Due for an 'I' test

There was a stall outside Myer with teenage girls walking around in Virtual Reality goggles. I’m sure the novelty of experiencing cyber synthetic realms has worn off in 2017. Look, you’re doing it right now. It’s not new, it’s normal. 

I wondered if these teenage girls were for real, then I realised that we created the first layer of virtual reality. It’s just called, ‘Reality’. It’s not real but we like to think it is. Perishable parishioners. 

So whilst I observed the juvenile lassies having a dope time in ‘Virtual Virtual Reality’, I wondered what it would be like to spend time in ‘Ultimate Reality’. Of course, I was probably not likely to experience this in Westfield, although it is the colloquial hub for modern philosophical thought. Apparently. Do I spell it like Prophet or Profit? I’d like to speak to the manager.

Cyber aside, we already don invisible perception lenses in this realm. Everyone has a different pair. I decided I needed to update my vision so I headed to Specsavers to fulfil my prescription for rose coloured glasses. The optometrist said they were not the right glasses for me. I enquired about the Virtual Reality goggles I saw the teenagers wearing. Out of Stock. Meanwhile, their 3D specs were on sale but they just looked cheap and flimsy. I enjoyed them at Expo 88, but this is 2017.

“Ah, what about something that allows me to see where I’m going whilst walking and googling?”

She handed me a stack hat and some bubble wrap, before adding,

“We’ve been trialling guide dogs for people who walk and text but they’re not quite ready yet due to dog meme commitments. Depending on your budget you might consider the ‘Textus Walker Ranger’? It’s your own personal humanish guide for walking whilst googling.

What is it you’re needing to see that you can’t already?”

“Me”, I responded.

Instead of shining a lame mirror in my face, or pulling out the x-ray vision collection, she did a final examination, this time on my third eye. She covered my corneas and asked me what I saw.

“Everything.” 

She said, “So now you see yourself”.

The optometrist lifted the covers and looked back at me with my eyes. She was me.

So I asked her if she bulk billed and she said no one does that anymore. I pay waved myself $120 and headed to validate my parking. Of course, the parking attendant said I didn’t need to be validated because I was already everything. Besides, 3 hours and under is free, you know.

Life School Reunion

What inspires people to attend their High School Reunions? You’re just a Before/After ad for yourself. Well, unless you go to other peoples’ High School Reunions. I’d prefer that,

“Yes, you remember me, Bob Johnson, I started a new cheer team to cheer for the cheer squad. We’d wait for them to finish their routine then…GOOOOOO Cheer Squad! Double Flip! 

You may not have recognised me because I’m hamsexual, I had my genitals replaced with ham. Great to see you again, Paula!”

I grew up watching a plethora of American High School films in which 30 year old actors starred as teen characters. Where were their parents? Perhaps they were played by dead actors. So it was a surprise to me to find that I was not Rizzo at 14. There are worst things I could do. And I was certainly no whatever Michelle Pfeiffer’s name was in the sequel. Ah, ‘Grease 2’, you really let yourself go. No slick man child picked me up on their motorbike and used my hoop earrings to steer. That’s not a metaphor.

On special occasions my Grandad would collect me in the old Ford station wagon, with Michael Crawford’s rendition of ‘Phantom’ blaring due to his mild deafness. Then I’d practise ye olde ragtime piani for the afternoon until dinner was obviously served at 5:30pm at the latest.

Granny really had a way with cuisine, usually meat and 3 veg. Her secret was steaming the vegetables for so long that they all tasted like one another. You could only tell them apart by texture. And later we’d discover that she forgot the carrots in the microwave, but that was ok. It was really ok. Sometimes, we would have sago for dessert, which also tasted like nothing, but the texture was to die for. And then on special occasions in summer we would eat tacos on the driveway. They had seasoning.

After dinner, we gathered for a screening of ‘Dad’s Army’, then I played cards with Grandad and we gambled with match sticks instead of dollar dollar bills yo.

So how am I doing, Brenda Walsh? I probably wouldn’t have blended in on ‘Beverly Hills 90210’. Why did they need to include the postcode in that title? Like, an audience would only watch it if they knew the exact location. People either had unfulfilling crushes on Dylan or Brandon. How could anyone compete with Luke Perry’s premature cavernous Star Trek forehead? Yoda with cut abs, gnarly. But ask yourself how you’d respond if it was Tori Spelling with that enormous creased brow?

I used to know the entire script of ‘Romy and Michelle’s Highschool Reunion’. The leading actors were in their late 30s, playing people in their late 20s who played people in their teens. It was such a journey. That film came out the year I finished high school, so I was just really killing time till the reunion when I could re enact the whole thing. I invented post-its, I hope everyone’s babies are monkeys, and exit with some Cyndi Lauper free dancing to signify that I’m comfortable with who I am.

No. 10 years later, it was a cocktail dress theme with lamb chops circulating as hors d’oeuvres. Grease, the Musical. I couldn’t hold my drink but I didn’t need to reapply lip gloss. We could have saved the wait staff and feasted off a zebra carcass on the ground. It’s always the zebra. 

So I wore jeans and a fitted yellow top. My house mate and apparent bestie offered to do my make up. More yellow. Who wears yellow make-up? I looked like Big Bird with jaundice. Fortunately, people still recognised me because I also looked like Big Bird with jaundice as a teenager. Some lucky people just get acne. Not me, yellow feathers, a felt beak, and unexplained enthusiasm. Well, they’ve all faded with time.

There is another high school reunion approaching, like some abandoned ghost ship on a foggy night. I am not interested in being a 30 something, playing a 20 something, playing a teen. I’m not interested in being a before and after. I’m a now.

Female celebrities like to ask, “What advice would you give to your 16 year old self?”

Well, my answer would be nothing. I’m not 16. My 16 year old self would have said, “What the Fuck?”, because WTF wasn’t a thing yet. I think the question should be, “What would you tell your now self?” because that’s when it is. And after deep contemplation the only response of advice I can offer is, 

‘We go together like rama lama lama ka dinga da dingo dong, remembered forever like shoo bop sha wadda wadda yippity boom de boom. Chang chang, changity chang shoobop, that’s the way it should be, wha ooooh, yeah.’

Global Walking: The Northern Lights

Daniel thought it was strange that we travelled so far to view the Northern Lights. Surely we live closer to the Southern lights. They are called Aurora Australis after all. Good point, I guess. Apparently parts of Tasmania and New Zealand can glimpse the Southern Lights. I tend to think Antarctica may be more ideal. Daniel was surprised we couldn't just nip down there on a budget airline and check-in to a hotel. Dude! 

So out of dumb curiosity I Googled ‘Hotels in Antarctica’ and it just says ‘Dude!’. There are no hotels in Antartica. But it might be fun attempting a room service order from an Arctic research station. If penguins could give humans the finger, they would. I think that’s where they were originally going with Happy Feet.

There are a number of Northern Lights tours in Tromso. How were we to decide? So we set off as human lammingtons in the fairy style blizzard to locate the Visitor Centre. Rikki typed it into the maps app, 

“It’s a 25 day walk”.

I took three steps forward and there on the left was Tromso’s quaint Visitor Centre. Well, well then. Where would we be without Google Maps? Probably just where we are, where the blue dot is. And yet, maybe we transcended time and the 25 day walk was all figurative. My pint glass from the night before had a map on it. Where was that now? Ah, I’ll Google maps it.

Talking to the tourist information lady was like a session with a fraudulent fortune teller. She couldn’t really recommend any Northern Lights Chases or tell us where they went. Instead, she took the brochure we already had and just reread it to us like a bedtime story. How wonderful, Nanny McPhee. How about I ask a chunk of snow if it knows the way to San Jose?

So we used our intuition and went for the Northern Lights Flexi Tour. A Scandinavian ex violist called Daniel, picked us up in his station wagon. Let the tour commence. Or was this an Uber ride?

Driving through the snow felt like an old-timey Atari game, well, as opposed to a new-timey Atari game. After leaving the city lights we eventually pulled up in a random location where clouds were dearly parting. Daniel opened the boot. Damn that I saw ‘Nocturnal Animals’ before this trip. Anyway he handed us some snow suits. It was like getting changed into a couch, although I didn’t find any hidden tv remotes. Were we dressing for an audition for some alien virus biohazard film? Is it a good time for a vaccinate debate? Nah, debating makes me anxious, that’s why I can’t watch ‘Q and A’.

So with my mum and my sister starring as the frumpy Beastie Boys, we headed out in the snow. I couldn't feel my feet anymore so Daniel lay out some reindeer skins and a yoga mat. At least I think it was a yoga mat, otherwise that reindeer had a horrible skin condition. I also discovered that the ‘Cobra’ pose was the best  position for Northern Lights viewing. 

The sky opened up to reveal large green bands which stretched between the vast dark. The stars looked different here, still identifiable as stars though. Daniel used the lights as a backdrop to photograph us. 

“Just stand still for 8 seconds. I make fast light”.

He waved a light in front of the camera and Click, a portrait of the intergalactic Teletubbies. 

As the cloud curtains drew on the mild skylit show, Daniel decided to take us over the mountain. It was quite difficult to remove Rikki from the deer skin, a female deer skin. Ray.

We stopped in a village Daniel didn’t like, but he needed phone reception for the weather conditions. Suddenly, an elongated pipe of light formed above us. Then it became a skinny fish and shape shifted, dancing green shimmers with purple edges. It was alive. But I’m more of a feelings person. Let’s see, everything stopped, the vastness engulfed the observer and participant. Silence and oneness. This is what beamed over our ancient Arctic ancestors, like smoke signals of light from heaven. This is not the scientific description for Wiki friends.

Daniel totally flipped out and wanted to use the pictures for his website. I thought it would be cool if he photoshopped some unicorn heads on us for maximum radness yo. Then put them on Tindr.

We had reached the pinnacle of the tour. It wasn’t going to get any better unless Daniel himself, morphed into a wise reindeer and produced a 6 pack of Arctic beers. Fingers crossed. Instead, he heated the car seats, cranked the classical tunes and presented us with home made chicken wraps, Danish pastry and berry tea. Dude! Aw Daniel.

We tried to keep our liquid intake down due to freezing outdoors toilet options. Daniel was like, “It’s nature”.

Ok, nature is not wearing a Grimace costume in a body bag. Nature goes through it’s own fur. I also recall my Grandad telling me about weeing in the freezing and his urine froze so he had to chop it with an axe. And yes, children will remember those stories and carry them through.

Mum started getting hot flushes in her snow suit. I was used to not feeling my feet anymore. Rikki and I persisted with the skylight gazing then resorted to our true selves, being dickheads in the snow. Instead of snow angels, Rikki did ‘trust falls’ into piled up dirty roadside snow and made Daniel take pictures of her. It turns out, you can count on piled up road snow. 

This was an awesome tour. Very untoury. Tripadvisor: submit.

Accommo Chameleon

Growing up, my family holidayed at caravan parks, the friendly ghettos of the holiday world. Every caravan park has the same characters; the woman in the sarong who's always putting out washing, the shirtless alpha beer belly who knows everyone loudly, the always sunburnt guy with the huge protruding adam’s apple, and the annoying children who take your fishing spot. Instant holiday nemesis.

A hierarchy would establish itself among the caravan kids. My sister and I started a drug ring from up the fig tree, trading sherbet on the black market. How is ‘Wizz Fizz’ not cocaine for children? 

In between business hours we’d swim in the motel pool next door and catch crabs with sticks or twist for pippies. No one ever messed with us.

When you stay at a caravan park you get a special key. With it, you are able to access the bathroom block, a dim dungeon set out like a horse stable. In fact, you can probably converse with with a horse over the partitions in the showers. Her name is Kim Kardashian. 

Our Mum used to make us wear thongs so we wouldn’t get warts on out feet. No matter the size of the shower cubicle or the number of towel racks, somehow all of your belongings would still end up wet. An unpredictable shower nozzle responded as though you were trying to put out a fire on the ceiling. How else does so much water splash entirely outside the shower area? Did Poseidon use the shower before me?

Collective hair strands would swirl around the sinkhole like seaweed in a strong current. It was a new ecosystem. As I left the facilities I was never sure if I was cleaner or just wetter. There’s a difference.

The toilet blocks were usually cleaned between 10 and 11am, because no one ever needs to go to the bathroom then. Basically, an apocalyptic disinfectant storm would sweep through the general area. So fresh and so clean clean. And so very wet, even the toilet paper. You'd have to go through half a soggy roll before reaching remotely dry sheets. You could make a replica paper mache toilet in the mean time. 

So yes, you need a key for all that, a special key. Not just any member of the public can access those fine facilities. 

Hotels and Hostels are different. There’s an ’S’ which separates. The ’S’ stands for Sex, Snoring and Strangers, which means hostels are for people who wish to have sex with a stranger whilst snoring. I’ve never been able to sleep in a hostel, and not because I’ve been having sex with a stranger whilst snoring. I’m a light sleeper, which means I need no light, particularly of the fluorescent variety. And I guess I’ve just never found frat parties in a rabbit warren that relaxing. Are the parents ever coming home?

A hotel room is all about the minibar. I never take anything, just looking thanks. It’s like window grocery shopping. The overpriced minibar items often end up sharing with tallies from the convenience store. You guys get along now. (Slam)

Then there’s the bathroom. What is it we’re looking for, here? It’s not as though the toilet is a ‘jack-in-the-box’ and the shower a fire hydrant. But we do want the toilet roll to be folded into a delicate triangle. It makes us feel special. As do the pretty prepackaged toiletries, but what is in them? Ah well, what does it matter if you wash your hair with possum semen? It’s in a cute canister. 

Then there’s the shower cap you’re more likely to use as a condom, and a hair dryer louder than a dated Boeing, with the effectiveness of an old lady breathing on your scalp. 

My usual dilemma is switching the lever from bath to shower, like I’m steering a heavy steam train. 

Once I stayed in a budget hotel in San Francisco. The water only poured through the bath tap. There was no plug so we used a sock. It turns out that I just couldn’t find the right lever for the shower head. Time for new socks.

Staying in an Air BnB is like visiting your childhood pen pal friend but they’re not there, and I don’t think they ever existed. Who were you writing to all those years ago? Your Air BnB host wants you to feel really comfortable and have everything you need and more, but you’re also being judged and rated so don’t fk it up. Do the dishes, damn it.

Three out of Four Air BnBs we stayed at in USA and Canada required toilet maintenance. Was it something we ate? At home, you just flush and it’s done. In the US, it repeatedly swirls around and swells up like evidence in a murder case. Guilty or innocent? It’s judge, jury and excretioner.