Australian Dream : The Teaser

The AmericanAustralian Dream : A Teaser

by Uncle Perhaps

Are you surrounded now by the beeping madness of modernity? the only real language we have left that pervades this modern world and carves its way through English, Spanish, Chinese and that primordial earlier Ether communication we all know and hear without words? good god this is terrifying. Maybe its the fact that my body has surpassed what I feel is a degree of hazing through use and awakening, or perhaps it was the several weeks of late nights, heavy drinking, mad personalities and early dawn conversations. But when I went in search of the Great American Dream I had no idea that I would encounter this madness. What madness was this? What purpose and stabbing desire for me to investigate this? I am not an American. But I am a dreamer. The Quest began with a request “find me the great American Dream or return on your shield! failing that, find me the great Australian Dream, return it to me in mint condition.” I felt this investigation needed adequate limbering up of the mental condition, a heady dose of rum and an endless supply of cigarettes helped slightly. I felt I needed something stronger than my staples, but that proved wrong.

I stepped into the neon glare of Surfers Paradise. The tourist mecca, the glitter strip, the Sequined Moon on the dress of a Tawdry Whore; pretty once, now mangled beyond recognition with age. It was a Wednesday night. Perfect time for madness, humpday. the streets of this once glorious strip were deserted, the only places with any pulse were a Gay Bar and a faux-Irish pub. What a perfect symbol!

There were all of 50 people inside the 2 story structure. Glazed neon poured through the coloured windows illuminating the inside. I stepped onto the balcony, dead still streets swarmed with unlife below as the moon soaked tide lapped vigorously onto the pearl white shores off into the distance; a perfect soundtrack. Half way through my 5th scotch (oh ho ho ho ho Scotch Whiskey in an Irish themed pub Down Under, Yes Virginia, YOU TOO can meet the Forces of Discordia!) the twang of a thick American Accent cut through the night. Was this the prey I had sought after for so long? At a table sat 5 young, fit, American women. I approached them tentatively; i did not want to scare them off. Not when I was so close. The floor was sticky and wet from the excess of booze dropped by the drunkard hordes. They were members of the American Volleyball Association. I had earned their trust, now it was time to strike… “I’m looking for the American Dream, have you seen it around?” I asked, the beer glazed surface of their eyes hid the truth. Nothing could prepare me for the answer I received.“What’s that?” they answered. Over my shoulder the Fear glanced down. I would be returning upon my shield very soon. It was time I felt, for an agonizing reappraisal of the whole situation and a quick exit.

-2-

The Bag Lady holds the fear in her eyes. My god! What was that? Was I just in a bear sodden Irish Themed Bar in the fakest city in the world, down in the Southern Hemisphere, talking to two American Girls about a concept that was inherently their own which they knew NOTHING about? I needed Liquor and fast. The madness was creeping in on battered wings, its eyes locked onto me, its rifle cocked back and a gorgeous Devil Grin spreading on its lips. I ran across the road as fast as I could, where the haven of liquor and loud music could drown away the impending doom. I entered the gay bar. Sweet Jesus! The last location hit me hard. It was bad. I ordered a double scotch on the rocks and took my heart and mind outdoors to smoke. smoking I find is a safe port in any maelstrom. It gives time to relax and calms the mind. Just as I was settling my mind into a happy groove, the all pervading madness reappeared. She was at least 50, she dressed like an 18 year old; a low cut fluorescent pink top hung exposing, tight jeans with ash stains, and a face that resembled an old leather doctors bag left on the side of the road since 1820. Good god, what could she possibly want from me? She struck up a conversation with me and bought me a drink. If i had to deal with this crazy shit, at least I can fucking drink it away. She explained her story. It was her son’s 18th birthday, she decided to take him to a gay bar. Even though he was straight as an arrow. I told her I was a writer. Then. Madness returned. “Would you like to hear a poem I wrote?” stupidly I answered. “Yeah, sure why the fuck not.”

Maybe it was the fact that I had been drinking heavily, maybe it was the general madness of the whole situation. Whatever it was, I’m so thankful. For all I know it was God’s own hand reaching down, but for the life of me I cannot remember the crazy shit she rambled on about. Whatever. This woman was the fear. She personified it within her eyes, her gait, her stilted walk and her squawking pseudo Cockney bastardization of an accent. “So what are you doing tomorrow?” “Nothing.” She leered at me, she came close, too close. I could taste the cigarette smoke on her breath, I got drunk off the stale veil of beer that she exuded. “You’re taking me to lunch…..”

I excused myself, I needed to use the bathroom.

I ran out of that place like a bullet.

-3-

Options Tavern. A seedy polished hellhole of a place. Once classy; it now fell into disrepute and is soaked with the dreams and screams and shit fueled voices of teenagers. I fucking loathe this place. I loathe it intensely. Why in all manner of fuck was I here? OH YES that’s right. Someone decided to have their farewell party here. ANYWAY where was I? oh yes. I began the night here drinking $3 daiquiri’s and somehow I found myself in the casino. We’ll return to Options later, or maybe not..we’ll see. Jupiter’s casino is a testament to the Gold Coast’s greed. A towering monolith with more money and hidden rooms than one can shake a stick at. If Surfer’s Paradise is the Mecca, this is the Vatican.

How it happened, I wont be able to recall. But I happened in the high rollers lounge. MADRE E DIOS! La Nouveau Riche! They ride splendid on the tables, $10000 bets running hot on green velvet. I saw a man drop this much and act as if nothing happened when he lost at his blackjack hand. I had never even seen this amount. Oh well. It was an open bar. Chivas regal to the top on ice. This fixes most things, especially when all else is hard to get. The great Australian Dream is a twisted fantasy based on materialism and safety. It was born one chilly August day after WWII, it rose screaming and mewling and then grabbed a hold of its mothers teet with powerful gums and sucked it dry. When it could speak, it’s first words were BUY A HOUSE! BE NORMAL! It hit puberty early and spared no expense in I had to leave quickly. There was no option. I had no money, no phone, no understanding where I was and the fear was breathing down my neck and smelling like foul liquor and old sausages. My eyes glanced upon a fantastic pink beast parked in front of a sign that read 12 STEPS HOUSE with an arrow. When the fates conspire to frown you in a situation like this, there is nothing else to do but grab A fucking big rock and bring it down like a new tax on the drivers side window before climbing in. After a few minutes of searching I realized I was out of luck, all I could find was a pebble. And then it struck me. This gigantic 36 horsepower, pastel beast was NO ORDINARY CARIt was a sofa. I found sunglasses on the dashboard, an important accessory for any seeker of truth; a shining beacon in the early hungover hours where the world tries to push its claws into your brain. I donned them and rode off. Leaving the sunset behind me in a cloud of dust and cigarette smoke. Thank the poor bastards who lost their ride, Mahalo to them. 

Stay tuned for the full article, as soon as Uncle Perhaps figures out how to use the fax machine! 

(See Part One – The American Dream : Optimism & Cyanide, Searching for the American Dream in the Depths of the Internet.)