Saturday night ended up being a strange affair, I guess. I wrote this in the notebook and I have no idea why. I should carry it around more often, just so I can make notes. It’s getting harder to drum up memories.

After leaving that disappointing Supanova, I decided to rejoin Staples and Elmo at the Kuan-Yin for something to eat and then back to the flat for a siesta. Elmo had to drive to another friend’s place and then back home, so she parted and Staples and I took a nap.

Evening came and we both got up and rode into a sleepy suburb behind South Bank, to the location of the Turnstile. It’s a basement venue underneath someone’s house. They provide live acts, a DIY woodfire pizza station, homebrew beer and other things, all of which is donation-based. It attracts the hippie/sustainable living crowd and is generally laid back. Staples wanted to particularly go because Dana Lyons of “Cows With Guns” fame was playing. He ran through a half dozen or so song, getting the crowd involved when he needed it.

After his set we rode into the city to meet up with Kelly and Michelle, two of Staples friends. We walked through the city to Paddington. Our original intention was to sit at the Cartel Bar, but they didn’t serve food. So we parked ourselves at the Calypso, where there were some provate functions happening, one of which was clearly a birthday party, complete with high maintenance women dressed in costumes of various careers from the Slutty Universe.

We had some chip and below-average vegetarian spring rolls. We went back to the Cartel where the four of us chatted about a variety of things over beers and cider. However, when the conversation didn’t involve me, I would people-watch. There was a woman in a golden cocktail dress, holding a pink boa and every cab she tried to hail would roll on by despite the exposure of her chest and legs and the colour of her dress under the streetlights. There were several costume parties happening at once, with people dressed as police, cowboys and indians. A middle-aged man nervously parks his white SUV, running his hand over his head and hair, trying to look for someone. The two guys and two girls come out of the woodwork with on of the girls propped up by one of the men. Then he picks her up and carries her, Bodyguard-like, to the SUV with the nervous father inside. Both girls loaded inside, the SUV rolls down the narrow alleyway into the night. A short time later a large man fell down the stairs across the road in the same alley. Each step was well-worn concrete. Two guys found him and tried to help, by getting him back on his feet. An ambulance eventually arrived and after some frustrating-looking talks to the man was guided inside the ambulance and he was quietly carted away.

Two tall glasses of cider, began to make me feel full and sick. We called it a night, Staples and I fare-welled Michelle and Kelly, and then we rode back to his place. Along the way a massive crane was being installed and as the setup evolved, it blocked a major street. Couples had arguments on the sidewalks and gardens while latenight backpackers inspected maps wondering which direction to take next. Women in pleated and short skirts march down the street alone or in pairs, with shoes in hands. Young men laughing, running and wrestling in the street. Old men walking alone. And lovers sitting by the riverside in the parkland and waterfronts enjoying their open privacy.

The next morning, I help Staples iron out an intro for a new zine of his and then we hit a suitcase rummage before heading back to his place to secure my belongings, catch a cab and then ride a train back to the airport. But I am twice vexed. My ticket is stuck in my pocket and my wristwatch becomes unstuck and flung to the floor. The glass is smashed. The my train does not come until later, about twenty minutes later and I miss my intended flight. It costs me fifty lucre and five hours for the next flight. So goodbye afternoon.

Still waiting for the plane and my phone is dead.

Jack Crash