venerdì, gennaio 21, 2011

Sitting naturally high on a well-saddled horse

I used to think that when it came to don't-do-drugs songs, it was pretty much equivalent to wear-a-condom songs - there was only one good one. That's right, "2 Become 1" totally gives me a lady-boner. I can't believe I miss the Spice Girls, but in these degenerate times, I do. Not only did they have personalities, if pre-fab ones; I just can't see any modern pre-fab nympho pop productions singing about putting on a condom, certainly not so convincingly.

But I understand I'm a bit gay for the Spice Girls, mostly because of listening to Spice on headphones at the dentists whilst tripping my tits off on nitrous oxide and getting my wisdom teeth yanked out and it just being superb. Of course the reefer is my true love even if we're taking a break - moving to a country where it's illegal again after it having been such a casual, simple thing in Europe has just made the whole thing sort of sad and pathetic somehow. But reefer aside, now that my non-reefer drug days are probably more or less behind me (at least until I spend my old age tripping my ovaries out) I have to say I think tripping my tits off on nitrous oxide whilst getting my wisdom teeth yanked out and listening to Spice was the best drug experience I've ever had, and I've had some really nice ones. I need to get my hands on some more nitrous oxide. I hear that's the first drug pain relief when you give birth . . . hmm . . . maybe time to ignore "2 Become 1"'s contraceptive message. People have kids for dumber reasons.

Anyways, speaking of drugs, Curtis Mayfield's "No Thing On Me (Cocaine Song)" is the don't-do-drugs song that I used to reckon was the only good one, though then the F-word started bringing all these great reggae albums home and I realized I was wrong. It's still fucking good though.

giovedì, gennaio 20, 2011

Rat-proof containers

Well, I guess in a sense it was inevitable but I still feel like a cretin for feeling it: I miss Brussels. It is a difficult emotion, because there's no doubt in my mind that in terms of people's comportment it really is the stupidest place on earth, but there are things I miss, and some of them are very big, like some sort of government accountability in terms of making sure the cost of living isn't unbearable, and some of them more localized - I'd punch myself in the face for just five minutes in Petits Riens, despite the trogladytic delivery service, and oh, how I miss MuziekPublique and other cheap cultural events . . .

So anyways, it's a difficult miss. I've never felt so conflicted in missing a thing that wasn't a noxious but lovely ex-boyfriend before. You know how it is, don't you all? There's that one, or possibly three or four but probably no more than that, ex-partner(s) who gave really magnificent head or fucked like a pro or could make you laugh until you peed yourself but was in other and ultimately much more important ways a fucking head case, who was borderline or else quite comfortably abusive. So that's how I'm feeling at the moment.

Partly this was brought on by a much more straightforward missing of Berlin and Barcelona and other places a helluvalot more easily accessible from Brussels than here. But I think much more so, it was brought on by realizing that life here is expensive to the degree that if I lose my job, we can't stay. It's as simple as that. We cannot afford any sort of decent life here without me making the absurd amounts of money I'm making, on top of the F-word's eventual re-entry into the workforce next month, and even so at the moment we can't afford to live anywhere decently sized where we don't have to put our fruit into a rat-proof container, and everything is just a non-stop gouge.

And for somebody who was planning to more or less stop working in two or three years, that's a fucking blow; and for someone who moved from Europe to this place on the understanding it was going to be easier to stop working here, that's a fucking fuck of a fucking blow.

martedì, gennaio 18, 2011

Scarily good

Oh, fuck me. Building on the previous post about condensed milk in coffee. Last night our gas was cut off for various reasons, spoking out from the central point that Australia is rotten with fucking shysters. So anticipating I wouldn't be able to make coffee in the morning due to our stove being, usually thankfully, gas powered, I froze some leftover espresso so as to make some sort of iced coffee concoction today. This is what I made:

- three shots of frozen espresso
- two cups of milk
- three tablespoons of condensed milk


I have a feeling - and I don't want to invite the wrath of the gods here as it's just a suspicion and as, frankly, drinking something this delicious is actually a deeply humbling experience - I have a feeling that I've discovered the nectar of nectar-and-ambrosia fame. Next time I'm going to try adding a banana and some chili pepper and that might be the ticket. I'll let you know in 30 years or so if I've aged at all.

But the simple recipe above resulted in something that I'm sure I've tasted before, and I even recall where, since it was pretty recent. It was at the Jurong bird park in Singapore, where the cafe (which was shockingly cheap considering that bird park is the international weirdo twitcher Mecca equivalent of Disneyland), served some shockingly cheap iced coffee concoction that I nearly didn't order because it said 'iced kopi' on the menu, and as I didn't know that 'kopi' was the Malay or whatever word for coffee at the time I was concerned it might be some sort of iced fish or iced root vegetable. Anyways, it was no ordinary iced coffee, and I loved it, and I couldn't work out how they'd done it, and the internet wouldn't tell me, and it turns out this was how - with milk and strong coffee and condensed milk.

Sigh. That makes me fucking happy.


Feeling better today regarding the culture shock, if grudgingly so, as a friend here fixed up my bike in return for an evening's babysitting (his kids, not him), so I could go for a spin around the valley this evening. And it's beautiful. I'm willing to let the beauty work on my knots for a bit.

We looked at houses to buy this morning, which was pretty odd. I have some doubts about taking on that much debt. I mean it's a fuckload of debt. But barely a month in and we've already been subject to hankerchief-pankerchief from the mighty wank of an estate agents' that's handling the rental - some things are international I suppose, but it's nice to be able to write angry letters in my mother tongue again - and the way this town is, a huge mortgage will actually still be cheaper than the huge rent . . . anyways. I don't know. We don't have to make up our mind tomorrow and the agent we've got looking for us isn't one of those awful perky people so it's all fine.

domenica, gennaio 16, 2011

Culture shocking

This weekend at a local market, I came across a book about Gaudi and burst into tears as I realized how fuckin' far away Barcelona is, and how unlike Barcelona L--- is. The nature is beautiful here, and as I learn to accept all of the creepy-crawlies, only getting more so. But down there in the market, which the city holds in the parking lot of a local shopping centre, I just felt so surrounded by civilized ugliness and people who don't give a fuck that their city is a million times uglier than Barcelona that I just got overwhelmed. I'm planning to see my family and friends in Canada soon and I'm not missing most of Europe, but these days missing Spain and Berlin is just fucking gutting me.

The culture shock has well and truly hit, as you can tell, and having expected it in the abstract doesn't feel like it was actually any sort of preparation for feeling it. Oh well. Still reasonably happy to be here and even if I wasn't I'd stick it out, if only to spite the people who reckoned I couldn't and that I'd be crawling back to the crowded, dirty, annoying, but beautiful cities of Europe within a year. And of course keeping the lines of communication with the F-word well and truly open about the mental turmoil. If I can't hack it here he's suggested we try one of the cities that aren't Sydney before calling it quits on the country, which is a reassuring fallback plan; Melbourne, during my brief visit there, resembled a much prettier and warmer Toronto, which was charming. Anyways.

In other and better news, jogging is still fun. The best thing about being a winded maggot is that once you get going the payoffs are so immediate and dramatic; scarcely two weeks in and my tummy is already clefting in two in the promise of a future six-pack (I really don't want one though, I reckon they're ugly on girls - on boys too for that matter except for the ectomorph, heroin-addict types I think are just fucking beautiful during the last five days of my menstrual cycle - thanks for fucking me up in pre-pubescence, early 90's grunge) and I have more energy generally, although I'm just jogging 15 minutes a day, and that still in reps.

And another good thing about being here: the sub-tropical climate is fucking beautiful. I love it. It's perfect for me - the humidity makes my hair and skin feel like they've been let out of jail, the temperature is perfect, and I can wear sarongs and mumus all the time. And enjoy smoothies every morning - finally the right climate for it - and I've figured out that if you put some hot chili flakes into the smoothie it makes it a good bit better.

So complaining, complaining, and complaining will continue, and I doubt I've shed my last tears over the prospect of not seeing the moon over Barcelona from the Guell Park for many more years, but life is still better than a kick in the tits.