anything to do with your evening: drink a cask of Stanley and go to the Espy, steal a pram on the way and hassle a stoned guy. Its the perfect way to spend an evening.
| 66 |
| Vote |
