I went to the Espy to see Edan on Saturday night. If you ever have the chance to see this guy you should definitely do it, he’s an extremely talented musician.
Anyway, the bartender was wearing a BAPE t-shirt.
Me: Hey man, I like your Bathing Ape t-shirt.
He: Oh, umm, it’s not mine. I ran out of things to wear so I stole it from my house-mate.
An offence punishable by; and only by, a horrifyingly slow and painful death.
Mine’s still wrapped in plastic.
It’s like chain-email for bloggers. Yay.
To those that I’ve tagged into this thing (below); sorry, but now it’s your turn. Tee hee. :)
Four jobs I’ve had:
Four movies I can watch over and over:
Four places I have lived:
Four television shows I love to watch:
Four places I have been on vacation:
Four of my favorite dishes:
Four websites I visit daily:
Four places I would rather be right now:
Four bloggers I am tagging:
I’m not a terrorist. I promise.
Given the 7 Eleven incident I had a couple of months back, I have been following the Geelong Camera Club issue with some interest. I thought a bit of media attention might bring a more relaxed attitude towards photography in public spaces.
Apparently not.
I went back to Spencer Street Station tonight. Despite the failure of my last photo mission there I had convinced myself that there was heaps of good photo opportunities.
I was snapping away on platform 5 when two security guards walk past me. I can see out of the corner of my eye that one has stopped nearby and the other has kept on walking. I take a couple more photos before I’m approached.
He: Are you going to be taking lots of photos tonight?
Me: Oh, hi. Umm. I don’t know. I might?
He: It’s just that my boss asked me to tell you to stop.
Me: Oh. Why?
He: Well you know, terrorists and all that.
Me: Riiiight.
I take a moment to decide whether or not I should mount my high-horse.
He gives me a look as if to say, “I know you’re not a terrorist, I’m just doing what I’m told. Oh, and also, my boss is a gutless loser”.
I opt not to give him a hard time and pretend to put my camera away.
So lame.
So, so, lame.
I might engage in bicycle activism on a semi-regular basis. I might listen to music that a lot of people don’t understand. I might have once vowed to violently kill the creator of that fucking annoying Crazy Frog. But I’m not a terrorist.
I promise.
In this week’s Inpress I rant on about about my 5 favourite records.
So anyway. I was waiting at the traffic lights when I hear a loud crunch. I look over my shoulder and see a motorbike and it’s rider lying on the road. Yay.
While everyone in the near vacinity continues on their important journey; which shall not be interrupted by something as insignificant as a motorbike colliding with a car, I hop off my bike and rush over to make sure everything is OK.
The motorbike is pretty scratched up and her shoulder is apparently very sore, but she’s alright. I am quite amazed that the occupants of the car don’t seem too concerned about anything but the damage done to their bumper.
I take some photos and give her my card.
Karma.
And Wonton Noodles.
It ocurred to me tonight how lame it is that “lock it in Eddie” has some how become an acceptable way of saying, “yes, that sounds wonderful”.
I’m sure I’ve said it myself a few times. Never again. Ever.
So anyway, whilst riding home from work tonight a car pulls up next to me at the traffic lights. The driver is yelling out my name but I don’t recognise him. He removes his sunglasses; I squint a lot; then I realise it’s a guy that I used to race with. I haven’t seen him in nearly 10 years. He only spotted me because he recognised my bike. Buggered if I can remember what bike he was riding 10 years ago, I didn’t say that though. :)
I picked up my camera and rode to the somewhat new Spencer Street Station to take some photos. I struck up a conversation with and old man who’d missed his train to Sydney. He gave me some girl advice then told me an incredibly sad story about his travels through Russia. All my photos turned out crap.
I made my way back home along Collins Street. I was travelling at a reasonable speed when the door of a black Mercedes (I think, perhaps a BMW, I can’t remember) opens in front of me. I am unable to swerve because there’s a taxi on my right, so I swiftly skid to a halt, stopping about a metre short of the driver. It’s fucking Eddie Maguire. I tried to think of a good insult but became distracted by the lush interior of his car. He cops my look-of-death and I continue on my merry way.
Next desitnation: Victoria Street. I don’t know why but I opted not to go to the same place I’ve been eating for the last 2 years. To cut a long story short, I’ve just found the best Wonton Noodle Soup joint in Melbourne, only few weeks before I’m set to move out of the neighbourhood.
Which brings us to now. I swear there was a small animal dying in my bedroom. Every few minutes I could hear this high pitched kind of moaning sound. Like a tiny kitten was gasping for it’s last breath of air or something. I spent at least half hour rummaging through everything until I realised it’s the fucking Instant Message client I just installed on my computer, trying to tell me that Karl is sending me messages.
Idiot!