Sunday, March 14, 2010
I had my Mum staying for all of last week and I dropped her back in Melbourne Friday afternoon. I then put on a 3 piece suit, nothing new there, and took myself to Zetta Florence in Brunswick Street to buy some stationery and presents. Then to Mario's in Brunswick Street for dinner (lasagne, garlic bread, two long macchiatos, three cigarettes). I then went to an art exhibition in the same street. It was a group exhibition but one of the artists is this bloke Sparky (who is dating Artemis) and he is a great artist and I'm positive he'll be famous so I'm collecting his work. I'm prepared to spend a fortune on him so he better get fucking famous. Top bloke, too.
Anyway, he had two works at this exhibition, and there was one I wanted (the one to the left). It was advertised to start at 6pm. I was there at 5.59pm. I walked in... both were already sold. They were pre-sold! Fuck it. The rest of the exhibition was meh and there was no air conditioning. It was 400 degrees in there. I was outside by 6:10pm. Sparky, Artemis and her sister Spud arrived. I said, "You're fucking art was already sold!" He apologised for not letting me know. He then offered to sell me a print on good paper. I said yes, but it's not the same. They asked me back into the exhibition, and for a big night of drinking. I said no. I was hot.
I got in my car. Rang Obtuse, cos it was her birthday, and I had a present for her. I offered to drop it in and she said, "No! Not now!". Righto then. I drove back to the Surf Coast. Popped in to see Surfer Joe at about 10.30pm at his restaurant. He said, "I have lots of drugs on me. Should we have a big night out?" "No," I said, "I'm going home."
Went home and read William S Burroughs. Sparky texted me asking me for my postal address so he could mail an invoice for the print. A print.
Cleaned the house top to bottom. Did eight or nine washing loads. Made nachos with enough melted cheese to feed Belgium. At 11pm, Surfer Joe called. "There's 100 hot women at the bar next door," he says. I picked him up and we walked to the bar. Yeah, hot, but of an indeterminate age between 17 and 19. So, not hot. They all dressed like $5 whores. What's with that? Surfer Joe slipped me an ecstacy pill and I took it. We stood about for a bit, then he decided he had to go see his girlfriend because she's ill. He didn't take a pill.
He dropped me at a birthday party up the hill, and left me there. Twenty five people there. Twenty two blokes, all stoned on grass. Three chicks, also stoned. They have a joint the size of John Holmes' cock. They offered me some but I haven't had cannabis since 1990. I drank a whole bottle of wine and talked rubbish to some guys. I went to the front yard to have a wee, then decided not to go back in. I walked home, downhill, took about half an hour.
I sat outside my house, drinking a cup of coffee, must have been three AM. I was approached by a young boy I know, a local boy, Backward Cap, who once, when he was on Ice, threatened to kill me. He has since apologised. Anyway, he had a German girl with him who I didn't know. He said, "This is Maria. Maria, this is Perseus... I have to go," and he ran away. She sat with me. She liked my kitten, Lord Byron. She said, "I am in Australia for two months. That boy with the backward cap wanted to have sex with me, and was a little upset with me because I wouldn't... but I never said I would. I am engaged. My fiancee is in Germany. I would never cheat on him." I offered her a coffee and she said no, but she took a cigarette. "I'm from the North of Germany," she said, "And my fiancee is from the East. Oh boy, our families weren't too happy at the start." Lord Byron jumped on to her lap. I said, "I'm going to bed," and she said, "Oh, really?" She didn't want to leave. I could tell she wanted to tell me her life story. I could tell she wanted to keep drinking. She looked like Sarah Jessica Parker. Like an anorexic stead. I picked up the cat, said goodnight and shut the door on her.
I read William S Burroughs. On the drugs, he makes even less sense.
Up at 9am, worked in the garden until 3pm. I'm no good at gardening. Everything dies. The weeds always win. But gee I love it. Listened to Jonathan Richman as I weeded, on shuffle. Then had to work for two hours. At 7pm, I had a steak that would feed three rugby players, and a steamer full of garlic beans. It's 8.45pm. Ponygirl is an hour away. Her bed is made and I have left out guest towels, soap and a present of a burnt Neutral Milk Hotel CD. She's staying for four nights, working for me again. I'm not going to write about it this time.