Archive | November, 2010

DAY 91: Giving my house a grown woman’s touch

30 Nov

MY teenage bedroom screamed: “I am not like you, and I assure you I never will be.” The shelves were piled pointedly with books on sex and aggressive art, while my most repugnant records (Rektum, Revolting Cocks, erm, Ratt) were always at the fore. Cuttings about angry young men and slutty young girls papered the walls – around a shrine to Gaye Bykers On Acid – and I was trying to start a line in acrylic-painted cigarette cases adorned with sickly babies, long before the government health warnings caught on. The eagle-eyed might spot some snot-nosed, middle-class rebellion going on here. Otherwise, why would Hanoi Rocks’ ‘Dead By Xmas’ be blared out on repeat every December?

I was always desperate to prove myself by going one harder than anyone else, which left me deflated and baffled when there was no approval forthcoming. But as a result, it was not a warm room. I was working on becoming warm and likeable, watching girls at school closely for the way they crinkled their eyes when they laughed, or touched your hand in sympathy. It’s taken a couple more decades but I’ve nearly nailed it.

It strikes me not a lot has changed in my decorating skills though. I’ve got the explosive styling of an angry teenager – gender undetermined – and the paint job of a child. I decide the place needs a woman’s touch, and so set about tarting up my unfathomably-purchased chandelier (because every chandelier needs further adornment, right?) and making a medical box, like a grown-up would do. Um, THERE.

Keeper? How about you just suspend your judgment if you come round? If your eyes hurt I can apply first aid.

Yikes.

DAY 90: Going to the cops

29 Nov

John Christie, a master of many disguises. Chair dancer among them?

HOW fitting, to mark day 90 – three months into my buck-your-ideas-up (TM Dad) scheme – by really breaking out the bunting and sounding those bells and whistles.

Unfortunately, it’s a Monday – got things to do, people to see – and so I wind up going to the Victoria Police Museum on Flinders: To miss it would be a crime!

The museum’s small, but a nice addendum to a Melbourne Gaol visit. There are plenty of pictures of handsome bushrangers and ne’er-do-wells; some Kelly armour (it’s 45kg, you know) and an exhibition dedicated to the collapse of the Westgate Bridge.

My favourite part was about dapper detective John Christie, who served in the late 1800s, “described as the idol of the Victorian public because of his astounding feats of athletics, his many hair-breadth escapes, extraordinary ruses and tricks, and his ingenuity and resourcefulness.” Pretty easy on the eye, too.

Keeper? I’ll keep John in mind when I get around to that novel. (As opposed to the ‘novel’.)

DAY 89: Giving my libido a right flogging

28 Nov

MY wholesome task is rained off today, so I’m forced to go undercover and explore Melbourne’s seamy underbelly, where women wear open-toed PVC heels whatever the weather, and men wear roomy pants.

First stop, Sexpo: a peculiarly unarousing emporium of bare buttocks, sparkly lubes, spankings, floggings, sour-faced porn stars, strip lights and novelty penis paraphernalia — not so much Melbourne’s underbelly as its flaccid cock.

Held at the MCEC, it’s right next door to a lifestyle expo for retirees, who won’t want to be getting their show bags muddled up. Or maybe they will. “Pink or purple vibrator?” I’m asked on arrival.

Being the day of rest, there’s not much sauciness going on, other than a trapeze act and Michelle ‘Bombshell’ McGee (best known for gazumping Sandra Bullock), who’s manning a stand with no takers. Off in one corner is The Gerbil — a ghost train converted into a rolling rompercoaster of knockers, but I’m sidetracked by getting my photo taken with a giant penis, which I can’t bring myself to publish.

I have to leave when some pervert cranks up the public tannoy. Why is it the Sex Crazed insist on putting on such revolting ‘naughty’ voices?

Next up is a strip club on King Street, as it seems I’m the only person in the world who hasn’t experienced over-priced drinks and buttocks set to vibrate, despite having grown up listening to the teachings of Vince Neil. I take along Nicole and Layna, and the strippers love us. No really — they love us for who we are. Each dancer that joins us seems hugely relieved that I’ve been to Sexpo, as she gets a conversation starter of how tacky it is and how she never goes anymore — and I get to say I had my photo taken with a giant cock. Blam, everyone’s happy.

The action on the pole’s less acrobatic than I expected. The first girl does some languid, slo-mo undulations that I could easily pull off, given a gram of ketamine, while the next chick, by contrast, looks like she’s going to fly off at great speed to a dance rendition of ‘Run to Paradise’ — not ideal when you’re a couple of months pregnant. The third strips off completely and straddles some dude’s face which, quite frankly, my mum could do.

I don’t know what the men are thinking in these circumstances, but I can tell you definitively that the girls in the audience are weighing up their own qualifications. There’s a hierarchy of talent here, and I reckon I could awkwardly gyrate my way in on a lower-lower-middle rung, as do Nic and Layna — or Lulu and Mercedes, as they’d now like to be known.

By the time Roxanne has come over to spin us some bullshit yarn about how she had a lap dance from a gorgeous girl one night and — whaddayaknow — she signed up to be a stripper the next day, we’re all sparkly eyed thinking about being long-limbed lolitas (give or take a couple of decades), like little girls fantasizing about being princesses.

Keeper? Yep — discussing the costumes was a pleasing way to accompany a drink.

DAY 88: Working on a chain gang

27 Nov

Keith.

IT’S my first day volunteering with the local steam railway and I’ve asked for something physical to do, so I’m sent out to work on the tracks in torrential rain.

Turns out it’s just me and the chief ganger, Keith – a hyper, wiry chap who leaps around hitting things and explaining what’s what. For the first hour we can hardly understand a word the other’s saying, but roughly speaking we’re having fun comparing notes on what we think a bloke from Mount Isa and a journalist from England should be like. Keith expresses astonishment that I am not haughty, frail or pale.

“I’ve never seen anyone turn up to work on the railway in lipstick and nail polish though,” he says as we trundle off to Muckleford in his high-rail Mitsubishi that travels along the train tracks.

“The general consensus was that you were going to be a truck,” he continues. I pose for a photo for his phone, splattered in mud and wielding a pickaxe, so he can show the fellas. What can I say – I’m a good sport.

I’d been hoping to impress Keith with my newly learned railway slang (a track worker, like me, is a hairy-leg), but it turns out he’s far more interested in tracks than trains. “They’re all mad,” he scoffs of train workers. “When they’re not working on trains they watch videos about trains and listen to tapes of train noises.”

Our task today is to replace old sleepers with new ones. We jack up the rails, pickaxe the shit out of the rotten sleepers, then dig the trough clear before sliding a new sleeper in with giant tongs and securing it with four dog spikes, which I’ve heard as “dog’s bollocks” for the first hour Keith’s been saying it. Out here, that seems completely reasonable.

Quite regularly, Keith’ll hoist a sleeper off the back of the truck straight into my path, sending a tsunami of mud over me from head to already-saturated buttcrack, but I get my revenge when he skids on a rail and falls flat on his arse.

I admire Keith greatly. Every obstacle we face – trying to jack the rail by hand having forgotten the man-sized spanner; having the sleepers suckered firmly by the mud – I’d have wanted to put in the Too Hard box, but he sees it as an interesting conundrum.

Keith shares his tomatoes and tells me his life story on cigarette breaks, which are for my benefit, as he can quite capably smoke and swing a sledgehammer at the same time. For my part, I’ve assured him I’ll practise swinging one at home, to avoid bringing it down into sludgy puddles in front of our faces.

“Next time you can race me on the pump bike,” he promises mysteriously as we squidge back to the truck. “Race the ganger. No one’s ever beaten me yet.”

My rattle gun's most likely bigger than yours.

Keeper? Yargh! Great fun, and Keith’s a trooper. Will have to track down suitable clothing and new back muscles first.

DAY 87: Running my driving instructor’s car off the road

26 Nov

I’VE been wondering what the hell I’m going to do for today’s task, so thank god this happens.

It’s been raining so long and so hard it feels like the world’s ending, and so my driving lesson involves snorkelling through brand new rivers that have formed over roads around Guildford and Daylesford. One bloke’s looking miserably at the top half of his tractor floating in a field on our way through, and on the way back it’s gone altogether.

It’s around this point I merely tickle the crumbly gutter with one wheel when suddenly we’re locked into it at speed, like a bicycle tyre in a tram track, before I correct the manoeuvre by steering us into incoming traffic. I correct again and we hurtle off 100m into the bush.

“Brake! Brake!” the instructor screams, even though he’s got a brake as well. “I AM,” I snap, pointing at my foot. And it’s true – it’s on the brake, we’re just having a bit of a prolonged skid.

“What would you have to do to get them to stop, roll the bloody car?” he tuts of the other tittering drivers after checking he still has all his wheels.

We giggle for the next 10 kays… but seriously, I’m well impressed by my reaction skills. I reckon if the tester saw that he’d pass me immediately.

Keeper? I wanted to do it again straight away.

The tractor. I didn't hit it.

DAY 86: Pillion-no-more

25 Nov

My bike, Roger.

I’VE been doing a lot of pillion riding lately and I reckon I’ve earned those stripes. My balance rivals that of a Russian gymnast and it’s all I can do not to scream “wooh” and throw my arms in the air when we go round tight corners, just to prove my point. No more headbutting helmets whatsoever, nor helping drivers steer.

So I’m starting to plot about my own bike. It’s a Harley ‘Hardly Drivable’ Davidson I’ve got my eye on, thanks to a recent FHM article, which is basically the only thing that has informed me. But by fuckery, those Harley Sportsters look neat. I’ve decided that by the time my 365 days of tomfoolery are over, I must have my driver’s licence, my pilot’s licence and my motorcycle licence…  something tangible to come out of this venture, other than the shits and giggles.

I approach a creepy dude manning the Harley stand at the MCEC’s Motorcycle Expo and ask him if I can sit astride my chosen model.

“You can sit on whatever you like,” he shoots back.

Er, touché. But very well, if we’re playing this game…  “You can make me win, can’t you?” I simper, as I fill out the competition form to bag one such beast.

He simpers back, folds my form up and puts it in his pocket.

Game ON. Surely?

Keeper? I’m getting there. Haven’t chosen my outfit yet.

DAY 85: Writing thank you notelets like Mum used to make us do

24 Nov

IN my childhood home, writing a thank you note was as vital for a healthy constitution as Sun-Maid Raisins and morning ablutions, yet I haven’t cracked out a notelet since Christmas 1987.

Get this, though. Not only could writing a thank you note almost qualify as a random act of kindness (so unanticipated would it be), but Buddhists have known since the sand flats of time that gratitude for your lot is the No.1 way you can improve your quality of life. Coming late to the party, I’ve made up for lost decades by getting a Gratitude app on my iPhone, as endorsed by Oprah. That’s got me through some tough times and boring train journeys, I can tell you.

I decide to write three thank you notes to people who probably don’t even know they gave me a warm feeling recently, with fingers firmly crossed that they don’t think I’m creepy. I choose notelets with animals on, as is customary for such occasions, and send the first one to the local vet. He handled Mr Thumpy on Saturday with a tenderness unbecoming to a veterinarian, and only charged me $27. Hopefully this wasn’t a mistake, or I’ll soon be getting a note BACK.

The others recipients I’ll keep to myself.

Keeper? I’m probably not going to be one of those people who send their favourite Starbucks outlet a postcard from Greece, but heartfelt missives should be allowed to run riot, at least until the cops are called.

DAY 84: Passing my hazard test, despite Richard Marx’s best efforts

23 Nov

It's like playing Big Game Hunter, driving out where I live.

THE question is, can I pull off my hazard test (stage one of your driving test) while I’ve got ‘Hazard’ by Richard Marx droning relentlessly between my ears?

>click the mouse when you would slow down<

“I swearrrr I left her by the river…”

>click the mouse when you would turn right<

“...All of my rescues are go-o-o-o-o-o-one”

Fortunately, I pass… although at 61%, I’d watch my brake lights vigilantly if I were you.

Swerving haphazardly off topic, I’ve noticed my Vic Roads driving manual reads like a Buddhist tract. If you replace ‘drive’ with ‘act’, and ‘drivers’ with ‘people’, you’ve got a Zen manual for living:

* Always drive co-operatively, even when others are not.

* Give other drivers plenty of space so they don’t feel like you are invading their personal space.

* Concentrate on driving and pay attention to changes in driving conditions.

* If you make a mistake while driving, acknowledge it.

* If another driver makes a mistake or becomes aggressive, try not to react – remember, it is a mistake, not a personal attack.

* Don’t make offensive hand gestures.

To that I would only add: Keep on movin’, don’t look back (except for the odd head check)

Keeper? No one can take this away from me. Not even after Day 87.

DAY 83: Thrashing around at Vaughan Springs

22 Nov


THIS is a popular local it’s-too-hot spot, judging by the utes, blue singlets and mocking gazes directed at our picnic. I am still only blowing 0.0005 as a bona fide country chick, though. A ways to go. I turned down a wild rabbit dinner tonight, and it’s not even like I was asked to slaughter it myself.

Keeper? Yes! Next time will try to thrash around less at the possibility of eels.

DAY 82: Shooting Glocks, Magnums, Rugers, shotguns and stuff

21 Nov

Don't stand like this.

QUEENSLAND’s a law unto itself – like me, man – so naturally you can work your way through an arsenal of firearms at a shooting range without a licence.

At the Shooting Centre in Southport, my fellow bloodthirsty tourist and I buy over 100 rounds of ·22; 9mm; ·38 special; ·357; ·45 auto; ·44 Magnum.

My favourite’s the ·38 Special handgun – for the chamber-spinnin’ hijinks and Deer Hunter flashbacks – while the comrade’s obsessed with a Dirty Harry-style ·44 Magnum. We’re set through our paces by Roger, an affable chap who starts us on the wussy “ladies’” ·22, all the way up to a Glock. These firearms are way heavier and louder than anticipated – it’s hard not to flinch or kick out a foot when one goes off, even if it’s you pulling the trigger. But fuck, if Kate Ritchie and Rodger Corser can do it, so can I.

clavicle-no-more

It’s the lever-action, 12-gauge shotgun Roger’s impatient to get to, though. It’s not included in our deal, but he’s dropped it into conversation three times now and is practically hopping from foot to foot when we start to consider the merits of letting one off.

Oh, all right then. I’ve wanted to fire a shotgun for ages, but even my fantasies have been accompanied by painful visions of the kickback cracking my collarbone in two. Roger admits he likes to advise people who are annoying him to hold the butt of the gun an inch away from their shoulder for optimum clavicle ouch.

“You only have to vaguely point a shotgun in the direction of something,” he says, as I faff around getting into place. “Because you’re definitely going to hit it.”

Sure enough, I pepper the target sheet with hundreds of holes after just one shot. The cartridge shoots out in front of my nose, with a pleasing puff of gunpowder. There are signs everywhere reminding punters to wash their hands and arms before leaving, as the residue of shooting leaves poisonous, powdered lead all over your limbs.

“Brought down the Roman Empire,” Roger notes. “Lead poisoning from saucepans.”

They made me wear these Protective Socks (slightly soiled).

Keeper? This gave me major ladywood.

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