where have all the good times gone?

I'm deciding when to get a haircut. just click the shop link.

[themorrie-blog]

When me and my boy, Leroy get to hang out we're the baddest dawgs on the block. Leroy is a bad dawg for life, he sits on the couch when he shouldn't, sometimes he eats onion like he doesn't even give a f@*k about his health and he won't tell me the whole story but instead of having a full set of plums, he know just rocks a dangly empty coin purse between his legs. Bad Ass!!! We usually stick to the classics; like this one time at school the teacher asked me where my homework was and I said the dog ate it, then Leroy barfed my maths assignment right on cue!! It was classic, everybody said so!! Even my mum! but even then we got her a good one. She was like "hey, you need to make your bed and do your washing" and then we said "no way, Mum!! I do what I want!!" Then we ran out side to rolled in the grass, sniff and pee on things, (well that was more Leroy than my idea, but I did try and see what it was all about mind you) and scooch our butts along the ground. We ended up so itchy, bleeding and covered in grass stains she completely forgot about what she wanted us to do and made us bathe in detole!! Welted and stinging, we won again.... #dog #themorrie #badass #beagle #toungesout

[themorrie-blog]

"Foot Fault" by Russell Morrison If someone ever tells me they have "Peter Pan Syndrome" I instantly wish that was drinking a strawberry milkshake that I would then throw in your face. People who use that term use it to justify why they have just been a fuckwit, and thus deserve to be covered in a pink coloured dairy drink. Not to say I don't believe in people never growing up, I have to deal with it every day. Take my father for instance. He's been a professional artist for over 30 years, met and painted many well known subjects who he can now call friends, sold paintings to the upper echelon of society, painted labels for international brands and continually working at mastering all mediums of art. He just turned 60 this year, and should by this stage be an upstanding member of society, but get him together with his group of tennis mates, where every year they commission Russ to make a sculpture as a trophy for any reason he deems worthy and this is what you end up with, the mind of a 16 year old. Done just for fun, who else would spend endless hours carving a wooden sculpture that has features like "saggy fried egg tits", a prominent "ball bag", wearing chaps and a real life leather g-string that compliments the hand plaited leather whip. If the saying "like father, like son" is anything to go by, then it's a bleak outlook for maturity on the horizon for the only Morrison son. #russellmorrisongaleries #tennis #trophy #footfault #ballbag #friedegg #woodcarving #art #sculpture #milkshake #themorrie

[themorrie-blog]

How often do you get to have a beer with your sister and a Johnston crocodile?

[themorrie-blog]

Did you guys meet on myspace?

[themorrie-blog]

There's not many days I shamelessly self promote, I barely make my self known around the traps; you could say I've become some what of a recluse. But if I can justify any time, then today's the day! I've unknowingly matched the sunset on my t-shirt with the label of my French champagne my mum bought for me, in front of a wall I painted with a shade called "French vanilla" and I haven't shaved my armpits ever in my life so I guess I'm going "French style". It took me until year 10 to get armpit hair, so I wasn't about to get rid of that quickly. It's a day where I can make my own mother take paparazzi pictures of me drinking champagne and telling my dad how I need my roast beef to be cooked. In saying all that, it's quite ironic that there is a classic French quote that translates to "it took me 29 years to get me this far nowhere" and it hits the bullseye. Here's to 29 more years running on the spot! #veuveclicquot #frenchchampagne #girlhair #venicebeach #themorrie #wwtpd #french #vanilla #workingovertime

[themorrie-blog]

Morrie's B&B&B - Morning Room view. Here at Morrie's B&B&B,The view you see is much like the night experienced. While you ice your plumbs after the night's festivities now look like dried raisins, be reassures that the dubious decisions you made between the gimp mask and the latex jock strap were worth the blisters. Everything is a winner at Morrie's B&B&B and makes every trip you've ever done before seem like a plain white t-shirt. Tucked away in Basket Range, but with the lawful license of independence and debauchery that goes with international waters, the address is kept as secret. Your disgusting habits, fetishes and use of bodily fluids are kept under lock and key and do not phase our room staff who are trained in using a fire hose to clean the rooms. At Morrie's B&B&B the extra B is for bordello, you just have to bring your own excuses..... If you've got messed up intuition then The Morrie's for you!! (at Basket Range, South Australia, Australia)

[themorrie-blog]

The Lonely Snowboarder of Basket Range A forlorn silhouette stands atop the hill in Basket Range, the sun is yet to rise as the fog blankets the valley and the driving rain dribbles off his nose. A solitary figure, no one knows his name, nor where he came from, but as winter starts to sink it's claws in to the foothills of Adelaide our man makes his yearly pilgrimage without fail. It seems his hope is for the 1000 year storm to drop a powdery dream upon the slopes of the range. Every day that passes cuts a little deeper but doesn't dampen the spirits, like the rain dampens his '95 beanie and dribble water down the back of his double thermals he always dresses in with gleeful optimism. He stands among the vines dripping with the pain of another snowless winter, practicing his Shaun White stance, in his Shaun White pants, ever hopeful that the change is just on the horizon. For the people lucky enough to spot him, confusion quickly sets in as his pained screams of boarder lingo echo through the valley. "DOUBLE CORK!! BACK 1!!! BUTTER, BUTTER, BUTTERRRRSS!!!!" He cries alone...... (at Basket Range, South Australia, Australia)

[themorrie-blog]

Pruning up at Basket range today and I spotted this ladybug and amidst the aching of my knuckles and swelling blisters, it got me thinking, what was my favourite insect? There's a lot out there to pick from, ants, cockroaches, praying mantis, the common fly, they're all very good choices but what one is my favourite? While contemplating this I happened to be listening to the smooth Texan drawl of ZZ Top and their very thinly veiled sexual innuendo rock n roll, "Tube Snake Boogie" to be exact, a pleasant tune about how different ladies go about grinding upon a man for a period of time, some even til the early morn'. As the chorus hit, the ladybug was on the move and it got me thinking, even a male ladybug is called a ladybug, so I assume that they all must look like ladies, both the males and females. With my long hair, slender hairless body and if I just had a shave and my eyebrows sculpted, I could pass off myself as a lady, abet a small busted one, but with killer pins. I wondered if the male ladybugs ever just accepted their feminism and passed themselves off as ladies some times, and I realised that this happens in our world too. Straight away it reminded me of a story that one of the rousabouts at my work placement told me after he’d spent his Christmas break over in Thailand and ended up with 2 girlfriends from it. Now Paulie, as good a bloke as he is, was a 60 year old cubism Picasso, bug eyes busted nose, fucked up existentially, a lisp that sprayed you with nicotine stained saliva and a big bloated beer gut to boot. I had to ask him, “so you got heaps of babes in Thailand? Weren’t you worried?” “Na, I always wear a jimmy and I never tell them my real name” he worded through a cloud of Escort Blue. “I don’t mean getting them knocked up mate” I replied, “what if they have a dick?” “ohh that’s no worries” he snapped back with a cheeky grin, “you just make them get their tits out and ONLY get a blow job” So I can only guess that Paulie’s favourite insect is the Ladybug. (at Basket Range, South Australia, Australia)

[themorrie-blog]

I only drew half a bottle of wine because I drank the rest.... #thenoseyparker #wine #chaffeybrothers #shiraz #themorrie

[themorrie-blog]

My Undies dry, under California sky....... #california in #mybackyard #adelaide #sunrise #calvinklein #fakes #palm

[themorrie-blog]

The Petty Boot I've spent a large portion of my life doing "the best of everything", traveling down my "king's highway", looking "into the great wide open" in search of "a higher place". Little did I know my heart was heading "straight into darkness" like a pack of "dogs on the run". It felt like the "walls" we're closing in, "jammin' me" and it was either "time to move on" or come out "swingin'". Someone with "a mind with a heart of its own" wouldn't understand why I went to my "house in the woods" and thought that I had "only a broken heart". I was "all mixed up" which led me to a "breakdown" in my existence "for all the wrong reasons" and I had to reach out "to find a friend". I realised that it's "time to move on" to the next "blue Sunday" and that my heart is a " free girl now". I'm back listening to Tom, It's been "hung up and overdue" but "even the losers" know that "something big" is about to happen and I'm "learning to fly" all over again. I had to draw a shoe for my design course so I chose one I saw Tom Petty wearing back in the 70's. A flat soled boot made of soft tan suede. The suede is so soft that it collapsed upon itself and had enough room to fit a pack of his favourite camel cigarettes in them. The dream boot, The Petty Boot. #tompetty #tompettyandtheheartbreakers #boots #handdrawn #handmade #design #camel #cigarettes #leather #music

[themorrie-blog]

I call this "should be studying" - a self-portrait of a fool. Done with pencil on course notes, the picture of part of a face oozes with procrastination and elsewhere-ness. Ragged teeth, rough stubble and a cleft chin are not a true portrayal of the artist but a representation of his hopes and dreams.... (at themorrie.tumblr.com)

[themorrie-blog]

#wwjd

[themorrie-blog]

The Review - "Cherry" by Supreme

“Cherry” By Supreme

  About a week and a half ago, my Dad boarded an aeroplane as a jetsetter, a real cool dude, off for a romantic catch up with his floozy, aka girlfriend, aka my mother, aka his wife, for a month starting in Singapore and then ending up back in my mum’s home base in Shanghai.

Being the thoughtful son, I hatched a sneaky plan to repaint the living room as a secret surprise to my dad while he was away. The light sapping room, that looked like there had been an orgy between bottles of cheap Shiraz sloshing their load all over the walls with reckless abandon.  Even though it hid the result of the numerous and notorious late night move of snoozing, waking up and swiping wildly, ending up with the wine glass careering into the wall, the plan was to change it from the purplish hue to something lighter, maybe a Riesling.

  I took all the right precautions, and by precautions I mean gather a bunch of colour swatches and get my mother to pick the one she wanted so that I couldn’t be blamed for the fuck up if the walls looked as bad as a winemaker’s stained teeth as they did before.  I pulled all the paintings off the walls and vacuumed them, fuck I vacuumed everything, the dust was so thick that a portrait that was of a hairy old man with a beard turned out to be a bald, clean-shaven portrait of a former lord mayor of Adelaide.  After moving all the furniture in towards the centre of the room I got to work with the undercoat starting with the cutting in, then fill in with the roller, with that taking me well into the night, teamed with a few adult sodas, the roller was put down on the heavy side of ten hours.

The second coat got slapped on in no time the next morning, leaving me nothing else to do but rinse the brushes, roller and crack the tin of “French Vanilla”.

I was flying through the work as I got to the furthermost corner from the door to the room, but as luck would have it, I had no luck; or maybe I was lucky that it didn’t end up worse.  You see, the living room has 3metre ceilings and the only ladder that we have is at 1metre at the peak flat top.  That meant when I was standing up top I could eyeball the wall/ceiling line, while doing either the cutting in or as I was at the time trying to get the roller as close to the ceiling line as possible.  At this time I probably needed to re-juice the roller, but as I was nearly finished on a section and ready to move the ladder I didn’t want to get down for more paint for just a little section so I decided to just put the guns to work and push a little harder while I rolled.  This was working a treat I thought to myself, really putting my shoulder into it as I pulled the roller through the tight section between the wall and my chest.  I felt the ladder go, but there wasn’t much I could do except spin around and try and spot the softest landing I could.  As the ladder went past tipping point all I could spot up was the one of the glass Meranti wood cabinets that held all of the crystal glasses, champagne flutes and assorted porcelain figurines that my parents had accumulated over the years.  My brain obviously stopped thinking by this point because as my body left the ladder top I sprung off the tips of my toes and up, swan diving, heading towards the top of the cabinet, chest first.  As I plummeted down I flung the roller out and it squelched a top of the family pictures from the mantle, which I relocated to the dining table, before rolling to a stop mid range upon the wood top.

 Whilst soaring towards inevitable broken wood, glass and at least a hefty winding, a very familiar flashback came into my mind… and it goes like this...

  Remember all the stupid fads that came in and out of school when you were younger? Marbles, Yo-yo’s, god damn Tazo’s!! Well this one was my momentary foray into and out of being a rollerblader, and probably the defining moment that turned me into a skateboarder.

It was the early 90’s I would’ve been nearing double figures of age and even though I had had skateboards all the way up to and beyond this moment, rollerblades there the shit hot commodity to have at school and so I, just like everyone else, had to have a pair.

My parents must’ve been skaters at heart because not only for my whole childhood was a sweet, rideable, single kicker always available, but they were sure as shit not going to buy me a pair of expensive rollerblades like some of the other kids got, oh no, we were off to Cheap As Chips to pick up their interpretation of this fad.

We got there and worked out my size, then down to the big question for me, what colour?  The question my parents were probably asking themselves was “what is our son’s sexuality?” because as the saying goes “what’s the hardest thing about rollerblading?  Telling your parents you’re gay!”  (not that there is anything wrong with that, but there is something definitely wrong with rollerblading!!)

Safety orange was the colour of the inner booty of these lumps of black plastic, with orange wheels they looked like comical rollerblade shaped liquorice allsorts.

I couldn’t wait on the drive home, so I had to put them on, we pulled into the driveway and I charged out of the car, I was so excited I didn’t know what to do.  I ran into the house rolling through the carpeted hallway into the kitchen’s vinyl floor, zipping around there, out to the veranda out the back, over the wobbly uneven brick paving, shit! It didn’t even matter what I was on, as long as I was wearing these wheels of death.  Then I had the greatest idea ever!  I had to show my friend over the fence, he had to see my blades and compare them with his green and black ones of the same shitty type.  Mum gave me the all clear to call him on the phone, I called, he responded, it was all sorted, we were both going to be stoked out of our minds on a rollerblade high, except this is where it went awry.

I made my way through the kitchen and out the back door over the rickety bricks and onto the grass, headed for the back corner of my yard. 

There was a sweet little set up we had going where there was a little wedge gap where the fence was leaning away from the other piece in the back corner of my place that lead over to his, my dad had propped up an old gate against the fence to act as a ladder and it meant that we could go over to each others place when we were allowed to, without having to go out and onto the street. 

I made it to the back fence and could see my mate through the wedge, al I had to do was get over there and into smooth brick paved heaven.  I started my accent and made it to the top of the gate “ladder” and three quarters of the way up the fence before I couldn’t hold my excitement anymore and held on to the top of the fence, stood one foot still on the gate, and thrust my other foot, clad I the four wheeled liquorice allsorts, through the fence to show him how good my blades were.

At that exact moment my other foot, also engulfed in the other rollerblade, realised that it was equipped with wheels and decided to put them to use, rolling me off my gate footing. Queue slow motion, I see my foot slip out, my hands flail and swish through the air, I grabbed the top of the fence.  I manage to catch myself, but all that did was swing me back towards the exposed edge of the other fence. In a split second, a swan dive chest first into the edge like Tarzan swinging a vine into a wall, impact was made, incision complete.

Screaming like an injured mule, I managed to fall on my side of the fence and collapsed onto the grass.  My mum, startled by the sound came out the back to the image of me trudging towards her in my “cool as shit” blades, clutching my chest with blood on my shirt.

“What the fuck have you done?!?!” I imagine she screamed; because she’s really good at saying, “fuck”.

“ I was just trying to show Ryan my new rollerblades and I fell off the fence” I weakly replied.

“You have rollerblades on!! Why didn’t you “roller blade” over there and show him them, they’re not made for climbing fences, mate!!”

It suddenly all made sense to me, how wasn’t this clear in my mind at any stage?  Who the fuck walks across fifteen metres of grass let alone that far then tries to climb fences with wheels on their feet!!

As my mum disinfected and dressed my little chest would with a 9 inch long Band-Aid strip, I must’ve unconsciously made a decision that my days of rollerblading were over, because even thought that might not have been the last time I donned the Allsorts, it never the same.  The skateboard won by not brainwashing me with hype.

  So there I was, chest first, swan dive, paint roller flung through the air, that’s the memory that flashed before my eyes.

I swished my arms around to no avail and just tried to think about being the lightest thing I could be, a hamburger, ahh shit that’s stupid I’m too hungry to think.  I came crashing down on top of the cabinet, flat on top like a pancake, winding myself.  I somehow missed the cabinet corner that would’ve obliterated my sternum, about 10 cm away from my crouch and thigh was 4 wine glasses and a crystal decanter on the side table pushed up next to it, the dining table sitting flush with it was covered in picture frames with pointy metal edges and thankfully the half bottle of wine that I used to take the near death edge of after had only fallen over and rolled on the floor, rather than smashed.  I rolled myself off the cabinet, which some how held me, broke no glass in the doors or broken items in the thing even though they rattled like a cut snake, onto the floor and crawled out to the kitchen to lay on the cool tiles for a bit.  The next 20 minutes were spent walking around the house jittering with adrenaline as I took a couple of slugs of the wine to take the edge off.  A little nervous wee and I got back up on that horse, and finished the last two walls, job done.

So in the end I got the painting done, but what really matters is that I’m a skateboarder and always have been.

This video makes you want to skate.

[themorrie-blog]

I just came up with a cocktail, I'm not sure what it contains, but it's called a "Làmèi" and babe, don't you doubt your knickers for one second that you won't need a strong pair of legs to carry you home in your 6 inch stilettos. (at themorrie.tumblr.com)

[themorrie-blog]

The Review: Bruce Springsteen - High Hopes

Bruce Springsteen - High Hopes

We poured ourselves a large Jack Daniels, slumped on the couch, and popped the television on to watch some hockey.  We were in the basement games room of the International Student Centre Youth Hostel on West 88th St, Manhattan.  It was late afternoon and Ben and I had spent the past 2 days walking anywhere and everywhere over New York, so we deserved this drink.

We’d just spent most of the day down in SoHo, shopping around, gazing in astonishment at the outrageously high percentage of girls that look like they just walked straight out of a fashion shoot.  In opposition to what one of my friends thinks, where there is only one perfect ten that exists in his world, this must have been the place where all the tens came to hang out, look beautiful and just strut around with shopping bags drinking iced lattes and smoothies.  This was also the period of time where Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston decided to move to NYC and buy a loft in SoHo, so the thought of running in to them was definitely a point of discussion.  The scenario we saw being played out was that we’d meet them, play it cool, become friends and win her over to the point where she’d ditch Brad and we would head back to her loft with her and star in a XXX parody of Friends called “Lets Be More Than Friends.”

On a promise from my dad, who said it I ever made it to New York, he’d shout me a pair of boots from America’s oldest shoe company, The Frye Company.  I picked myself some Harness 8R boots in Crazy Horse Leather with brass rings and leather straps.  A classic motorbike boot, which I was definitely going to wear on my sweet, sweet hog, tearing down the highway, into the sunset never to be heard of again.  Still waiting to get that bike, just as I’m still waiting on actually being legally able to ride it on the road, now nearly 10 years on; at least I kept up the Morrie tradition of forever procrastinating.

The Jack Daniels followed the high pace of the ice hockey game and before we knew it we had finished the bottle.  It hadn’t done anything; it must’ve been a dud bottle, possibly filled with iced tea because we felt no buzz.  I decided we needed to have a few beers to see if that would give us a bit of a head start before our venture to a Time Square nightlife experience.

I headed down to the shop to grab some beers while Benny went for a shake and a shower.  Despite walking all over the lower east side for the day, it wasn’t that I didn’t need a shower, nor avoided them perse but at this point in my life they weren’t high on the priority list, beers were, so I was off to the store.

It was still light even though it was about 7pm as I was strolling down to the corner store, when I spied the gypsy like old man who was staying at the hostel, sitting in the shadows of the street trees.  I say old but he would’ve only been mid 30’s, weathered skin from a combination of hard nights and all day sun, with a few important teeth missing, one of his front ones, a canine and that first molar gone on the opposite side at the canine.  He had a faded cap that covered his balding longish hair pulled back into a ponytail and always accompanied by his guitar.  Posted up on the steps up to some unknown’s entrance and by the look on his face, like a dog getting rubbed on the belly, he was enjoying himself a tasty spliff, when he called me up. “hey man, I saw you guys having a few drinks over some heated table tennis, what’s your plan for the evening?”  he wispily said through little drags that you see seasoned stoners do.

“Just trying to catch a buzz before we head down to see what Time Square nightlife is about” I said, realising I’d inadvertently and unwittingly implied that I wanted a piece of his twist.

“oh, cool, I’m just about to head down there my self after I finish this off” motioning the joint towards me, which I waved away. “I’m going to busk up some money so I can afford to stay tomorrow night.  I don’t have enough cash to stay at the hostel tonight so I’ll be busking til the morning”

“yeah, we’ll keep an eye out for you man, chuck ya a couple of singles, haha” I laughed as I continued on my way to the corner store.

I got back to the hostel and Benny was all set, Swedish edition dunks and all, which he purchased that day down in SoHo.  The funny thing about that purchase is that he was only allowed to put one shoe on at a time.  If he wanted to try the left one on, he had to take the right one off and the lady had to hold it.  We laughed and Ben asked why?

“We only like customers to try on one shoe at a time because we’ve had people who, once they have both shoes on, just leg it out the door”

We looked at each other and then at the bloke manning the door, 6 foot 6’, probably weighed more than both Ben and me after a big lunch and had another laugh.  The guy would’ve been able to just grab you by the face with one hand, launch you back in to the store and onto your seat so you were able to take the shoes off and pay for them.

Of course I wore my Frye boots because I wanted to look bad ass, no matter how much they probably need a wearing in period of a few hours a day for a month rather than a big night on the town, probably tearing up some dance floors like a mad dog.

We drunk our shitty beers, Busch light probably because we’re arseholes that like the cheapest crap available, and made our way to the subway and down to Broadway.

We must’ve got of at a stop or two early and Mr Daniels and the beers joined the party because upon photo recollection we got a shot in front of The Letterman Show studio, which is in between 54th and 53rd street on Broadway, then walked our way down to the famous intersection.

When we got there it was dark, so every thing was blazing, it was a visual overload.  More than an overload, it was a visual orgy between every single light globe and colour you’ve ever seen with your eyes in your accumulative time on the earth all trying to have sex with your eye sockets at the same time.

People were everywhere, I saw the big guy that worked at the Foot Locker, who from across the floor, in between sorting out shoes for 5 people, spied me walk through the door and boomed “Hey Yo Spicoli, Sipicoli’s here, Yo Spicoli!!!” louder than the music and all the people rabble then slapped the both of us the biggest high fives when he heard we were Australian, obviously working a night shift.  I saw the dude, Young G, who slang me his terrible trance reggae rap album, personally signed it for me “Yo boy, whacha name?”

“Ahh Jim, I’m Jim”

“Jim hey? You know what? I’m gonna call ya Jimmy Jimmy” he yelled as he illegibly scribbled what I assume was “Jimmy Jimmy” and then “YG”, to which I then offered him my big pocketful of silver change.

“Yo I don’t take that silver, cracker!!” 

So for an album he proposed to me as free I had to give the jerk a $5 as not to get another slur against my good self.

Only this time, tonight when I saw him, he was slinging someone else’s album and calling himself by some other name.

The visual debauchery was too much and we needed to seek refuge in a bar of some sort.  

We ordered the standard, a beer and a shot, and knocked the whiskey back just as these two French girls approached the bar.  It was a quiet bar compared to the hustle out side and because they posted up next to us we heard them try and order.  They had little to no English other than beer, shot and pointing, but once they ordered we struck up a conversation, or at least tried to, with my broken French I could remember from year 10 and Benny’s boyish good looks.  Wee bonded, we definitely bonded through the puzzled looks and blank stared, we bonded, over whiskey sours.  Whiskey sours had happened to somehow become our shot of choice for our time in Canada after a uniquely bazaar experience with some ladies first night out in Vancouver at the start of the trip; of which I may never be able to tell.

So the whiskey sours got us put in our place and the girls somehow explained to u that they were going to a warehouse rave a few blocks from here and we should definitely go with them.  Sure we love raves, my boots weren’t even hurting after walking 7 blocks from Letterman’s to the Square, and lets just get sweaty to some strobe lights.

We took off down Broadway then headed east for a couple of blocks, Ben was ahead by a couple of lengths as I was finding my boots to become an issue.  With the whiskey making a decision for me and assuming that it let Ben know that I made this decision, I sat down in a shop front doorway and took of my boots to inspect the damage and adjust my socks.  The blisters had started, bastards, they’re going to get as torn up as the dance floor is, I thought to myself as I pulled the boots back on.  I stood up, no Benny, no girls.  I hadn’t taken that long, I thought, and I did tell Ben what I was doing, all be it telepathically, so what’s happened?!?

  What had happened was I was lost in Lower Manhattan two blocks from Time Square, that’s what happened.  That was a slap of sobriety in the face.  I stood there for a second before taking of in the general direction that we were heading yelling out Ben at the top of my lungs for a couple of blocks before I realised I looked crazy; screaming, hobbling and lurching due to my boots, only to realise no one actually noticed. Ben was gone, the girls were gone and just to keep in tie with my irrational thinking, I was going to punch Ben’s face in because in my mind he only had booty on the brain and couldn’t care less where I was. In fact the only thing I noticed was that I was still lost, no phone, next to no cash, I wanted to smash my best friend right in the kisser and in my mind only one-way home. Walk.

  I managed my way back to the Time Square intersection, at the culmination of Broadway, 7th Avenue and west 46th and 47th street.  Now using my drunken memory I deduced that when we approached Times Square we walked towards the fork splitting, so that meant I had to walk away from that direction until I hit central park, simple right?  Little did I know that Broadway and 7th avenue crossed over like an “X” so there were two forks in the road.  I put my head down and powered towards what I thought was north and didn’t look up for a few blocks, nothing looked familiar, so I headed down to the next intersection.  Ohh shit, west 37th street, that’s not right; the numbers need to go up; I need west 88th street.  So I turn on my blistered heels and headed back in the right direction.  As I hobbled back into Time Square I saw the same intersection but I knew I was heading in the opposite direction.  My mind was blown.  I kept heading up 7th avenue past the intersection and the booze mixed up with my exploded brain was not noticing anything familiar as I got towards west 52nd street, so I headed back to see if I could find out where the fuck I was.  I knew the numbers were heading in the right direction but my brain wasn’t, so back to Time Square it was.

I went back and forth 3 or four times in between the two splits in the road, wracking my brain.  It didn’t help that it was past midnight and then this guy dressed in his suit carrying a briefcase in full stride on the phone talking business.  Are you fucking serious?!?!?! I’m completely wasted in Lower Manhattan and this dude is making business calls and on his way to a meeting in the early, early morning.  As I leered at this crazy businessman bustle past me I spied the gypsy bloke from the hostel posted up, busking his heart out.  He spotted me floundering up the street and flipped his head motioning me to come over.  I think he liked me and not that he shouldn’t but I think rather than liking me for the fact that I’m a good person, he liked me because I didn’t smoke any of his stinky gypsy joint when he felt obliged to offer.

“Man, I’ve seen you go back and forth a few times, brother, where’s your buddy?”

“I don’t know what happened.  We were walking to a rave with these French girls and the next thing I know I’m standing all alone with two boots full of blisters, so now I’m trying to walk back to the hostel but I’ve got no fucking idea which is the right way to head.”

“Well, that’s the way, man about 40 blocks though, I wouldn’t be walking at this hour”

“Are you sure? I recon that’s the wrong way, man.” 

Wow, what am I doing?  I’m lost in New York City, this guy is being nice to me, and helping me head the right way home and here I am with the gall to question the man about whether he’s got his facts straight!

“Yep, I’m sure, check the streets as you go man, I’m not tricking ya, haha”

“cool man, I trust ya, is it cool if I just hang for a bit, just rest up before the big walk……. Hey do you know any Tom Petty?”

“Yeah, maybe, whats he sing?”

“ahh learning to fly, ahhh free fallin’, you know free fallin’?  CAAUUUSSS  IIMM FRREEEEIIEIE, FREEEEIEEIEE FFFFAAAAAALLLIINNN!!!!  How about a duet for the people?”

Seems the Tennessee whiskey was still flowing through my veins.  He knew the song, but not the chords so I showed them to him and right then and there we had an impromptu busking duet in the middle of Time Square.  The song fell apart by the second verse after the first chorus but I was satisfied that I displayed my vocal ability to the masses, dropped a $5 in his case and started my way up Broadway and 7th.

  Walking up 7th Avenue away from all the lights, the amount of people slowly dissipated as I made my way to the edge of Central Park.  I was hot blooded already after deciding it was Ben’s fault I was lost, so my hands were already balled up in fists, but I clenched them a little tighter as I picked up my pace and barrelled in to the darkness of central park.  I powered my way along the bike/walking path next to Central Drive I put all my concentration into my eyesight and hearing, hoping some sort of heightened skill sense would come up.  It was eerily quiet, as I walked a long, looking at any shadow or dark lump.  I approached one lump, turning out to be a bench; as my eyes adjusted and I got closer I saw it had the stereotypical homeless person asleep with the newspaper blanket.  This shit doesn’t just happen in movies I thought to myself as I gripped my fists, throwing a few shadow punches around and over my shoulder.  I wanted to show any punks that if they wanted to mess with me, they’d get a bunch of fives for their trouble.  I continued on Central Drive cutting through West Drive past the lake, noticing that all of the benches had the shadowy lump of a homeless person on them, not all with newspaper, some had blankets, sleeping bags, I saw one covered in plastic bags.  The sleeping bums were the least of my worries, by this point I’d realised that walking home through Central Park at 2am is a pretty fucking stupid idea.  Surprising that.  What got me throwing my air punches on regular were the rustling noises and murmuring voices in the big bushy trees, creepy troll noises when I crossed bridges.  I must have looked like a huge kook, walking at top pace, but with blisters that gave me a lurching sort of swagger, just randomly throwing a flurry of punches over my shoulder, just in case some one was stealthily about to attack me from behind.  AARRAGGH!! Swish, swish, swish, triple combo. HHAAA-YAA!! Swish, swish, a double over the shoulder, as I strode through the moonlit darkness I threw some kicks in for good measure.  These were also practice punches for Ben when I confronted him basking in his post babe boudoir glory. 

I made it across 85th street and onto some open grassy field; I was home free, only 3 more blocks to go and then the ruckus!  I was excited; I hadn’t punched anyone in the face before, let alone my good friend.  I’m a lover not a fighter. Well, I’m the sort of guy that gets in to positions where I’m unwarily about to get my head socked in, thinking I’m being hilarious and manage to some how charm my way out of it so this was going to be a new experience for me.  I was out of the park, throat not slit, wallet not stolen and all my orifices unviolated, this was a great moment as I loosened my clenched fists, not to mention my clenched butthole.

As I was walking in the moonlight along West 88th street back towards the hostel I realised I had no way of getting into the building Ben had the key.  I had already slept out the front of our dorm room in Vancouver; there was no way I was going to sleep on the street steps of the hostel.  I got to the hostel and sat on the steps, just assuming I’d have to sit there until the sun came up and the girl running the place came out for her morning coffee.  What a nightmare, I don’t know what made me do it but I thought maybe on just some strange miracle that someone might be on a toilet trip and walk past the door just as I knock on it.

*Tap Tap* I rapped on the door and turned to sit down on the steps again.

The key turned on the other side.  I heard the handle turn and the door scrape open.  It was Benny!!

“Jimmy!! Where the fuck did you go? One minute you were there with me and the Frenchies, then the next you’ve disappeared”

“I sat down to take my boots off for a sec then everyone was gone, so I thought you’d ditched me for the babes and I went back to Time Square and wandered around lost for an hour before walking home through the park.”

“Dude, that’s fucked, that’s over 40 blocks and sketchy!! Once I realised you were missing, I wasn’t going to have fun with the French girls as a rave, so I went back to Time Square to look for you, then caught a cab, I just got back about 10 minutes ago”

  “New York I love you but you’re bringing me down” – LCD Soundsystem

  All my fighting anger washed away.  I walked through the door with relief that I had a bed to sleep in instead of slate steps and I could take these damn boots off.  These boots were not made for walking, at least not straight out of the box.

[themorrie-blog]

The Review: Morrissey - Autobiography

I’m having rather a depressing day, so what better to do than read and review Morrissey’s autobiography.

I was in Shanghai; I’d been there for about 5 days.  I had travelled over to China with my sister so we could visit our mum.  She had relocated over there to run a school and bust chops for about 3-4 years by the time we had got our act together and head over to visit.

She was based in Xuhui district, a few blocks from her school, in the heart of shanghai, but still working when we showed up so other than the evenings and weekends we were left to our own devices to explore what shanghai had to offer.  This usually meant getting on the tube, sitting there until we thought we needed to get off and then walk around looking for a place that served beer, food, fake luxury items or just explore the slums.  Having had been there for a few days, what little fear I had of china, its people and the sketchiness of the slums and backstreets had all but disappeared and along with a few sudsy bottles of confidence I was happy to go anywhere. 

We’d just finished a long lunch consisting of a few plates of gear we just pointed and ordered off the menu due to the language barrier hoping they’d be all right.  The one thing we did know how to order was beer.  2 longneck bottles of room temperature Tsingtao; why they don’t keep the beer cold is beyond me, but once the first bottle is down they seem to taste bearable.  We feasted on whole chicken soup, head and feet included, Chinese greens and some funky dumplings that tasted amazing but preferred not to know what they were made out of. 

It must’ve gotten quite boozy because while we were eating we were working out where to go next and some how the Silk Road came up.  Now if you know anything about ancient china is that the Silk Road was a trade route that allowed cultural interaction through out the regions of Asia and extended 6,437 kilometres and got it’s name from china’s lucrative silk trade.  Trade on the Silk Road was a significant factor in the development of the civilizations of China, the Indian subcontinent, Persia, Europe and Arabia.  The Silk Road served as a ways of cultural trade between the networking civilizations, basically like an ancient version of EBay and Facebook.

So after that little history lesson, you’ll understand how we might have been a little pissy in thinking that we could just go there.  How stupid is that concept? Where exactly is “there” on the Silk Road.  This could’ve been quite easily squashed if we had a slight understanding of Chinese or our taxi driver could grasp a little English, alas neither came to fruition and our taxi driver said in very broken English “Yes, Shrillk roud, I no”.

So we loaded our boozy selves into the cab, feeling quite smug about how cultured and educated we were about to become.

30 minutes later we pull up next to this rundown hotel on a 10-lane road with a 6-lane overpass, traffic whizzing everywhere, surrounded by a ramshackle of shantytown apartments as far as the eye could see.

“Ahhh Shrillk Roud Hotrel, 25 yuan” He butchered out.

Reality kicked in and we realised our mistake, paid the man and stepped out in to the street, looking up at the crumbling hotel.

Completely lost in the slums of Shanghai, we did what any sensible person would do. We had a walk around the dirty grimy streets.  Having only got 100m or so down the street we saw a man walking towards us, taking his two pet monkeys for a walk on a lead.  Not one to miss a classic photo opportunity I pulled out my camera and tried to take a sneaky picture, but the old fella was too quick shoving his hand in the way and aggressively swearing at us at the top of his lungs.  Obviously doesn’t want anyone to know he’s got these monkeys, which I assume he’s going to bred up to make a monkey brain soup, just like in Indiana Jones.

We continued on until we found a Westfield style-shopping complex, I use that term loosely even though it was one of the nicer ones that we had found in china, you still didn’t have to ask anyone where the bathroom was because you’d just follow your nose.

Essie had decided that she wanted to get a massage at some point so if we found a place here she was going to go and get one.  I on the other hand am not one for massages, I get antsy and agitated when I’m being fondled by another person for too long and I had already had an awkward massage earlier on in the trip.

-       We had just had lunch with Mum in the ritziest part of shanghai and again had our fill of food and beers and she wanted to shout us all a massage at Magpie Massage, the fancy parlour on Julu Rd. This wasn’t a “happy ending” massage by any means but it just went on forever. The girl started by massaging her way down my back, greasing me up good and proper, then moved onto my legs, which was fine, but that had all taken about 25 minutes and was only half way done.  My bladder on the other hand was all the way done and ready for evacuation.  She tapped me and motioned to roll over on to my back.  I’m not sure why I didn’t just let her know I had to go to the dunny and I’d be back in a second, but I didn’t.  Maybe it was because she was so softly spoken and polite I felt like I would offend her if I broke the mood, or maybe I didn’t want her to think she’d got me razzed up and I was sneaking off for a jerk.  She oiled me up again starting with my face and then my boobies.  I looked down and I could see the mound that was my potbelly of pee.  She moved onto my arms, wiggling and waggling them, but I couldn’t enjoy it, I knew what was coming and the last thing I wanted to do was give some one an unexpected golden shower.  Here it was, she worked her way down kneading through my stomach and sides and began to feverishly pump up and down right were my bladder resided.  Fuck, what am I going to do, I can’t hold it, I screamed inside my own head.  Ohh no, now she is making “oohing” noises as I open my eyes a slit just to see what the hell she’s on about.  She’s fucking “oohing” at me, while pulsing my bladder and giving me what I can only equate to being suggestive eyes.  Close your eyes, go to your happy place and for fucks sake don’t think about waterfalls, there can’t be much longer to go.  She then spent the last 10 minutes with one hand still giving my lower abdomen the working over of a lifetime and the other alternating between the upper and inner thigh of each leg.  The buzzer went and I was out of there, I didn’t even put my pants back on as I raced to the toilet and filled that sucker up.  With both my sister and Mother feeling quite relaxed and loose, I informed them of my experience and worried about how bad the dodgy parlours must be if I just got molested like I did in this place.  Safe to say I was neither relaxed nor loose.

  So as I was saying, I was not in the mood for another groping session, I wanted to have a few beers, that’s my relaxation.  We arranged to meet back at the same spot in an hour, and I headed off around the centre to find a beverage.  Not even 5 minutes into my hunt a tiny pretty looking Chinese girl approached me.  She wouldn’t have been over 5 foot, with long hair and a Hello Kitty sweater and she said, “Hello sir, if you are not busy, would you mind sitting and talking to me so I can practice my English?”

Now my mum had told me that the Chinese people are always interested in the Westerners’, and they always want to stop and have a chat to practice their English.  I had already been exposed to this, as well as having to pose with unknown people and their families for photos, or pointed at because of my big nose/height/hair/general amazement that I just happen to be there.  It was a very strange feeling, a rock star feeling just for being a Caucasian from Australia, but there were areas of shanghai where we ventured where they may not have ever seen people like Essie and me.  She continually got her hair patted while they giggled with glee at touching “real” blonde hair.

I don’t have the “yellow fever” that grips some people, but I had an hour to kill and nothing better to do than drink some beer, so I said “yes, sure, as long as we find a place that serves”.

She exclaimed excitedly that she knew of a great teahouse very close to here that we could go to and we headed off.  We walked along the complex, and out the side door.  “ohh I thought you said it was close?” I said hoping for it to be in the centre so I wouldn’t get lost if I had one too many.  “No, it’s not too far, just a little bit further”. She proclaimed as we continued walking away from both the centre and the big main road and into the back streets.  I should’ve been a bit more worried than I was, but with a bit of Dutch courage under my belt and being the height I am I felt like I could throw a couple of Chinamen into a wall if it got a little hairy.  We took one of the back streets off a back street, kept walking along until we reached this nondescript door with a skinny balding man chain-smoking Double Happiness sitting out the front.  He saw us and stood up, opening the door revealing a staircase downwards.  The lady led me down with the man following, now it was feeling a little sketchy.  The stairs opened out into a kitchen that definitely didn’t look like any teahouse I had ever been to before this.  There was a portable gas stove with a huge pot of some green leafy crap that stunk like over cooked spinach that had been boiled in a really dehydrated person’s urine.  This tiny old lady was stirring it; she was so old, a big bag of leathery wrinkles. She was standing on a wooden stool so she could reach the big wooden spoon in the pot.  It was a little reassuring that the shelves above the stove were stocked with a bounty of jars filled with different teas, all labelled with Chinese characters.  Everything was covered in the sticky grease that kitchens get when you don’t clean regularly, even the walls were tacky with the shit.  There was another man sitting at one of the two tables in the room, smoking, he looked at the other man, then stood up and walked over to this wall panel.  Now I was really starting to worry, but I did notice there were menus on the tables in the kitchen, so when he pulled back this wall panel to reveal a secret room I was only 80% ready to start throwing men around the room.  The tiny lady led me in; we sat down and looked at the menu while the balding man closed the door behind us.  I started to get a little worried as I told the girl that I only wanted a Heineken.  She said she only wanted a cup of green tea, but told me that if in china a person doesn’t order something to eat with booze, they assume you’re an alcoholic, so I said “whatever get something little, whatever.”

The chain-smoking man came in and the small lady pointed at allsorts on the menu and ordered, all spoken in Chinese.  The man then looked at me, just stared right into me, then just turned and left.  Ohh shit, I’m in big trouble here, but he came back shortly with my beer, her tea and a small plate of almonds. 

We sat and conversed, I took heady slugs of my beer to try and calm my fears, but there was an uneasy air hanging about the place, and I’m not talking about the spinach.

The thought of getting mugged came up, so did getting my kidneys cut out, then it clicked, I’m going get raped by this lady, that’s it I’m going to get raped by a female or those men are going to keep me here until I do. I’d be forced to impregnate her and be her ticket out of here.  I tried to stay calm and got her to order me another beer and get the bill, while I thought of some way to get out without being suspicious.  While she ordered I pretended to get a call from my sister and “told” her where I was and I was about to leave.  I got the bill and my beer, glugging half of it instantly.  I told the lady I had such a great time but I had to go and looked at the bill.  Being frazzled and boozed my brain didn’t compute and I saw the balance 730 Yuan.  Slapped down 750 and polished off the rest of my beer saying thank you it was fun but I can find my own way back.  I got up and let myself out of the secret room, casually bowed my way past the two timeworn smokers and the old lady and made my way up the stairs to the street. 

I managed to find my way back to the centre and met Essie.  She said she’d had a good massage, and wondered what I’d been up to.  I didn’t want to look the fool so I made up something about just finding a nice place and having a beer.  Then I asked how much 730 yuan is worth.  About $140 bucks, why?

Fuck!!! I wasn’t about to be raped I was just being swindled, probably raped and swindled is how I like to see it, as it means I escaped something.  I humbled myself and explained the whole story and she just laughed. 

“Do you know where the place is? Lets go back and get that money”

I took her back and the old guy was there, smoking out the front.

“Hey, you over charged my brother, mate”

he pretended to know no English, shrugging his shoulders.

“You spoke English to me so don’t bullshit”

Reluctantly he stood up and we went down stairs to sort it out.

“No, No, No we no over charge look at the price” he kept screaming.

“730 is too much!! Way too much!!” Essie yelled back in his face. “for 2 beers, 1 almonds, 1 tea, you are a liar!  Way too much!!”

He got out his calculator and the menu to show us the price.

13 yuan – beer, 13 – yuan – beer, 120 yuan – almonds…

Whoa I said, “120 yuan almonds, there were only 2o of them”

He pointed to the menu, almonds 120 yuan, $23 aussie dollars, fuck!!

He went on, 250 yuan - green tea.  Fuck me, show me the menu, he pointed to the most expensive green tea and said “that what she order, and water, 60 yuan”

“but that only makes 456 yuan, he paid 730 plus tip.  456 is way to much any way but you ripped him off!!!” Essie was getting fired up, she was ready to swing, I was scared, I just stood behind her pretending to be tough.  The old lady on the stool was just stirring away, when the man conceded and gave us 300 yuan back all while saying “you never come here again, you cause trouble!!”

“You are a Fucking swindler, fuck you!!” Essie screamed, I’m sure he understood none of those words, but she grabbed the cash and we split.

Should’ve just gone to Hooters.

  I spent $5 on 2 beers for me, but blew $23 dollars on 2 dozen almonds, $45 on one cup of tea, $12 on tap water that really gave it too me the next day and then I had to get my sister to come in and be the tough guy and get my money back.

I guess this is how depressed Morrissey must feel when he writes his depressing songs about how much life brings you down as one of the worlds most successful artists.  Good on you, Morrissey you depressing Dick!

themorrie