"Can You Speak Bocce?"
"Late Again?"
"Yes, late again. Sorry."
"You've been late with posting afresh a bit lately, Idyller!"
"I know. I said sorry, though."
"Yes, well ... You'll be late to your own funeral!"
"Ha, yes, I recently had a dream where, from as best as I can recall, I had died and become a ghost and was in a flustered state because I was literally running late to attend my own funeral. When I finally arrived at my grave, the funeral was almost over and I was feeling depressed that I hadn't gotten to hear what was said about me there."
"Was that a mere dream, or a premonition of the future?"
"Um ..."
... I am in Brisbane at the moment. Shantoozy and I flew into Surfer's Paradise ... well, Coolangatta airport, to be pedantic ... last Tuesday afternoon. Her Mum lives on the Gold Coast. We had a big party on Saturday but more about that soon (i.e.: in my next post). We are now at Shantoozy's sister's place. I call her sister "Turk". It is an abbreviative from "Turkey". She gets nervous when Thanksgiving rolls around and she and I happen to be in the same city together and I have a grumbling belly.
Brisbane is a crummy city in many respects. I grew up here, although I wasn't born here, and I left it because of its crumminess. For one thing, it is too close to the sun. Turk's books' spines are faded and, depite that it is Winter, one has to wear sunglasses outside because of the intense glare of the sun's laser beam bombardments. It is Winter, and yet I have experienced sweating during the daytime! This is not quite right. Not quite right at all, I tells ya!
Here's another thing, a most odd thing, but indicative, I feel, of the state of the people of this wretched place. I went to several cafes today looking to purchase a cup of fair trade coffee. One's waitress knew what it was but wasn't sure if they served it; none of the others knew what I was saying. "What?" asked one chap, "Filtered coffee?" "No," I replied, "FAIR TRADE coffee." "Fair trade coffee?" he said, "Never heard of it, mate." I explained at one cafe that fair trade coffee was actually coffee which was ethical, and at another cafe that it was non-exploitative, but they looked at me like the bartender in the Mos Eisley cantina who said of C-3PO and R2-D2, "We don't serve their kind in here!" as though I were C-3PO and had just spoken some Bocce to them, or another of the many alien tongues programmed into my droidal memory banks.
More from this 'hive of scum and villainy' real soon, folks!
"Yes, late again. Sorry."
"You've been late with posting afresh a bit lately, Idyller!"
"I know. I said sorry, though."
"Yes, well ... You'll be late to your own funeral!"
"Ha, yes, I recently had a dream where, from as best as I can recall, I had died and become a ghost and was in a flustered state because I was literally running late to attend my own funeral. When I finally arrived at my grave, the funeral was almost over and I was feeling depressed that I hadn't gotten to hear what was said about me there."
"Was that a mere dream, or a premonition of the future?"
"Um ..."
... I am in Brisbane at the moment. Shantoozy and I flew into Surfer's Paradise ... well, Coolangatta airport, to be pedantic ... last Tuesday afternoon. Her Mum lives on the Gold Coast. We had a big party on Saturday but more about that soon (i.e.: in my next post). We are now at Shantoozy's sister's place. I call her sister "Turk". It is an abbreviative from "Turkey". She gets nervous when Thanksgiving rolls around and she and I happen to be in the same city together and I have a grumbling belly.
Brisbane is a crummy city in many respects. I grew up here, although I wasn't born here, and I left it because of its crumminess. For one thing, it is too close to the sun. Turk's books' spines are faded and, depite that it is Winter, one has to wear sunglasses outside because of the intense glare of the sun's laser beam bombardments. It is Winter, and yet I have experienced sweating during the daytime! This is not quite right. Not quite right at all, I tells ya!
Here's another thing, a most odd thing, but indicative, I feel, of the state of the people of this wretched place. I went to several cafes today looking to purchase a cup of fair trade coffee. One's waitress knew what it was but wasn't sure if they served it; none of the others knew what I was saying. "What?" asked one chap, "Filtered coffee?" "No," I replied, "FAIR TRADE coffee." "Fair trade coffee?" he said, "Never heard of it, mate." I explained at one cafe that fair trade coffee was actually coffee which was ethical, and at another cafe that it was non-exploitative, but they looked at me like the bartender in the Mos Eisley cantina who said of C-3PO and R2-D2, "We don't serve their kind in here!" as though I were C-3PO and had just spoken some Bocce to them, or another of the many alien tongues programmed into my droidal memory banks.
More from this 'hive of scum and villainy' real soon, folks!
posted by S. Gregory | 11:21 pm
8 Comments:
At least tell me you have a blaster. That's all you need is just a blaster. No heroics. :P
Not only that, but the only place you'd probably get it would be at your local FOE club for about six bucks, with a socialist party speil thrown in to boot.
How I love Brisbane. I'm surprised they still have cafes there, I thought it might be too weird a concept. Too European. Too arthouse.
Rups
late to your own funeral, and a dream about it... all flustered.
What a fantastic image! awesome.
I have now learned to speak Bocce.
rups
DN: My blaster got confiscated at customs but they were unable to capture my pet Rancor monster.
R: Yes, you've beans (stolen and roasted variety) there, you nose what a stinky place it is. They need to wake up and smell the wretched brew themselves!
DBD: Thanks, and thanks for popping in!
R: Well, it's about time!
Mr. Edels. I've never called you that before. Just wanted to let you know.
Your FNBC.
P.S. Oh and they have fairly traded coffee here, on account of the fact that local coffee in a developing country is usually automatically fairly traded. But you can't assume of course. That scum that builds up at the bottom of Bill Gates private jet can drop off anywhere.
CB: No, you usually just call me "Your Royal Highness", but "Sir" will do. Failing that, "That Fuzz-Faced Moron" will suffice. :-)
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