Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Whaddya like mate?
It is good to think about the things you like from time to time, if only to remind yourself of the fabulous and delightful things that make you happy.
Me? I like crowded, dark, sifty house bars with secret rooms out the back where people still smoke. And sitting there, right there at the bar drinking Brooktinis, I like to watch the smoke tapering like deleriously out of control jetstream vapour trails (slowed down by the power of one thousand) swimming from the glowing butts, nestled amid orange-stained fingers.
This place is where you’ll watch the mating dance of outrageously thin, snake-like, lesbian junkies and note that they resemble those tassles that hang from the nipples of Burlesque queens at the Moulin Rouge in Paris.
And it is here, right here, that thoughts of wicked things and wonderful adventures are born; hedonistic ideas germinating at the speed of electrocuted tadpoles - like time lapse scenes from a Richard Attenborough documentary about the secret life of plants.
Next day, enjoying a long black on the street, you hear the rumble from afar, and remind yourself that you love retro, Detroit-built V8’s.
Here we have chrome trade-shows on wheels, with doors a foot thick and huge metal shark fins housing more lights than the Ginza.
Speedometers stretch a good half kilometre across a (more chrome) ribbed and riveted dash, below which hangs – beckoning, no, beseeching you to fire up a Dunners Red – an ashtray the size of a wheelbarrow.
Oh, and back to that rumble. Eight giant pots singing a slow, sensual baritone that challenges the human hearing range, draining a good couple of litres of 98 with every sweep.
These are not just cars. They are monuments.
We call them 'She'.
They are just way too fabulous and delightful to be called 'He'.
;-)
Me? I like crowded, dark, sifty house bars with secret rooms out the back where people still smoke. And sitting there, right there at the bar drinking Brooktinis, I like to watch the smoke tapering like deleriously out of control jetstream vapour trails (slowed down by the power of one thousand) swimming from the glowing butts, nestled amid orange-stained fingers.
This place is where you’ll watch the mating dance of outrageously thin, snake-like, lesbian junkies and note that they resemble those tassles that hang from the nipples of Burlesque queens at the Moulin Rouge in Paris.
And it is here, right here, that thoughts of wicked things and wonderful adventures are born; hedonistic ideas germinating at the speed of electrocuted tadpoles - like time lapse scenes from a Richard Attenborough documentary about the secret life of plants.
Next day, enjoying a long black on the street, you hear the rumble from afar, and remind yourself that you love retro, Detroit-built V8’s.
Here we have chrome trade-shows on wheels, with doors a foot thick and huge metal shark fins housing more lights than the Ginza.
Speedometers stretch a good half kilometre across a (more chrome) ribbed and riveted dash, below which hangs – beckoning, no, beseeching you to fire up a Dunners Red – an ashtray the size of a wheelbarrow.
Oh, and back to that rumble. Eight giant pots singing a slow, sensual baritone that challenges the human hearing range, draining a good couple of litres of 98 with every sweep.
These are not just cars. They are monuments.
We call them 'She'.
They are just way too fabulous and delightful to be called 'He'.
;-)
