Logorrhea

I'm back in Moyston, chillin' like a villain. I aim to be posting a little more regularly now, as while I was in Sydney, I was too buggered all the time, and while I was in Melbourne my cunning bro controls all the intarweb access through a Linux proxy server, which logs everything, and this bog is a family free zone. And Abs is onto me, as Choco keeps going BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG around him despite all my withering looks. Ah well.

The weekend before last, I was in Kiama testing out my speargun and new gear. Without a rubber upgrade, the gun is fairly harmless, and with the square edges on the butt filed down could probably be safely used in kindergartens. That's a mild exaggeration, but it did bounce off a few fish who weren't terribly far off. The club hired a schmicko house overlooking the bay and in view of the blowhole (apparently it cost the club $1k to hire it for the weekend), and bought an arseton of food. There was much diving, partying, and eating, and it cost us the princely sum of 30 bucks per night (booze sold separately). Highlights:

• Plukky shot a flathead that could've been passed off as a sunken aircraft carrier. It fed 25 odd people (sidestep obvious odd people joke), but unforturnately tasted a bit like arse. That may have been the arse-like taste of bitter jealousy. The rest of the spread, however, was gorr-may.
  
• We took a bottle'o bourbon. I reminded Wen that most dive club people don't necessarily get completely wasted in the manner she might be accustomed to. I had one drink, I come back to find about 2/3 of the bottle missing, and Wen being a raucous derro. For shame, that was my raucous derro juice.
  
• Woody found a skateboard. The house was on top of a hill, and the road leading up to it was treacherous and windy. We took turns sitting on the skateboard, riding partway down the hill, and having spectacular crashes. Needless to say, I grazed my elbow in three places and customized my new jeans. Our most successful ride down the hill had both of us cramped up together sitting on the skateboard, and riding it down backwards. How extreme. When the barely coherent Wen found us, she demanded to have a go, and wouldn't be told otherwise. She returned home without most of the skin from her right forearm. Woody got his finger caught in the skateboard wheel at high speed. Actually, on the whole this was a very bad idea. I was sore for days.
  
• I nearly fell asleep driving home, and had several micro-sleeps. This was very naughty of me, and I vow on the bitter blood of Christ the lamb with chips I shall never do it again.
  

And so I found myself in Melbourne early last week, which was hardly a surprise because I booked the ticket and everything. I was picked up at the hairport by a large black man. Unfortunately, at the hour of my arrival, all licensed establishments near his house were closed, except for a turkish restaurant. Actually, that understates the place. It was more or less deserted except for a few men playing a strange board game while smoking steadily on Shisha's (sp?), and there was a cacophony of interminable horrendous turkish music. Unfortunately, this was not the last time we went there, and I suspect we'll end up there again on some forsaken evening.

The rest I consign to another post. It involves the following charming phrase from one of the local cabbies, "He doesn't need a taxi..., he needs a friggen ambulance." Steve: 0, Bottle of Rum: 1.