Sampling the cultural delights of Northbridge
Many years ago I came to the conclusion that I would never be known as a Northbridge Identity. Although I did my fair share of time on James Street in the magic hour between the 80's and the 90's, it's been a while between drinks, as they say. Somewhere along the line I developed a middle-aged Channel-7-News-fuelled fear of the place, and so at the witching hour of 7:30pm on this wintry Tuesday night, I was in fear of my life.
That fear led me to The Worst Coffee Ever. I think Yoda warned me about this (fear >> anger >> bad coffee), but did I listen? Nooooooo.
Evil coffee
Fear of thuggery on my part led Husband and I from the library carpark into the nearest thing approximating a well-lit cafe at that end of the strip. Whilst bright and shiny, this Pool Hall/Karaoke Bar/Restaurant/Cafe thing was clearly not the place in which to find a barrista of high acclaim.
First warning sign: When you ask for two flat whites, the girl behind the counter says "What?"
Second warning sign: The coffee machine looks like a laser printer.
Third warning sign: It takes four people, a lot of button pressing, and 20 minutes for two cups of something called coffee to be served. At several points during this interval I wished to flee, but Husband held me down and reminded me that bad experiences make good blog entries.
Fourth warning sign: When you ask for sugar and are told that the coffee already has sugar in it. Which it didn't.
Fifth warning sign: It tastes like bitter milky dishwater.
Sixth and most damning warning sign: Husband notes that it tastes "a bit odd". Not bad for someone whose taste buds were shot off during the war.
So, I have a new coffee low point, quite soon after setting my previous PB (PW?). They say surprises are good for you. They would be wrong.
On the bright side they do serve chicken feet, and it's always good to know where your next chicken feet are coming from. They stand a chance of being good chicken feet too, for the menu was in Chinese with English translations added as an apparent afterthought.
There was a typo in the menu.
To the theatre!
Our purpose for the evening was to attend a performance of the lovely harveystoat's (John Robertson) one-man show at the Blue Room, entitled Don't Swallow (something something something). A show about complaining, it seemed just the thing to follow our earlier experience.
Having been warned that the show was not recommended for sensitive folk and those easily offended, I was prepared for blood. Nonsense, it was fiiiiiine. Funny, touching and quite actory in places. OK, some of the touching was a little confronting. Good house for a Tuesday, with quite a few familiarish Swanconesque faces (and hi again ever-so-briefly to sassimifrass). Hiding somewhere in the darkness were reviewers, so it will be interesting to see their interpretations of the evening's amusements.
The audience participation wasn't nearly as scary as it might have been, and it was a friendly room with DIY heckle management. That said, I discovered that my angry sound is a hiss; no surprises there. Husband doesn't have one (although he tried without much success to borrow one of my lesser ones). It's when he goes very very quiet that you get nervous. If you want explanations, go see the show *shoo*.
Nice too to catch up with Director Don, one of the few remaining witnesses to my brief--and Husband's somewhat longer--comedy career. Don might even be here, reading this (hi Don), for Husband did the oversell thing for this blog and pronounced it funny. Like I need the pressure of a comedy director reader who is himself a funny-yet-evil man of the type of which I approve. I am undeterred however and will continue to whinge about my health, torture innocent prose, and post cute cat photos in lieu of witticisms.
*pout*
Meanwhile, at the prison
The cops invaded the tunnels today for a diving-in-the-dark training exercise, complete with Channel 9 film crew. During the process of weapon retrieval the divers raked up the muck and released a lot of diesel fumes from the old spill. This resulted in some rather tourism-hostile headaches and dizziness. Not to mention The Stench. Insert joke re journalistic integrity of Channel 9 here.