Many years ago I was walking past a strip of bars in Christchurch known collectively as The Strip. Every time I went back to Christchurch the names of these bars had changed. Celsius had become Fahrenheit, Liquidity, Solidity and Coyotes, Coyotes Bar and Restaurant. The one constant was their horribleness. They were horrible places filled with horrible men trying to put their horrible penises into horribly drunk young girls.
If they were unsuccessful they would stagger en mass, like a tribe of chambrayed Neanderthals to Cashel Mall, to put their horrible fists into the faces of anybody who dared challenge their manlihood by glancing in their general direction. I hardly ever ventured near The Strip on Friday and Saturday nights, however when I did inadvertently stumble into the land of chambray and spew, I felt relatively safe due to the white flag perched on my nose. I have no idea what goes on in the minds of men who like to hit other men just in case other men hit on them and they kind of like it, but I'm pretty sure they are hard wired with two conditions that must be met before the angriness is meted out.
1. The man must not be woman.
2. The man must not be wearing glasses.
You'd hope there would be more, like 'The man must not be lying on the ground', or 'The man must not be over 80', or 'The man must not be already having the shit kicked out of him by three other men', but unfortunately this doesn't seem to be the case. Glasses unmaketh the man. I don't know what we spec-wearers become in the drunken eyes of Mr Fisty, but it's something infuriatingly unpunchable. They may push us out of the way as they travel along their vector of violence, but as long as your glasses don't fall off when you hit the ground, you'll live to not fight another day.
Which is why, many years ago while walking past The Strip, a chambrayed chap pulled his hazy gaze away from the rump of some 16 year old lamb dressed as mutton, to glower at me in my 508's, purple Mossimo top, terrible bowl cut and glasses, and not punch me. I could see he wanted to. He was slowly expanding, rising and falling from his seat as if his angry anus was letting off a staccatoish series of furious farts, but the two pieces of prescription plastic over my eyes were an invisible force field that kept him at bay. I smiled, smug in my short-sightedness. He squinted and shook and slathered and slurred, "The library's that way mate", before returning to perv and his pint.
Which is where I am now. Not the Christchurch library. That's still in the Red Zone and The Strip is long gone, except for Coyote's which managed to stay erect thanks to a two inch coating of spew and jizz. I'm in the Melbourne City Library, which for a city of four million people is surprisingly small, although it does have a piano that you can tinkle on as long as you're Grade 5 or above and the person playing it is into that sort of thing. I love the library. It's full of books and stuff. There's also lots of computers, and yesterday I booked a computer with a scanner to scan something at home on my computer because I don't have a scanner at home. Here in the silent reading room they even have little desks with power points so not only can you read a book, you can plug your computer in. It's a bit of a hassle lugging my old desktop PC here on the tram, and sometimes it takes two trips because the monitor's quite heavy, but it's worth it. To top it all off they have wireless internet, so I can book the scanner with my computer and then watch all the angry people who want to use the scanner but can't because it's booked, even though I'm not using it.
Not having a library has been hard for the people of Christchurch who wear glasses. Not having The Strip has been hard for the people of Christchurch who wear chambray. No books. No booze. No biffo. The things that made the city of my birth great were suddenly no more. Sure, there were suburban libraries and bars and brawls but it wasn't the same. In Cashel Mall on a Friday night, people knew your name as they glassed you; 'Ian!' they'd cry as they clouted you with their bottle of Steiny Pure, and if the bottle didn't break they'd offer you a suck on their stubbie as they put the boot in. The Christchurch Central Library was huge, much bigger than Melbourne's, and it had escalators and scanners and a special area for Margaret Mahy to wear her freaky wig. You don't get that in Bishopdale or Shirley.
In January I went back to Christchurch and along with some very talented friends, put together a show called 'The Complete History of Christchurch Abridged'. We did it in Hagley Park and about 25,000 people saw it. They turned up with food, and rugs and booze and dogs, and they all laughed and cried about their city and all the shit they'd gone through, surrounded by other people who loved the city and had gone through the same shit as them. We were all proud of the show but what made this one special was that in some small way, I think we made a difference. One woman, who had been trapped in a collapsed building for three hours told us this was the first time she had laughed since Feb 22nd 2011. One old fella with tears in his eyes gripped both my hands and just said thank you over and over again. We took the piss out of those in power, we said the things everyone wanted to say, and it was immediate, affecting and alive.
And it was free. So I hope some chambray clad chap suffering from Strip withdrawal came along and had a laugh. And I hope he remembers it in ten years time when I'm walking down Cashel Mall on a Friday night wearing contact lenses.
If they were unsuccessful they would stagger en mass, like a tribe of chambrayed Neanderthals to Cashel Mall, to put their horrible fists into the faces of anybody who dared challenge their manlihood by glancing in their general direction. I hardly ever ventured near The Strip on Friday and Saturday nights, however when I did inadvertently stumble into the land of chambray and spew, I felt relatively safe due to the white flag perched on my nose. I have no idea what goes on in the minds of men who like to hit other men just in case other men hit on them and they kind of like it, but I'm pretty sure they are hard wired with two conditions that must be met before the angriness is meted out.
1. The man must not be woman.
2. The man must not be wearing glasses.
You'd hope there would be more, like 'The man must not be lying on the ground', or 'The man must not be over 80', or 'The man must not be already having the shit kicked out of him by three other men', but unfortunately this doesn't seem to be the case. Glasses unmaketh the man. I don't know what we spec-wearers become in the drunken eyes of Mr Fisty, but it's something infuriatingly unpunchable. They may push us out of the way as they travel along their vector of violence, but as long as your glasses don't fall off when you hit the ground, you'll live to not fight another day.
Which is why, many years ago while walking past The Strip, a chambrayed chap pulled his hazy gaze away from the rump of some 16 year old lamb dressed as mutton, to glower at me in my 508's, purple Mossimo top, terrible bowl cut and glasses, and not punch me. I could see he wanted to. He was slowly expanding, rising and falling from his seat as if his angry anus was letting off a staccatoish series of furious farts, but the two pieces of prescription plastic over my eyes were an invisible force field that kept him at bay. I smiled, smug in my short-sightedness. He squinted and shook and slathered and slurred, "The library's that way mate", before returning to perv and his pint.
Which is where I am now. Not the Christchurch library. That's still in the Red Zone and The Strip is long gone, except for Coyote's which managed to stay erect thanks to a two inch coating of spew and jizz. I'm in the Melbourne City Library, which for a city of four million people is surprisingly small, although it does have a piano that you can tinkle on as long as you're Grade 5 or above and the person playing it is into that sort of thing. I love the library. It's full of books and stuff. There's also lots of computers, and yesterday I booked a computer with a scanner to scan something at home on my computer because I don't have a scanner at home. Here in the silent reading room they even have little desks with power points so not only can you read a book, you can plug your computer in. It's a bit of a hassle lugging my old desktop PC here on the tram, and sometimes it takes two trips because the monitor's quite heavy, but it's worth it. To top it all off they have wireless internet, so I can book the scanner with my computer and then watch all the angry people who want to use the scanner but can't because it's booked, even though I'm not using it.
Not having a library has been hard for the people of Christchurch who wear glasses. Not having The Strip has been hard for the people of Christchurch who wear chambray. No books. No booze. No biffo. The things that made the city of my birth great were suddenly no more. Sure, there were suburban libraries and bars and brawls but it wasn't the same. In Cashel Mall on a Friday night, people knew your name as they glassed you; 'Ian!' they'd cry as they clouted you with their bottle of Steiny Pure, and if the bottle didn't break they'd offer you a suck on their stubbie as they put the boot in. The Christchurch Central Library was huge, much bigger than Melbourne's, and it had escalators and scanners and a special area for Margaret Mahy to wear her freaky wig. You don't get that in Bishopdale or Shirley.
In January I went back to Christchurch and along with some very talented friends, put together a show called 'The Complete History of Christchurch Abridged'. We did it in Hagley Park and about 25,000 people saw it. They turned up with food, and rugs and booze and dogs, and they all laughed and cried about their city and all the shit they'd gone through, surrounded by other people who loved the city and had gone through the same shit as them. We were all proud of the show but what made this one special was that in some small way, I think we made a difference. One woman, who had been trapped in a collapsed building for three hours told us this was the first time she had laughed since Feb 22nd 2011. One old fella with tears in his eyes gripped both my hands and just said thank you over and over again. We took the piss out of those in power, we said the things everyone wanted to say, and it was immediate, affecting and alive.
And it was free. So I hope some chambray clad chap suffering from Strip withdrawal came along and had a laugh. And I hope he remembers it in ten years time when I'm walking down Cashel Mall on a Friday night wearing contact lenses.
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