How bears and bile stopped me buying beer

My family (and some friends) are spending Christmas this year down the coast. My godmother leaves this evening. In an attempt to be organised, and to ensure that all the necessary things for a pleasant holiday are available down there, my father requested that I take some time out of my very busy schedule and purchase some alcohol to be sent down with her. 

I had arrived at the shops and had managed to get myself a trolley when I was bailed up by one of the WSPA guys. I stopped. I usually do, but I always preface our conversation with the 'I appreciate what you are doing here, but I'm really not in a position to provide funds'. The sensible ones wave me on, but there are others that continue to chat to me in the hope that I will change my tune. 

Today I ran into one of the latter. And he was brilliant. He was charming, informative, funny. He was also incredibly attractive (in an unwashed hippy kind of way, which no doubt helps passers by find him believable as an activist type).  He explained to me the dilemmas about bears being caged for bile, about becoming endangered, about the necessity of whales to the ecosystem, about great things the WSPA has done, how he supported them when he was surviving on Youth Study. Had I been in a position to do so I would surely have signed my life away to monthly payments right there. Unfortunately, as I explained to him, I did not find myself to be less unemployed at the end of the conversation than I was at the beginning.

So I took my trolley and walked towards the Liquor Store. And I realised that having turned down the opportunity to save the whales, and the bears (who, by the way, are forced to live in a cage the size of my trolley), on the basis of needing those funds to purchase food, I wouldn't be able to walk back past the WSPA guy with a trolley full of beer, albeit beer bankrolled by my father. And so I was forced to abandon my trolley, and my mission, and skulk back to my car empty handed. 

Don't get dumped in Boorowa

If there is one thing this weekend has taught me it is don't get dumped in  Boorowa. Or perhaps more generally, think very carefully about who you get a lift to a 21st with. 

21sts in the country are always excellent, partly because being in a paddock, everyone can get decidedly loose. Plus everyone is going to crash there. It's like a big giant alcohol fueled co-ed sleepover under the stars. And then there is the road trip. I love a good road trip, which given that I am prone to motion sickness says a lot. Perhaps it is a subconscious recognition that it is the journey not the destination or whatever, but the road trip is always an excellent addition to the party proper. 

This weekend my brother Terible and his friend Stoz got a lift to a 21st in the country from an acquaintance. According to all reports (theirs), the trip up was pleasant and banter filled. They nicknamed their driver "Scrappy" and thought it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. All was going splendidly, until the next morning.

They awoke to yelling, directed at them. Scrappy, it seems, could not fit the swag in her car. 

Stoz told her not to worry, they would walk back. Terible thought they were joking. She took him at his word. And so they walked. To the Boorowa pub. Where they discovered that there was no public transport, and not a great deal of potentially hitchhiking opportunities. Perhaps one of the locals they met during their sojourn put it best upon hearing their tale when he said 'so she gave you a lift here? But she's not taking you back? I just don't understand mate. It doesn't make any sense'.  

The early bird often has to kill time

I am habitually early. It's one of the reasons I wish I smoked. Alas, there are not so many things to do while waiting for someone to join you if you do not join the ranks of those with limited lung capacity other than loiter, and I am not a naturally talented loiterer. My earliness is perhaps further compounded by the chronic lateness of several of my friends. One in particular would be so late, and I so early, that I would often be left with 45 minutes to fill for a coffee date. I try to manage this time delay by always carrying a book, or meeting at interesting places (like museums, or galleries, or markets), but this doesn't always work.

This morning, for example, I had arranged to meet some friends at the markets at 11. I arrived there at least half an hour early. I got myself a coffee and began to have a look around. Sadly, as a result of poor weather, there were less stalls than usual. Having failed to dress weather appropriately I was less impressed than I might otherwise have been with what was on offer. I had finished the book I had been reading last night and was yet to find another. When I looked through the second hand books at the stalls I found nothing that appealed to me. I became impatient. At two minutes past 11 I called one of my friends demanding to know why they were so late. This type of behaviour is not endearing. And so, I am going to attempt to be less punctual in future.

Lather, rinse and repeat if necessary

To my horror I am finding myself increasingly concerned with the state of Robert Pattinson's hair. To be fair, I am in company with millions of teenaged Twilight fans and Heidi Klum:


Recently Pattinson told screaming tween fans "I haven't washed my hair in about six weeks. It's disgusting." The continued mania surrounding him would indicate that this has not put too many of them off. Presumably they would agree that it IS disgusting, but continue to be enthralled by him despite this. I, however, find myself more attracted to him not in spite of his failure to wash his hair, but because of it.

I am not sure if this is because it clearly indicates his lack of regard for the obsessive teenage affections targeted at him that are based around his portrayal of the allegedly dreamy vampire Edward Cullen, who is supposed to be every girls fantasy, despite the fact he is a) undead, b) a stalker, c) not fun and d) fictional. What this says about girls these days, who would like to trade places with the masochistic heroine of the saga, who wants only to be slain, is a story for another day.

It could also be his failure to conform to the clean-cut Hollywood image, but it may be symptomatic of what Madam Von Mook refers to as my attraction to hobo chic, which, if Pattinson has half the influence of his compatriot Sienna Miller, may become just as popular as boho was in the coming months. And that would certainly be a wonderful side-effect of the Twilight phenomenon, particularly in light of the GFC and the rise of the Recessionista.

How very Leonard Shelby of you

I recently had coffee with my friend Chris, who had the misfortune to attend a conference on the Gold Coast in the midst of Schoolies. The streets lined with drunken 17 year olds, it was not the tropical getaway that might be envisioned. 

Schoolies is an opportunity for the kids to cut loose. And good on them. We all know someone who has woken up missing half an eyebrow because they passed out before their friends. I know people who've gotten pierced or inked after several too many drinks. Tattoo artists must love the ridiculous things drunk people decide to mark on their bodies. Such as the boy Chris saw at the coast who had tattooed on his shoulder "Schoolies 08". 

Evidently it had been such a big week for this guy that without a permanent reminder he may have forgotten he'd been there.