Tuesday, June 7, 2011



The stationmaster loves his job. He sorted out a squabble between two nasty bastards. It was over a copy of yesterday’s free afternoon newspaper. Talk about idiotic. I am listening to rock and roll on my iPhone as the 2:30 pm Palace On Wheels that runs express from Pakenham to Caulfield, except it doesn’t. At Westall, two handsome Sierra Leone kids enter the carriage and sit two rows behind me smoking some righteous weed. These kid’s parents had managed to escape a bloody war by sea or plane to Australia. They had escaped curfews, glazed expressions and machine guns. The world is full of nomadic sad souls. The Australia government won’t accept their fair share to this free and peaceful country. Talk about pathetic. No one applauds my virtuous thoughts. The sweet smell brings back memories of my youth, sitting on the beach at Black Rock eating magic mushrooms in honey while my girlfriend knocked her chillum against a bluestone breakwater and stuffed black hashish into the opening and lit up. I am dressed in a light black raincoat, a coat that John Cassaveties might wear in a detective film, or possibly where he plays an expert on women or a whacked philosopher. I have my folder in my lap. I am wearing my nametag, which says, outsourcing counselor in red italics. It looks official but doesn’t scare the kids or elderly away. My iPhone went mad; someone needed me. A customer was having an existential emergency. I answered the call; my customer was waiting at Murrumbeena railway station. I explained that I was on an express, customer said, no problem as a wrinkly had collapsed at the railway crossing and the express would have to stop. He explained that the area where Zones One and Two meets are like a Devil’s Triangle for the elderly, they disappear in mysterious circumstances. Extraterrestrials or fare evaders are suspected to be responsible. Another explanation pins the blame on suspected leftover equipment from the lost city of Atlantis. Rail authorities will not confirm or deny this.

Saturday, June 4, 2011


Jacana is at the beginning of Zone Two. The gateway to the paradise that is Roxburgh Park and Craigieburn. These suburbs are apparently the new fertile spots for the social critics, palm trees slump in the heat from the hotness that comes with being a now suburb. Academics and social critics are championing the virtues of the pizza shops and walkways over the railway tracks. The walls are camouflaged in brandalism, which is what gets the refugees from East Brunswick all high, horny and woozy. They ‘like’ the lethally complex geopolitical phenomenon that is Jacana.
What do you mean your mother made you wear underpants from the old covers from bankbooks? Start again and go through it slowly, because this is the most amazing story I have ever heard.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011



I am listening to rock and roll on my iPhone on the 2:30 pm Palace On Wheels that runs express from Pakenham to Caulfield, except it doesn’t. At Westall, two handsome Sierra Leone kids enter the carriage and are sitting two rows behind me smoking some righteous weed. These kid’s parents had managed to escape a bloody war by sea or plane to Australia. They had escaped curfews, glazed expressions and machine guns. The world is full of sad souls. For unknown reasons the Australia government doesn’t want to take their fair share of refugees. No one applauds my virtuous thoughts. The sweet smell brings back memories of my youth, sitting on the beach at Black Rock eating magic mushrooms while my girlfriend Tina knocked her chillum against a chunk of bluestone breakwater and stuffed some black hashish into the opening and lit up. I am dressed in a light black raincoat, a coat that you might expect John Cassaveties to wear in a detective film. I have my folder in my lap. I am wearing my nametag, which says, outsourcing counselor in Times New Roman red italics. It looks official but doesn’t scare the kids away. My iPhone went off, someone needed me. A client was having an emergency. I answered the iPhone; my client was waiting at Murrumbeena railway station. I explained that I was on an express, he said, no problem as an old lady had collapsed at the railway crossing and the express would have to stop. The areas where zones 1 and 2 meet are like a Bermuda triangle for pensioners dying, like lemmings they are drawn to train tracks for that final journey.