It normally doesn’t snow down under in sunny Perth, Western Australia – unless you count fake snow made with diapers and water – and we tend to spend our holidays trying to escape the heat while dreaming of a white Christmas. To rectify this predicament, I have installed the Snow Storm WordPress plugin to simulate cyber snow on my website. Please try to refrain from licking the screen.
I was lusting after the buttery popcorn infiltrating my nostrils as I waited in line to have my book signed by David Sedaris. My eyes drifted towards the sign that read ‘BAR UPSTAIRS’ and ‘NO CAMERAS OR PHOTOS’ in threatening capitals. Devar asked me what I was going to say as he ignored the threatening sign and took a photo of the line. I didn’t know. Although he is one of my favourite authors, I assumed he would ask the typical questions authors ask their adoring fans – “know any good jokes?” or “what do you do?” – and I wanted to get it over and done with to reduce the risk of saying something foolish. Like the lady in front of me who was contemplating boasting about how she named her imaginary boyfriend after him. David started signing my book, he asked me how much money I earn and in return I asked what he thought of Australia. “It is expensive” he said, “and hot” I added, just in case he was needing another adjective to explain Australia. It had been quite humid that day and Perthians love to complain about the weather. My interaction with him was short and sweet, he wrote “I’m so happy you can walk” in one of my books and drew a dog in another book.
The show consisted of David reading essays from The New Yorker, a piece he wrote for British paper entitled ‘If I Could Change The World’, diary entries and questions from the audience. The most amusing part of the show was a story about his female friend, who preferred to remain nameless, she also preferred to catch her poop in her hand when using the toilet instead of letting it make a horrid plop sound in the toilet bowl. That would be so embarrassing.
During the show Mark Trammell replied to my tweet, “Get him on Twitter!” he exclaimed. After two glasses of wine I decided to line up again after the show to ask David why he doesn’t join in on the Twitter fun and tweet about eating sandwiches, crazy dreams he had last night, how losing socks really sucks and other random observations or thoughts in 140 characters or less. I didn’t ask it in that way. It escaped my mouth in a more “me again, so that Twitter thing, a guy I follow who works there wants to know why you don’t do it?” manner of speaking. He hungrily consumed a plate of chorizo and salad had been placed in front of him while I asked my twittastic question. He made the ‘let me just finish chewing this’ universal motion and then tried to explain the Twitter predicament. Apparently someone had already created a David Sedaris account on Twitter, he then paid someone to switch the account over to him, but didn’t really know what it was or what to do with it once it was his. So there it sits, with over 4000+ followers and no actual tweets. I tried to convince him he should tweet (join the cool kids, drink the koolaid, follow the leader) but he didn’t seem convinced. I wanted to say “no one understands Twitter, David” but I didn’t want to scare him with inception like comments. I instead urged him to tweet and wrote down my username and the address of my account in case he wanted to see what it was all about and required guidance. In that moment I thought of myself as a sort of Mother Teresa of tweeting – I could guide him into over one million followers and we would DM about what type of background colour he should use. It would be awesome.
As he put another forkful of sausage into his mouth I came back to reality and thanked him for the performance as he waved on the next question. Later I pondered if he would screw up the piece of paper from the Aussie girl who totally thought he should tweet or figure out what Twitter was at least. It then occurred to me that kind of subjects I tweet about.
So if you’re ever at a David Sedaris show or book signing and he mentions this strange Australian girl who tweets too much about Skyrim or boobs and tried to
force convince him that Twitter was the shit and he laughed about it later in his hotel room wasn’t convinced. Please don’t judge me. At least I’m not the girl who pooped into her hand and gently lowered it into the toilet bowl because she didn’t want it to make that socially unacceptable plop sound in the toilet bowl.
If I was her I would at least tweet about it.
Earlier this year I moved to the city to be closer to friends, study and work opportunities. My address now contains the words and numbers ‘Perth 6000’, when I was young I assumed anyone who lived in the 6000 postcode wore top hats and swam in pools full of money like on Duck Tales. Silly young me didn’t realise that anyone can live in the city, if they pay a decent amount to rent for a small apartment in a complex with a shared pool that is full of water instead of money. Top hats are optional.
Living in the city has its pros and cons…
Pro: Ten minute walk to Murray Street.
Con: Ten minute walk home at 1am will might result in a brisk mugging or assault.
Pro: Closer to friends.
Con: Further away from family.
Pro: The man with a cockatoo in a basket on his bike is cool.
Con: The crazy flag lady is not cool. Run away.
Pro: The apartment is nice and has faster internet.
Con: IT DOESN’T HAVE A BATH TUB, WHY DID I AGREE TO A BATHLESS APARTMENT? NEVER EVER AGAIN. EXCLAMATION POINT. ANOTHER EXCLAMATION POINT.
In the end the pros and cons level out. Except for the bath. I’m so traumatised about my lack of ability to relax in a bath that I ask everyone I meet if they have a bath that I could use. So far, only one person has said yes.
Although my mother worked in the city when she was in her early twenties, it didn’t help her come to terms with the CBD I now live in, full of crazy people, one way roads and stairs. Oh, don’t get her started on the stairs. There are nearly 40 of them leading up to my front door and she hates every single one of them.
As I was riding shotgun in my mothers shiny new car we passed two of the local whore houses. I gather one is like the Hungry Jacks (Burger King if you’re American) of hookers, while the other is like McDonald’s – both serve the same items and one always claims their burgers taste better.
“What is that place with the flashing lights?” asked my Mum.
“It’s a whore house” I replied, as if whore houses are on every street in every neighbourhood and everyone is cool with it.
“A what house?” she exclaimed, as if whore houses are not on every street in every neighbourhood and everyone is not cool with it.
“A brothel… a place where men visit prostitutes.”
I wanted to elaborate more about the penis goes into the vagina and money is exchanged perplexities, but decided not to, I was riding in her shiny new car and she would never forgive me for tarnishing its innocence. I had already told it the petrol fairy wasn’t real when she wasn’t listening. My mother was quiet for a moment and then, in a nonchalant tone said…
“Oh, I thought it was a cafe.”
I managed to score a ticket to the One Movement festival in October, thanks to @lukecaporn and @KatBellaVanilla. Punters flocked to the music festival to dance like hipsters, drink sippy wine attached to lanyards, eat gourmet donuts and watch various bands perform over three days and nights. Sunday had a mellow feel, mainly due to the ‘sandwiches’ everyone was consuming, but also because it was a cold rainy day and everyone was too cold to be a douche bag. I spent my time hanging out with friends and taking photos with my bashed around pink bits (P&S Canon IXUS80 IS) while at the festival.