Tuesday, October 06, 2009
For the sake of posterity t'would be remiss not to disclose my recent volcanic bought of gastronomical disorder that erupted on the eve of the gold-shitter himself's visit, Stevie M and the Jicks rocking our shores. I shriveled up like a shrink-wrapped twinkie on a bonfire, a human stain boogying down like a diarrheic clown in Melbourne and then on to Adelaide subsisting on dry biscuits and the odd cookie crumb. We fled South Australia for Port Campbell in a robust rental the day after.
Anything less than muscular than the Henry Ford Falcon and we would have hydroplaned into a ditch as the rain was operating at plague proportions. I drove the leg that got us way off-track, but op shop serendipity came a-calling and I wouldn’t have procured a beautiful-fitting jacket and shirt without taking a wrong turn to that remote outpost.
On Sunday me and my new jacket, now freshly dry cleaned, got shat on big-time by a seagull and this is after I spent three hours waiting to get into the Dali thing — I mean who waits three hours to get in to anything anymore? If I had known it was going to take that long I would have walked. I’m sort of happy I stuck around, I only wish I had brought something to read. Three hours is a long time to be alone with your thoughts.
- photos de campo