She wanted to get away. I wanted to go anywhere.
But I had no idea here to go. A year of immobility had numbed my spirit and shortened my horizons drastically. Luckily she had a plan.
We jimmied the lock on a Wicked camper parked on the Burleigh esplanade whilst the campers were enraptured in a drum circle on a Sunday evening, then crossed the border in the setting sun.
We crossed rivers and passed small towns propped up by roadtrains and greasy food. The sky fell down on us and we pulled down a dirt road and parked on a sloped hillside. I was skeptical, my adventurous spirit deadened by the comforts of apartment living. She assured me this was the place.
This would be the cure for our city woes.
Migaloo was back in town. He might only swing by the coast once or twice a year. Hence the name. That, and this cat loves to cut some rug. Ya dig?
Myself, I’m known about these waters as Muddy Kegs. I’m known to swing into a few round ones near the seaways after the summer rains. Bullsharks nippin at my cropped churchill swim-fins.
Then you got Beef Carvey, a man nearly as solid as the walls he throws himself over. And thats saying something.
The trio of us set out the back for some at the local. Spread out along the lineup. Calling the sets. Calling the rides. Dominating the small crowd of blow-ins who know to just keep on paddling when this crew is eyeing off the sets. Solid times for a solid crew out the back in Balmy Palmy. The 4221. Original Gold City Underground town.
Though it would be a laugh to head to the name breaks to check the circus and show Nigaloo what he’s been missing whilst he’s been slapping down Arctic walls like some kinda rubber seal. The real mobs.
When that cat Migaloo got on the plane back to Norway he wouldn’t be missing that mess no doubt. I’m sure that cats dolphin kicking onto a few cresters off the shallow end of an iceberg right about now… with no crew in sight.
Film. Love to shoot it. What a drag it is to get your negatives back with some shitty 500kb scans with the crunchiest compression though.
I held out on posting these images while I decided whether it would be worth sending the negs off for a proper scanning treatment. I’d already paid enough though.
Hey, its a staff party on the gold coast! All booze, skyscrapers and shitty cocaine.
I was working the next morning so I took it a bit easy by drinking my red beetle-juice and ducking out when things got loose.
I was so worked up.
Driving down the main drag. A two lane, road riddled with potholes and traffic lights they have the audacity to call a highway. Arms beading with sweat, hot air blasting me in the face. The tip of my tongue burned as I took a hard drag from my hastily rolled cigarette.
Head full of bullshit no good thoughts running in a loop. This music was no good. I needed something mellow to un-knot my brainpad before it goes full meltdown. I flick though the phone and fumble my cigarette. It falls between into the leg-hole of my shorts falling all the way back to my damp ass. It burns.
I brake hard. Stop hard. The guy behind me nearly goes right into me. Horns. I hate them, obnoxious. When they’re directed at me though, it’s funny. Even if I’m the biggest dickhead in the world, the guy on the horn looks like a bigger one. The cigarette has burnt me a new asshole. I reach into my crotch, pull it out and take a drag. Then I laugh a little. The lights go green.
The suns at the nice point where all the tall buildings are real orange and the streets are dark wth shadows. I’ve pulled the car over and sit on the hood for a bit looking at the scene. Red taillights going towards red lights. White lights coming the other way. Neon signs turing on and an LED billboard in the distance looking like a second sun Rising from the west. I like Neon Signs. The inventor of LED billboards should be dragged behind a horse-cart.
Yeah, it much better scene to looks at than be a part of. What had me so worked up? Some really small shit. Something I would build up into an elaborate story to complain to someone about at some point, but it was pretty insignificant. And it was petty to get so jacked up over it. Sometimes, you are the problem. You’re the badguy, the dickhead or in this case the jackass customer wants to bitch to two jerks about how they fucked up your order and how now you got to make TWO trips instead of one.