Until teleportation, they’re still… holy shit, that’s it. Let’s just call this blog ‘Teleportation Ode’ and leave it at that. We can all go home, go back to our normal lives and forget about this mad dream of spontaneously reviewing things.
I’ve had some perfectly lovely taxi trips in my time. Of course, the majority of successful taxi rides consist of being so non-eventful that they slip from your mind like an upside-down pear cake on the back of a greasy Bactrian camel. Mmm. Pear cake. It turns out that with taxis, we ignore the government propaganda pounded into our nubile brains during the HSC and forget the ‘journey’. Notable exceptions include the driver who gave us a bunch of chocolate bars for some reason, and the one who genuinely seemed to like my shoes.
LACK OF STARS:
If there was ever a metaphor that embodies the boring to the terrifying aspects of human experience, the taxi-cab is one that you can get into the back seat of and smell deeply. Now, I don’t want to simply complain about the funky human car-sauna stench, or the casual racism, or the GTA style driving – it’s all a little bit bad stand-up night in early 90s New York. What’s the deal with airplane food? I dunno, what’s the deal with how pointless your life is? You just can’t explain some things.
|“What’s the deal with how much my leg is on fire?”|
But in the manner of experiences everywhere, sometimes your fare-paying experience in these maverick cars-for-hire are extraordinary. I could go on in depth about the terrifying Vietnam taxi which took us into a shanty-town and shook us down for more money, realised we didn’t have anymore, and then politely dropped us off at our destination. Or the driver who took me and my girlfriend from last years work Christmas party, roaringly drunk, to another Christmas party and decided to ask us riddles. Yes, riddles, like a poorly paid road sphinx. And furthermore, they were riddles where the answers were shallowly hidden morality tales with a patriarchal fundamentalist Christian message.
|“While a fish is a good answer, it is not correct.
The answer is marry your girlfriend and stop living in sin, you heathen.”
But at this time of year I get quite a few taxis from work after 1am, due to Western Australia being firmly entrenched in the past. It’s a thing, and it would all be fixed by a quick secession. At that point in the evening after many hours of work, I find it difficult to enact even the most basic of human interactions. So, you can imagine my relief when I get into a taxi last night, to discover a scrupulously clean, new car scented taxi with a polite driver listening to gentle classical music. Classical is really not my thing, and usually just reminds me of Fantasia, but at this point in time I sat back and thought of dancing Pegasi and the like. Until, like a lot of classical music is fond of doing, it stopped being all light and frolicsome, and became dark and brooding like a storm or a cloud of deep voiced bees. And with the added depth, came increased volume. That’s when my driver started whistling along to the Wagner-esque tune. (OR IT COULD HAVE ACTUALLY BEEN WAGNER) And not even with any degree of proficiency – I’m talking the kind of tuneless, atonal drone of a serial killer washing his stabbing knives. As we drive past the Landsdowne Hotel, I look out the window to try and quell my rising panic, and briefly glimpse a couple in the alley. While I’m 97% sure the gentleman was just kissing this ladies neck, with the aural horror happening around me, it was clearly vampire/zombie/sex offender.
I decide to look ahead again, when I notice that we have significantly picked up speed, in relation to the increased pace of both the music and the toneless whistling of the driver. And that’s when we start running red lights. I mean sure, it’s very late at night and there’s about two other cars on the road. But isn’t that vaguely illegal?
As with most of my stories, there’s no real payoff. I didn’t get stabbed by the driver, and I didn’t come back from the dead to blog about it.
Or did I?
When families come together, forget about their problems and give thanks to Adam Norris.
Only the most spurious reasons, like tradition, faith and belief keep people celebrating any sort holiday. The Queen’s birthday could be changed to ‘Worship the Amazing Spelling Chihuahua’ and nothing at all would change in the world. Bogans would still drink, I’d still go to work and not get paid penalty rates and the Queen would still remain unaging and malevolent. Then again, that Chihuahua sure can spell some wacky words!
In order to help the world make a little more sense, we’ve created a holiday that is not only celebrated for spurious reasons, but is based on something uncommonly spurious. That something is Adam Norris, a local figure. It’s not important to describe this hatted behemoth and his ridiculous life – all that’s important is getting into the spirit of the holiday. Drinking, carousing, poetry and japes – all these are relevant celebratory styles for Adam Norris day. Rumours are that some sects in rural NSW have taken up human sacrifice and decopage, but there’s no rules or limits on how you celebrate this wonderful day.
In past years, online rap battles have been a clear favourite – and you can join in the fun on Facebook or Twitter #adamnorrisday. Customary gifts include pineapples and choral renditions of Celine Dion’s lesser known hits. Adam Norris is also firmly against death, so changing your online profile pictures to a picture of his grim visage is a great way to support all the tireless soldiers in the battle against death.
LACK OF STARS:
If you say ‘Adam Norris’ three times in the mirror, a baby butterfly dies.
Spiky bliss fruit.
You zesty ball of absurdist fun. You yellow acid sprout. I don’t know where you come from and I don’t know why you come from, but goddamn it, you are amazing.
If hitting your tongue like a lizard made from sparkle isn’t enough, pineapple has gained added meaning in today’s confusing world of carbon taxes and zany fundamentalism.
When a person puts their hand up and proudly proclaims that they love pineapple, it isn’t the same as your boring friend Sue constantly banging on about her morbid obsession with Paw-Paw. It’s isn’t like that frenzied office-worker who is all loose skin and feverish eyes who bails you up at the urinal and confides that he lost all his weight by only eating cucumbers.
|That’s my flappy skin arms, not a bra. And that’s a cucumber.|
By saying you love pineapple, you’re saying you like change. You’re fun, new and don’t put up with any gaff from the old guard or the fat cats upstairs wearing big wigs.
|My wig could be bigger.|
There’s a very clear historical lineage to this trend, but you won’t find it in any history books. Fact – the dominant paradigm does not like pineapple. Basically it all stems from the first time somebody put pineapple on a pizza. That’s when the world was split in two – one side embracing the sheer deliciosity of this taste revolution, the other half skulking in their marble mausoleums, muttering about tradition.
LACK OF STARS:
Up til now, eating pineapple has just been something you do offhandedly, like watering the cat or screaming at your taxes. But now that you’ve read this, you know there’s a responsibility. You are a pineapple eater now, and nothing will be the same. The people who disagree with your choices will let themselves be known, and while it may be easier to turn the other cheek, you’ve got to wear your pineapple proudly.
Throw a pineapple in the faces of the things that are outdated and pointless. The Queen? Throw a pineapple at her. The Pope? Pineapple chunks. Jim Wallace? Hit him with a length of pine.
Are YOU a turtle? Shit you’re awesome.
Fact: most animals cannot be used as a murder weapon just by throwing them directly into the face of your enemy. I mean, snakes, maybe. But nothing beats the sheer bludgeoning force of the turtle.
Fact: Slow and steady wins the race. What race? Evolution.
Fact: There were these damn snapping turtles (or maybe tortoises, they were too submerged for me to see their legs) that lived in this zoo when I was growing up. Those things gave me the hibblies. Then one day I saw them eat a duck!
Fact: Robinson Crusoe and other famous castaways eat lots of turtle eggs, allowing them to survive impossible odds and be racist.
Fact: The original premise for the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was stolen from Degrassi Jnr High. Degrassi decided to have less turtles and more Canadians because of the fat cats upstairs dictating policy.
|And after this we’ll go fight Shredder, aka youth suicide.|
LACK OF STARS:
Once I went to this week long party at my friends house in Oatley, and at some point in time tequila was involved. Tequila is such a great idea, except when you drink it. Being the polite and responsible drinker that I am, I crawled into a corner of their backyard to vomit somewhere safe and out of the way. I chose to vomit all the Mexican out of me behind a palm tree, as is traditional amongst my kind.
What I didn’t realise was that I was showing the same amount of savvy as a turtle, namely the hosts pet turtle, who was hibernating behind that palm tree.
Let me tell you, you don’t know awkward until someone comes and tells you while you’re psychotically hungover, that you’ve vomited on their pet turtle. You don’t know sadness until you’re informed that the super acidity of your stomach juices might have stripped the turtles shell, thus making it un-waterproof, meaning it can never swim again.
So, sure, that’s pretty much the worst thing I’ve ever done. But then it gets weirder.
When our host’s parents came home, they noticed the cat wasn’t sleeping in the room it usually does. Coincidentally, this is the room I was sleeping in while I was staying there. Using complicated science, which I can only assume involve repeatedly throwing the cat into the room and watching it run out again, they came to the following conclusion. I had ‘interfered’ with their cat. I had molested it.
And they didn’t even KNOW that I had vomited on their turtle.
Also, the next door neighbours house burnt down while we were staying there, and it might have been my friend Anna.
5/5. That last bit was just about how I suck. 2/5 for me.