Beer Bottles of Fitzroy / Flasher does DRY JULY

I hate beer. I hate the taste, the smell and the feeling of being pissed on it. It is, however, the drink of choice for many a dude stumbling back to his mates car from the dubiously licensed venues on Brunswick St.

     

The change in Brunswick St before 9.30 pm and Brunswick St post 9.30 pm is immeasurable. As all locals know, it is remarkable how funny a very un-funny dickhead can think he is at 2.00 am in the middle of Kerr St, or Argyle, or Westgarth.

        

I am not going to apologise if you are reading this and happen to be a 38 year old man called Steve/Damo/Jeza from Glen Waverley, with one Code Male "good shirt" and really long pointy pseudo brogues. Stop wearing that shit it looks really bad, and stop pissing on our doorsteps it stinks. Seriously your girlfriend/wife Tanya/Belinda/Stace will thank me. 

        

If you are part of the younger generation that live in your parents investment units in The (bullshit) Artist, I also implore you to reconsider your 5.00 am balcony chats. I don't care if Thomas will get his second wind, I just want you all to shut the fuck up. Smoke a cone and chill in your lounge rooms in silence. 

      

Honestly, this is not me being all gentrified, moving in and demanding a clean up. I love our traditional owners, our institutional cafe's, our artists, our yummy mummies, our spare change seekers, our druggies, our oldies and our hipsters. But you, my rowdy fellows, please put your empties in a bin and exit with your dignity intact.

Perhaps I am a little grumpier than usual. It is Dry July and I am doing it and it is FUCKING KILLING ME. But the cause is good. Dry July is a fundraiser that this year seeks to raise money to improve the quality of life and access to health services for those who have cancer. Better services = better quality of life, more dignified assistance and for some it will mean living well, longer.  The crew I am raising the dollars for is the Andrew Love centre in Geelong. They are awesome. I have first hand experience of a family members treatment there. 

       

The most important reason, or inspiration that I have, is The Mr Ben Naz. There is no one quite like him. At all times he has his head held high, and bucket loads of tenacity. One of those brave few who raises money for cancer (F*ck You Cancer, London) when they are coping with their own battle. He curated a show FFS. No-one has shown me what it is to fight in any way greater than this man. I could go on and on and on. 

So yeah, if you could just donate the cost of a drink that you will forego, even you bastards I have named, shamed and humiliated in this post, drop me a line. I will send you a link to my donation page. Which is in my real name, so there is another element of Dry July that I am braving. Sponsor me, find out who I am, pay props to Ben, and stick your finger up to cancer.  

There is Freedom Within and Bras on a Mountain. For Mr Naz

The radio dolls out good Aussie lyrics. Hey now, don't dream it is over. There are bras on a wire, and leaving here even the mist feels good.  I am on a winding road between mountains. I am in the cloud.

I think of Ben, death and life in that order and suppose that knowing what death is probably defines life, the way that happiness is given meaning by knowing sadness. They need each other. They oppose and juxtapose. The relationship is explainable as a tangible physical quality but remains impossible to put your finger on.

I stumble awkwardly over unfamiliar terrain and lazy metaphor here. But seriously, today, of all days, there are bras on the mountain. Like stencils in the face of adversity, and morphine at the point of too much pain.  They are just there and they work and I smile.

As Atheist as I may be I wonder if maybe 'Heaven' is the knowing created between life and death felt while we are alive. The pause for thought as we drive through the dense fog. Maybe life really is the deluge of memories streaming by, collecting in our paper cups that once full give way no matter how we hold on. Be it one handed, two handed with one underneath, tightly by the rim. It is all we can do just to fill them let alone hold them.

So we come to the end of this journey and look up to see a snow capped mountain, a clear blue sky glimpsed briefly between tinged white fluff. The sky looks out of focus:  fuzzy against solid; clear behind unclear; certain beyond uncertainty. I know I can't see it but I also know it is there.

Post script: I initially tapped this into an iPad on the way down a mountain, thinking of Ben Naz and his brave fight through, over and around oesophageal cancer. I put it out as a rudimentary jotting and have just had a crack and stringing it together properly. In doing so I hope I didn't lose the intent or sentiment. Dedicated to  Ben, Carol and your beautiful boy. You have touched me, opposites on opposite sides of the world.