(no subject)
It usually happens precisely this way, no shit: I'm eating French at Tabou, because in Sydney, it's hard to throw a rock without hitting a person that wants to be very best friends with you, whoever you are, and Do you know Naomi Watts? Can you get me a meeting with Nicole Kidman? because the only celebrities Aussies care about are other Aussies. And actually, Naomi Watts isn't from Australia, she only moved there when she was a teenager, but apparently that's enough to count.
Like I was saying, I'm at Tabou because it's sort of expensive and the tourists don't go in much; it's silly to go to Australia and have French food. After that, the door man wards off anybody that gets a look at you and decides to follow you in.
It takes no less than an hour to cook your food no matter what you're having, so to keep me entertained while I wait for my fillet de veau, I order a bottle of champagne that costs approximately three and half pairs of very good running shoes or twenty very good albums or a silk shirt or a month's worth of diapers for just one baby. I have a book with me. It's Brave New World I am on page ninety-six and I realise I am on my very last sip of glass and there's nothing but a dribble coming from the bottle now. Better than soma.
A while ago, I read this study on all the microscopic particles that exist at any given time in a salad bar, things about which I won't go into detail here, I made two very important decisions. The first was to always carry a little bottle of that no-water-required anti-bacterial hand soap wherever I go. Two was to never, never use the bathroom in the middle of dining. You think about all the things you handle in a restroom and tell me I'm being over-cautious. Think about the people that don't wash their hands and they touch the door handle after they finish their business and you touch it after them and the germs just spread everywhere. When I finally decide I'm not going to be able to keep my legs crossed for the entirety of the dinner, I very regrettably make my way to the restroom thinking, this won't be so bad as long as I don't think about it and as long as I toss away my towel only after I've opened the door with it.
There's a man inside. Looking at him makes me think I'm going to have to carry my food home and I am also going to have to have a bath when I get there. He's nearly as wide as he is tall and has red splotched down the front of his slightly-wrinkled shirt, trousers that fasten just underneath his very round stomach, and ancient shoes. He's drunk, that much is clear, and his eyes are glassy and red, almost like he's been crying, but you know better because everything about this man says I am not capable of crying., I am a man's man., and also, possibly, hiccup.
I go over the toilet adjacent to him and open my trousers and while I'm doing my job, he casually looks over the porcelain and for a minute, I think he's trying to have a look at my donger, but he's looking at his face all peculiar-like and my mind is going, Jesus Christ, I am about to be asked for a signature while I've got my hand on my dick in the men's toilet and I am not signing anything unless he washes his hands, but he shocks me thoroughly. He doesn't say, you're that bloke off the films. Instead he says, I know you, all shocked. Your dad's an Englishman called Jackman, am I right? Normally, I'd think this was a very clever ploy for something, but he goes on, your dad was my accountant for years and years. Which one are you, he wants to know, your parents had a litter of babies, didn't they?
If there's anything I've ever learned in life, it's that people have tells whenever they're talking a lot of shit, and this man's either very good about his own, or he's flat out telling the truth, so I say, I'm Hugh, I'm the last of five, and he laughs so hard most people would get tears, but He's not capable of crying., He is a man's man., and, because I still can see my reflection in his eyes, hiccup. I remember you, he says. Haphazardly ran into all of you at the store while I was out getting some tobacco for my rollies, you know?, and you were sitting in the little cart screaming your bloody head off. And I think that this story must be true, because as the baby, I was relentlessly spoiled, and when I didn't get what I wanted, I liked to make sure everyone knew it. He goes on: you didn't shut up for a minute until your mum plucked you up and led you around by the hand.
Approximately four days, eighteen hours, and thirteen minutes following my eighth birthday, my mum got on a plane and left to go back to England. I remember all these details because bad things usually come in threes. On my birthday, I hadn't gotten what I want, this shiny red bicycle which another kid from school used to ride in every morning, and this bicycle was very metaphoric for me. All I could think of was, if I get my hands around this, all my problems will be solved. Instead, I opened this parcel that turned out to be a book, and then four days, eighteen hours, and thirteen minutes, my mum says she's got to leave the family, that she and dad are getting a divorce, and she can't take us away from Sydney because it's a very nice town where kids should be raised, and approximately two and one half hours following this, you could still smell her perfume around the house, I thought it would be a very good idea to catapult myself out of this tree in our yard simply because she wasn't around to tell me not to.
You'd think it'd be more logical to come out herself and see all of us at once, but she had dad send us out one by one whenever he could. I broke my arm in two places, but mum didn't come home that day or any day after, but it's all right because this has been a sort of guideline for me in my life, not leaving because you said you'd always stay and I'm a man's man, that's all.
Who remembers this?
Like I was saying, I'm at Tabou because it's sort of expensive and the tourists don't go in much; it's silly to go to Australia and have French food. After that, the door man wards off anybody that gets a look at you and decides to follow you in.
It takes no less than an hour to cook your food no matter what you're having, so to keep me entertained while I wait for my fillet de veau, I order a bottle of champagne that costs approximately three and half pairs of very good running shoes or twenty very good albums or a silk shirt or a month's worth of diapers for just one baby. I have a book with me. It's Brave New World I am on page ninety-six and I realise I am on my very last sip of glass and there's nothing but a dribble coming from the bottle now. Better than soma.
A while ago, I read this study on all the microscopic particles that exist at any given time in a salad bar, things about which I won't go into detail here, I made two very important decisions. The first was to always carry a little bottle of that no-water-required anti-bacterial hand soap wherever I go. Two was to never, never use the bathroom in the middle of dining. You think about all the things you handle in a restroom and tell me I'm being over-cautious. Think about the people that don't wash their hands and they touch the door handle after they finish their business and you touch it after them and the germs just spread everywhere. When I finally decide I'm not going to be able to keep my legs crossed for the entirety of the dinner, I very regrettably make my way to the restroom thinking, this won't be so bad as long as I don't think about it and as long as I toss away my towel only after I've opened the door with it.
There's a man inside. Looking at him makes me think I'm going to have to carry my food home and I am also going to have to have a bath when I get there. He's nearly as wide as he is tall and has red splotched down the front of his slightly-wrinkled shirt, trousers that fasten just underneath his very round stomach, and ancient shoes. He's drunk, that much is clear, and his eyes are glassy and red, almost like he's been crying, but you know better because everything about this man says I am not capable of crying., I am a man's man., and also, possibly, hiccup.
I go over the toilet adjacent to him and open my trousers and while I'm doing my job, he casually looks over the porcelain and for a minute, I think he's trying to have a look at my donger, but he's looking at his face all peculiar-like and my mind is going, Jesus Christ, I am about to be asked for a signature while I've got my hand on my dick in the men's toilet and I am not signing anything unless he washes his hands, but he shocks me thoroughly. He doesn't say, you're that bloke off the films. Instead he says, I know you, all shocked. Your dad's an Englishman called Jackman, am I right? Normally, I'd think this was a very clever ploy for something, but he goes on, your dad was my accountant for years and years. Which one are you, he wants to know, your parents had a litter of babies, didn't they?
If there's anything I've ever learned in life, it's that people have tells whenever they're talking a lot of shit, and this man's either very good about his own, or he's flat out telling the truth, so I say, I'm Hugh, I'm the last of five, and he laughs so hard most people would get tears, but He's not capable of crying., He is a man's man., and, because I still can see my reflection in his eyes, hiccup. I remember you, he says. Haphazardly ran into all of you at the store while I was out getting some tobacco for my rollies, you know?, and you were sitting in the little cart screaming your bloody head off. And I think that this story must be true, because as the baby, I was relentlessly spoiled, and when I didn't get what I wanted, I liked to make sure everyone knew it. He goes on: you didn't shut up for a minute until your mum plucked you up and led you around by the hand.
Approximately four days, eighteen hours, and thirteen minutes following my eighth birthday, my mum got on a plane and left to go back to England. I remember all these details because bad things usually come in threes. On my birthday, I hadn't gotten what I want, this shiny red bicycle which another kid from school used to ride in every morning, and this bicycle was very metaphoric for me. All I could think of was, if I get my hands around this, all my problems will be solved. Instead, I opened this parcel that turned out to be a book, and then four days, eighteen hours, and thirteen minutes, my mum says she's got to leave the family, that she and dad are getting a divorce, and she can't take us away from Sydney because it's a very nice town where kids should be raised, and approximately two and one half hours following this, you could still smell her perfume around the house, I thought it would be a very good idea to catapult myself out of this tree in our yard simply because she wasn't around to tell me not to.
You'd think it'd be more logical to come out herself and see all of us at once, but she had dad send us out one by one whenever he could. I broke my arm in two places, but mum didn't come home that day or any day after, but it's all right because this has been a sort of guideline for me in my life, not leaving because you said you'd always stay and I'm a man's man, that's all.
Who remembers this?