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Published: July 19th 2008
Snoopy in my earlobe
Sandra, thanks for the little package!The Pope is in town, but before you all start making logical yet inaccurate assumptions that he’s here to catch up with me, I should set you straight and give you the actual reason; World Youth Day.
I had never heard of this before, and after having it explained to me it sounds nothing short of bizarre. Apparently it's a huge event, and every four year a new city is chosen to have the honor to host the Pope His Holiness and the thousands of pilgrims who stalk him. It’s quite similar to the Olympics in that sense, but there is at least one important difference; in addition to the fanatical pilgrims, there’s also a saint following the Pope wherever he goes. If you’re informed enough to know that one cannot become a saint until deceased, you’ll soon realize that this means that there’s a dead body tailing him. And yes, to answer your next question, they did fly this cadaver in from Italy. How can anyone be considered a saint if she’s adding to her carbon footprint when dead? Highly irresponsible corpse.
Prior to the World Youth Day I wasn’t aware that religious fanaticism and garishness were so closely
linked; it seems almost a pre-requisite to be a tacky troll in order to be considered a true believer. Pins galore on ugly fishing hats, hideous orange backpacks and fleece jackets in the same carrot-like color; it all helps in creating an ensemble that screams “Abstinence is no challenge when looking like this!”
In my humble opinion, WYD’s only redeeming feature is that it brought with it inspiration for the t-shirt of the year;
“I was touched by the Pope Down Under.”
Ha ha.
At first it was said that it would be strictly illegal to “annoy a pilgrim”, and the fine of AUS $5,500 could be handed to you for simply wearing a t-shirt that upset the unadulterated mind of a pilgrim, but after some drama around this issue that law was retracted, and it’s now ok to hassle them.
This means people wear all their most offensive t-shirts, especially when on public transport, as this is one place where the pilgrims are typically seen in myriads.
Sam, a regular at the coffee shop, is completely absorbed by this hysteria, and hands me fun clippings from the newspapers, who all do their very best to cover the most
relevant information of this exciting week, such as reporting on the nuns’ affinity for sweets.
Flirting at the coffee shop has been spectacular these last two weeks, but I won’t bore you with any more saucy dialogues between me and Patrice, who remains the primary recipient of my coquette mannerisms.
Just rest assured that I’m having a grand ol’ time, and that work has never been more stimulating.
Glenn went to Melbourne for a week, which was good timing since my favorite Aussie boy Will just got back to Sydney that week, and I wanted to make sure I got to spend some time with him. We got right back into the habits we had formed during the few weeks before his departure now 3 months ago. This, for those of you who don’t remember, means eating a lot, namely eating out. Dessert is a most crucial part of any meal for Will, and I’m easily swayed when presented with menus listing all kinds of calorie-bombs. This is all wonderful as far as my taste buds are concerned, but it’s disastrous for my wallet, not to mention the negative effect it has on my half-hearted attempts to at
least not add to my physical fat depots.
Will and have I also discovered brand new ways to be even more of a nuisance to our surroundings, primarily by speaking a nearly esoteric language formed by loose Mitch Hedberg-quotes, lines from Flight of the Conchords and an assortment of random jokes from comical masterminds like David O’Doherty and Ricky Gervais. Laughing at the fact that no one around us has a clue as to what the heck we’re talking about is amusing for only us, and probably offensive to all these people who aren’t privy to what’s so damn funny. Unfortunately, this only makes it more fun for us, so it’s a downward spiral, at least from a purely social aspect.
Will brought me a gift from his travels; a Russian doll. It's a reference to a Flight of the Conchord skit, but Will also claims that he thinks this doll looks a bit like me, pointing to the hair color, her bangs and the rosy cheeks. I’m not sure I agree, but I’m glad to let her sit on my bookshelf.
Dave and I went to the Underbelly Festival at Carriageworks last Saturday, and later that night I
had the honor of accompanying Will to the Opera House to see Geoffrey Gurrumul-Yunupingu, an Aboriginal blind singer with a rather amazing voice. To Dave I said I was going to see a blind Aboriginal mime, as I thought this was a more entertaining reason for weaseling out of the last hours of the festival. “I’m nuts about mime!” I exclaimed over the phone when I was informing him that I wouldn’t be keeping him company all night, and Dave was kind enough to pretend this wasn’t the creepiest thing he had heard all week.
After the show Will and I went to Newtown for an enormous meal consisting of a tofu burger, a virtual mountain of nachos and beans and cheese and guacamole, and an oversized piece of sticky date cake for which Will demanded both cream and ice cream. Our bellies protruded accordingly, but my jeans unfortunately didn’t, which caused some discomfort until all this food settled.
We followed up this massive feast with six games of pool before we finally called it a night.
Will, it’s good to have you back in town.
On Sunday we made our very own pilgrimage to a music store downtown
where both of us purchased one beginner’s guitar each. Because we’re stingy bastards, we bought only one tuner, figuring we can share it like divorced parents share their kids. So far, sharing this rather essential piece of equipment is... alright.
On our way back home we went into some random stores, and when browsing around in the Hype shoe store, I found my
dream shoe. It’s an Adidas, it’s far too expensive, and it
has to be mine. Soon. I figure I can work extra for a day or two during the weekend so that I can finally afford this stunning shoe with a clean conscience. I need shoes anyway, so I might as well get the hottest thing out there.
Thursday was Seamus’ last day in Sydney, so I, Finn and he went out for dinner. Following my recommendation, we chose the Nepalese Kitchen, where I found myself to be the only one eating with my hands. As this is custom in Nepal, I stuck with it. Food is better without cutlery, I reckon, the same way candy is better when falling.
After food, with which we had had a cheap bottle of wine, we went on to
the Cleveland Bar. A few others joined us there, and next thing I knew I was knee-deep in a conspiracy theory discussion about 911, galvanized by me commenting on the printed text on the back of a guy’s iPod; “911 was an inside job”.
Now, I absolutely
adore conspiracy theories, and my mouth waters when I read about Malcolm X, JFK and other unsolved “mysteries”. It's just so fascinating, this quest for the truth. But to be in a live, slightly tipsy discussion with true believers is a whole other issue. The owner of the iPod immediately dove headfirst into a long soliloquy about all the undeniable facts proving his theory. The fact that I wasn’t as convinced as him made him scoff in a condescending way at me, and he shook his head and said with a belittling grin; “The healthy skeptic, are you?”.
“Well, I like to think for myself, and I’d rather not pick sides until one truly convinces me” is what I said, when in fact I was thinking “Yes, you daft fuck.”
As I was the only one who even had the tiniest dose of this healthy skepticism, it soon got tiresome to sit there
Made in China
National Piñata League? and hear all the “proof” being reiterated time after time, as if this made it more compelling.
My main problem with the 911 conspiracy theory is that I don’t think they would’ve had to go through so much trouble if all they wanted was to create an illusion of a terrorist attack.
First of all, it doesn’t seem to take that much work to get the majority of the U.S to agree that there’s a country that needs to have the shit bombed out of it, and that Team America is the best candidate to carry out this task.
Secondly, I don’t see the need for the planes to begin with; they could’ve just blown up the buildings by detonations and say that it was a suicidal bomber. We’ve been familiar with them fellows for a long time, so that would’ve been an easy enough pill to swallow. Doing so would’ve eliminated two very large problems; one being the numerous witnesses and reports claiming that the plane was something other than a passenger plane, and two being the countless architectures who supposedly all agree that the buildings weren’t collapsing due to the planes crashing into them, but to detonations
in the corner frames of the structure. Why, if you’re going to carry out such a dicey project that will get the whole world's attention, wouldn’t you make sure that the plane at least looked like a passenger plane, and that there wouldn’t be a whole corps of highly regarded architects who would immediately see through the bullshit?
I’m not convinced it was an inside job, and I’m not convinced it wasn’t, but the fact that I didn’t share this guy’s certainty of the former was enough to make the social situation a wee bit uncomfortable, so I soon left the bar and went home. As I was working the next day, I could leave without anyone questioning why. Thank God for my day job!
Glenn is starting to bore me a bit, but I’ve found a way to make spending time with him far more amusing. As always, the recipe for sprucing up a weary circumstance is a few little lies, although I think “lying” is an unnecessarily negative word for what in reality is just me innocuously tweaking the truth to create more interesting situations.
While lying on his couch watching the Goonies the other night:
“Hey…
Lately people have been telling me they think I’m gay”, says Glenn with a concerned look on his handsome yet vacant face. “Why do you think that is?”
“Oh… I thought you were, too. At first, I mean. But then I realized you’re bisexual, not gay.”
Glenn assured me I was wrong; he was not keen on guys at all. I feigned surprise.
“What? Are you saying you’ve never been with a man… At all?”
Glenn got a bit nervous by my reaction of disbelief, but kept telling me that he’s never been attracted to a man in that way. I kept pretending that I had assumed that he was bisexual this whole time, providing vague reasons for why;
“Give me an example of something I do that made you think that I'm into men”, he insisted, and I replied with a nightmare answer:
“I don’t quite know… There’s just something about you that convinced me that you were in to men as well. Your posture, the way you walk. The whole package, you know?”
Oh my, it’s so much fun! He seems truly disconcerted by this, and I’m having a blast fueling these concerns. Now we’re at the point where I tell him I think he’s just lying to himself, since his sexual preference is so obvious to everyone else. “Just accept it, Glenn. It’s alright to be into guys.”
“But I don’t like men!” objects Glenn. Ha ha.
In reality, I don’t necessarily think he’s bisexual, but he sure seems to have a strong affinity for getting naked with his male friends, namely the boys in his band. And this drunken habit of his is, of course, perfect firewood for the “Glenn-is-definitely-bisexual”-fire.
And it burns, burns, burns...
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Will
non-member comment
Ok so you dress to the right, and your Russian doppelganger to the left.. apart from that you're twins! Remember all those time you were laying in a twin size bed wondering where your sister was? Now you know!