Surely there was more to my last eight months than dubious forms of income, and even more dubious forms of expenditure. They may not have been very travel related, unless occasionally driving around the suburbs is considered traveling. Seeing as I continue to write about it and post it on my travel journal, I obviously believe my domestic hijinx are 'travel story' worthy.
I won a Texas hold 'em poker competition at the local pub on my second attempt. Unfortunately we played with monopoly money, even though the 'grand' prize was a $50 food voucher, a gold poker chip and a trophy consisting of 3 plastic chips stacks. I drilled a hole into the tallest of the chip stakes and threading a necklace through it pimped me fresh with some sick poker bling. It didn't help me much as I didn't come close to winning again till Elliot my poker mate, home brew supplier, meat dish recommender, and co participant in regular intoxicated crusades, had to go head to head with me on the final table. It was a long winded battle and luck seemed to be on my side, including the crowd as they saw an unbelievable come back being staged from sheer ass. I'm obviously not meant for the stage though, because I lost the plot in the spot light. Elliot claimed the glory, and my first-loser prize was a $25 food voucher and a 6 can coolie with the poker league logo branded on it. Great, I get to advertise that I gamble as well as drinking enough alcohol to warrant carrying it around in a coolie.
The young bar girls working there impelled me to be a more regular attendee than what I really wanted to be. They were the only girls to arouse any sort of mutual interest since a couple of flings ended in a way that only highlighted the irrationality of the act. It seems that everything is tainted that way for me from the lingering memory of dating irrationality's queen. Whatever be the case, bachelorhood looks set to continue for quite awhile yet.
Dad's purchase of a new car conveniently coincided with the all too sudden loss of a car that had only been mine for 3 weeks. Dad traded me his fire engine red panel van for my absolutely worthless wreck of a car. What a great deal! Okay, the car constantly forgot that an important part of its function and use to me, was the ability to start in the morning. The heater didn't work, there was no stereo, and the wipers waved to me without removing much water from my line of vision. Some South Australian cops had deemed the car un-roadworthy three years ago and Dad merely painted over the sticker rather than fixing the problems.
Still it worked good enough as a home when I wanted to forget about the fact I was a 33 year old living with my parents. I went down to the peninsula foreshore and lived up to my email moniker of 'homeless_harry' for awhile. It was as cold as I would not want it to be, and often so windy that had I ventured out for a walk, I probably would have ended up in Kansas, with no magic shoes to get me home. I spent most of my time working on another draft of the Mongolian novel, soon realising how hard it is to actually polish a turd.
Eventually, I grew tired of living like a squatter, as much as it seemed like the eventual destination of my current life's trajectory. I tied up life in Melbourne and celebrated leaving like I might not be back in years, but could be back within the month. Most missed will be a group of old friends that gathered together every Thursday to relive past glory in the fields of actual and computer generated sporting arenas. They've laid bets on how long it will be before I'm back there. If it was Thursday night every night, I probably wouldn't have left.
Personally, if I am going to be an unstable element in a stable environment, I would rather it be away from close friends and family. It's easier to drift amongst other drifters. The next post will be a long ramble about one of the highlights of my stay in Melbourne, and then I'll begin writing about life amongst the drifters.
