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November 28, 2005
I have no doubt that you've all given up. Don't call me, I'll call you.


I've actually taken time off blogging these past few months just to think of that name.

<-- This photo is proof of that.

"Damn... I need something catchy, yet expressive. Eye-catching, yet subtle."

There were several options canvassed.

Some, in retrospect, were misguided.

"White lotus flower or cherry tree?"

There were set-backs.

Then, I thought I had struck gold!

But this was not generally well received.

So I gave up. I've only learnt on thing throughout all this: that for a person to be considered thinking, they must be touching their chin with some part of their body (usually a hand, but you'd be surprised).

Come on over.

September 07, 2005

... and leaving three heart-broken guitarists behind.

Thanks for reading A Mechanical Australian, especially to those who've been keeping tabs on this blog for a while. I have less and less time lately to read other blogs and to post on my own, so, I'm closing down. I'll pretend that you're worried. Then I'll tell you don't be. After exams are finished I'll start again, probably under a new address, knowing me, housed in a new design, and with a lot more spare time, dedication, and stories to tell.


August 27, 2005
Another question, though a bit more mundane than the last: is the header of this page showing up? It isn't for me.

Thanks for your answers concerning, um, Russian Roulette. Next week I'll ask a question about Pipe Bombs or something, just to keep things fresh.

Tomorrow is the last Uni open day I'll be going to - LaTrobe. It's my second preference after Journalism at RMIT in the city. Essentially I have to get above 87 or I'll end up doing Arts or something, and hoping I can transfer over. That isn't all bad, I guess a year studying politics would do me no harm, but another year at Uni means another 10,000 bucks to be leeched from me over time. And then, of course, there's no guarantee that I'll be able to transfer into Journalism.

This Uni stuff is tricky business, and it's giving me a headache.

August 20, 2005
I have a question (well, two), it's to do with me trying to write a story. Do most people know what Russian Roulette is? Are there any films/books where a game of such is played?

August 17, 2005
A Nightmare Vision of The Future
How Things Will Be When I Go To Uni*

Le Driver: "Ah, look at all my free time, admire my well manicured eyebrows! I am posting something quite excellent on my blog. Federal politics, of course."

Le Driver: "Shut-up guys. I'm thinking about my successful blog and savouring this Chai tea as I do so."

Le Driver: "Fine, Proffesor, if you can't teach print journalism then I will! Here are the average number of words in a Herald Sun article. Count them while I blog."

Le Driver: "Sell all the stock, you bastard! Sell, sell, sell! I don't have time for this. I have a blog to maintain."

Le Driver: "You're hilarious. Let's go out, get tanked, update our slightly Buffy-esque clothing, and then blog about it!"

Professor to Le Driver: "Now, I've gotta say, we weren't going to pass you, seeing as you completed none of the set coursework. But, hell, we loved your blog! Congrats, Le Driver, you've graduated with honors!"

What my writing will do to Michael Moore in 10 years.**

* I like to think so.
** Prevent him from aging at all.

August 13, 2005

What did you learn today?

An 'Emo' is...

You will have seen these types around the place. Now you have a name for them.

And here is the last section of my story. After this bit, I stopped. It's a shame I couldn't show you any of that because the plot of the story is that the main character goes into a coma - which, it turns out, is a city like and unlike her own. That's the interesting part.

Anyway, I've got to think of a better story to write this year. I'm not very good with ideas.


Rowena’s feet were covered in blisters. She was hung-over, and hadn’t slept, and figured she must look pretty awful. In one hand she carried those strictly ornamental shoes and in the other her purse: she was hoping to flag down a taxi and be home before her husband got back from that business trip to Hong Kong and realized she’d spent the night in a luxurious hotel with his lawyer. There weren’t any taxis around, and her mobile was flat. Rowena realized she’d need to find a public phone, though the prospect of wandering around the city at three in the morning wasn’t particularly attractive. There was a train station a few blocks down, she remembered that, and there would definitely be a phone in the area.


When Rowena first saw Viv she assumed that the young woman was homeless and had decided to sleep here. It wasn’t until she spotted the stagnant lightning-bolt of blood running down the inside of Viv’s arm, and the needle in her lap, that she realized the girl had taken heroin. Her nerves began to fire, and it felt as if someone had grabbed the back of her stomach and turned it inside out like a doggy-bag. She’s taken heroin but she’s just sleeping. Rowena crouched down to look at Viv’s slouching body, hair was covering most of her face and she couldn’t be sure if she was breathing or not. “Hey, are you all right? Are you OK?’” There was no response. Rowena hesitated a moment and shook the young girl’s shoulder, but her muscles were lax and her head merely tilted more to one side. Maybe she’s dead. The thought that she might have stumbled upon someone freshly overdosed on heroin turned her stomach further and made her feel like she might throw up. She put two shaking fingers to the top of Viv’s neck and felt for a pulse, and waited and tried to calm the pounding of her own heart so as to hear better and finally detected a weak throb against her fingers and when she held her fingers under the girl’s nose felt the faint flow of air and realized she was still alive. She took her hand away and tried to think what you were supposed to do next. People who’ve overdosed can die by choking on their own vomit, she remembered. You were supposed to put them on their side in a certain way so that if they did vomit it would go out and not in. Rowena picked up the butt end of the needle and cast it aside and became really worried about contracting AIDS somewhere in this whole ordeal but overcame those thoughts and moved the rest of Viv’s things aside and laid her on her side and wondered how you were supposed to keep her from always flopping onto her back again. There was nobody else around and she would have loved some help, someone who knew all about this kind of thing and would share the responsibility, but it was just her and this person who may very-well be about to die.

Rowena managed to keep her on her side by making the leg that was directly on the ground crooked so it acted as a support. She stepped back and everything was as right as she could get it and rushed to the pay-phone, not to call a taxi but to call an ambulance.

August 11, 2005
Tonight I'll be doing a lot of dead-boring philosophy homework, but tomorrow I'm off to 'Battle of the Bands' at the Preston Town Hall to watch Em's band 'The Indifferent' compete. You are invited (if you are young and hip).


Viv shut her eyes for a moment and opened them. She was able to see more easily in the gloom, and bent down against the wall. Something smelt disgusting, and a wave of nausea came and went. She ran a shaking hand through stringy blonde hair and grabbed the protruding edges of the brick with her fingers, laboriously dragging it out and onto the ground with a thud. She gathered up her stash and shoved it in her coat pocket and wiped the sweat from her cheeks and wanted to slide the brick back into place but didn’t have the strength or coherency of thought to do so.

The bus had broken down about half-way. It was shuddering at all the stops and eventually it gave out and the bus driver assured everyone that there would be a replacement along in a few minutes but it took about twenty and by that time she knew she should have jumped off because that tugging and niggling feeling was getting really bad and making her shake and sweat but she’d been through worse and she wasn’t going to give in, she was going to the river.

There was a perfect place there that was just hers, for Viv’s use only, because she was the only one who used it and maybe the only one who knew about it. It was high up and secluded with a view of the water covered in light like an oil-spill and all the crowded buildings mourned the loss of it. It was the hotel that made it perfect; tall and bathed in golden light all over, every window was always lit up from within, as if there were some perpetual celebration taking place at all hours of the day and night. It was the place of the rich and famous, and she’d picked up brochures with pictures of the rooms that looked too good and too expensive to be true. It was a monument to the good life, the best life, and the focal point of all her dreams. She imagined herself dressed in finery, with make-up and jewels and white arms sitting sprawled along a sun-bathing chair with a glass of the most expensive wine looking out over the city lights and being twenty-stories up in the heavens instead of down there. She was there alone as a movie-star or the wife of a man in a sharp suit, it didn’t matter. She was there.

In reality, Viv was moving past a train-station and her teeth were jittering and the heroin in her pocket was getting heavier and more substantial and she couldn’t stop thinking about it. She knew her luck was gone when she stopped putting forward internal reasons not to hit up now and began to think of reasons why she should. There will always be other times. There will always be more. There’s nobody around. You can’t last long enough. It’s not worth it to wait. Then she was sitting against yellow tiles and setting up and the stuff was in, in, in, and then the light went out.