Sinister: now you're waiting for a warmer welcome in colder states

[Stankin' Cooter]

First, a quick note. This somehow became a VERY long post. You may want to 
simply delete it and move straight onto the next one, unless you’re 
procrastinating about something very unpleasant indeed. In which case, it’s 
probably just the ticket. I think even Stacey will wrinkle her nose at this 
one.

G’day all:

I’ve been away, and now I’m back.

What I’ve returned to, however, is not what I left. This is a Good Thing, 
but it’s also somewhat disconcerting. If you remember me at all, it will be 
as someone who manages to post endlessly when he has nothing whatsoever of 
interest to say. I’ve been back home for a little over a week, with loads of 
things to talk about for once, and found myself quite lost for words, and 
for the first time with you lot worrying that I’ll say too much. But I 
should say something.

I met some of you while I was away, which was just about the best thing 
ever. Everyone was exactly how I had imagined, which was a far better result 
than I’d ever dared hope. This tells me two things. Firstly, my judgement is 
loads better than I’d given myself credit for. I rock. Secondly, you lot are 
apparently every bit as wonderful as you seem, which is absolutely 
staggering.

I’ll start at the end. London was brief, and slightly grubby, but loads of 
fun. I only ended up spending three nights there, which wasn’t nearly long 
enough to get a feel for the place, but I got to see and drink many things 
in my short time there. Having arrived from New York on a compressed, 
sleepless, Eastbound night, and on almost no sleep the night before, I was 
weary and dishevelled on arrival. So, of course, I headed straight for the 
pub. Only thing for it.

I had managed to get a train to Paddington Station, where I left my bag, and 
received incredibly precise directions from my cousin via email. My old mate 
Adam now lives in London, and works in a pub which my cousin described as 
being ‘near Oxford Circus’. I caught another train there. Little did I know 
how many things could be quite reasonably described as being ‘near Oxford 
Circus’. I was determined to find the place without further assistance, 
however, so after a brief respite in an internet café for Diet Coke and 
#sinister (the finer things in life), I set out confidently in a direction 
picked completely at random.

Some instinctive sense must have guided me, as I found myself there in no 
time at all. I’d say that I have some sort of radar guidance system that 
homes in on either beer or other Australians, but it’s not as if either of 
those things are particularly thin on the ground in London. However it 
happened, though, I found myself with pint and fag in hand, chatting away 
with an old mate in a state of almost delirious exhaustion, remembering how 
much I missed the guy.

Later that day, I had the remarkable good fortune to meet the inimitable 
Miss Madeleine of Leicester, who saw fit to grace London with a rare 
personal appearance. Further pintage was had, and we talked about how lovely 
each and every one of you are. No really, we did. I didn’t shitcan anyone 
that much, really, and there was almost no gossip at all. Honest. After then 
overcoming a few small logistical hurdles (involving relations, suitcases, 
and numerous flights of stairs), we set out to meet the rest of those who’d 
foolishly offered to have a pint with us in #sinister.

Hovering outside the Kentish Town tube station, we wondered whether the 
dashingly handsome chap similarly hovering outside might be the one and only 
Stevie Trousers. I wandered over and asked, and indeed he was. He also 
turned out to be very much the consummate gentleman and scholar. Ken and 
Dimitra were held up and would meet us at the pub. Jeremy and Marianna then 
arrived (strange that my first meeting with fellow Australian listees should 
occur in London, but there you have it), and we set about finding shelter 
and ale.

Thanks to Stevie’s selfless and thorough reconnaissance over the preceding 
weeks, our mission was easily accomplished, and couches were sat on, coats 
were piled up, and the ale and conversation were allowed to flow. We were 
later joined by Ken and Dimitra, my cousin, his bird, and an embarrassment 
of fried chicken. All the makings of a very tidy night out on the town, I’m 
sure you’d agree. Or a very untidy one. I think that, ultimately, history 
will be the judge. In any event, I had a whale of a time, and I’d do it 
again as soon as blink.

The following night, Stevie very kindly allowed me to tag along with his 
posse to a gig, which was a good laugh as well. There were a couple of 
admittedly dreadful support acts, but Dressy Bessy (with whom I was only 
loosely familiar, based on a handful of songs) played a thoroughly 
impressive show. Well worth a look, should you get the chance. Jeremy and 
Marianna appeared again, and I also had the pleasure of briefly meeting 
several others of the massive. The names I recall are Lucy, Sarah, Martin, 
and Cabbage (if that IS your real name). Everyone was lovely, friendly, 
welcoming and extremely good-looking, though I didn’t get to spend nearly 
enough time with anyone. I may well have made some omissions, as I was still 
very much drunken, jetlagged and exhausted. If I’ve done so, I apologise, 
but you’ll just have to make more of an impression next time. The largest 
possible thanks to Stevie for letting a random, scruffy Australian 
temporarily invade what seems a fun, tight and handsome scene.

The rest of my time was spent with people you won’t know, so I won’t bore 
you with the details of that. It was boozy and fun, though I’ll admit that I 
spent much of my time in London pining not for home, but for New York. Which 
brings me back to the beginning.

I’d left an empty house first thing on Christmas morning, and flew to 
Sydney, where I spent a few panicky hours in #sinister and sucking down 
cigarettes, contemplating what appeared at that stage to be a trip as 
terrifying as it was exciting. Terrifying was certainly how things started 
out. After a long and uncomfortable flight to LA, I arrived only to 
experience the widespread panic of an airport evacuation, as they thought 
there was a bomb in the building.

Basically, I (and the other several hundred people that had not yet cleared 
customs and or immigration) were told by loud men with large guns to drop 
all of our belongings and get out of the airport as quickly as possible. We 
stampeded out of the building, getting shouted at all the while, and were 
herded into a small glassed-in courtyard, without phones, water, toilets, 
television or any information about what was going on, other than that it 
was an emergency. We couldn’t go anywhere, so were forced to spend about 
three hours standing shoulder to shoulder, looking anxiously at the building 
right alongside us, the sky, and the national guard and police running about 
outside the building, and the luckier passengers spilling out onto the 
street. Oh, and shooting worried glances at those around us, though there 
was little conversation.

Having missed a connecting flight (along with almost everyone else) I spent 
the rest of Christmas queuing up to arrange another flight to New York, 
hovering about the airport, and then finally flying across the country. I 
arrived late at night, took a taxi to a really crap hotel, showered for a 
really long time, and fell asleep.

The following day began even more terrifyingly, but for completely different 
reasons. December 26th, you see, was about the most anticipated day in the 
history of the world ever. Well, for me at least.

The reason it was terrifying was that I had arranged to arrive on the front 
doorstep of a girl of whom I'd become almost ridiculously fond, on whom I 
had an enormous crush, and who I’d let get to know me better than anyone 
ever has, despite the fact we’d never actually met. The girl in question is 
the very lovely and completely inimitable Miss Julie (known to frequenters 
of the wretched hive of scum and villainy that is #sinister as Cyberglam), 
who’s been very quiet on the list of late, though used to be very noisy 
indeed. Delightfully so, it should go without saying. Anyway, somehow I 
found the courage to meet her in the lobby of her building on the other side 
of the world, armed only with a suitcase and a rather shabby looking bunch 
of flowers.

I stayed with her for two weeks, which could have resulted in any number of 
different sorts of disaster. I was well aware of this, and took the wise 
precaution of drinking and smoking heavily in the lead-up to the visit, and 
asking a couple of my close friends questions like ‘what the hell am I 
doing?!’. This was all very helpful. As you may well have guessed, disaster 
ensued. For those of you that don’t already know, it turns out that Julie 
is, in fact, The Perfect Girl. And I had a wonderful, dreamlike two weeks, 
hogging her company as greedily as I could manage. I’ve never experienced 
anything like it, and the world’s been a slightly different place ever 
since.

I’ll digress briefly here. I’m being rather unfair. A lot happened in the 
two weeks I was in New York, and much of it involved the company of others 
of the Sinister fold. They were all far better than great, and really went 
well above and beyond the call of duty to make sure that I felt welcomed, 
and a part of things, and that I had an amazing time in what could 
conceivably be quite a scary and confusing place to be for a small town boyo 
such as myself. So the warmest and most heartfelt of all possible thanks 
must go to Laurel, Will, Brian, Matt, Ben, Phil and Lucas – you are all owed 
any number of favours, and huge great steaming pots of love.

There was a zany adventure, involving a driving tour of New Jersey and 
Hoboken and god only knows where else, in search of a thrift store that 
could have been in one of perhaps three locations, as identified loosely by 
some bloke that Brian overheard on a subway train. We didn’t find the thrift 
store, but we did listen to loads of pop music, see where the mafia dump 
their dead bodies, have a Diet Coke from a McDonalds cup that boldly and 
somewhat presumptuously announced me ‘Proud to be an American!’ (to the 
amusement of all), ate a Hamburger (not from McDonalds) that I swear I heard 
moo back at me, and saw some Crocodile Hunter Valentine’s Day cards in 
Target.

There was also a New Year’s Eve spent in a closed park, where a select few 
of us enjoyed frozen beer from a can wrapped in brown paper, indulged in a 
little random snogging, heard both Dorothy Parker and some B&S lyrics 
recited from atop a raised bit of something or other, and were educated in a 
little cultural history by a passing drug dealer who was intrigued by my 
accent. A wonderful night.

Oh, and anyone in or near New York city – make sure that the incomparable 
Miss Laurel is on your dance card. She cuts one heck of a rug.

These are very brief, edited highlights – it really was the most amazing two 
weeks of my life. I’ve bored you sufficiently with details thus far, I’m 
sure.

Back to the disaster, though. It became apparent to me long before I had to 
leave New York, and specifically Julie, that it would be very difficult to 
do so. So plans were made to come back, properly. This helped a little bit, 
but not much. The day I left, it was snowing lightly, and very cold. I said 
goodbye on the street, loaded my suitcase into a taxi, and got in. My 
glasses immediately fogged up completely, as the inside of the cab was so 
warm. I couldn’t see anything as the cab drove away, which was probably just 
as well.

That drive to the airport was the longest of my life, and it felt like it 
was all steeply uphill, dragging me slowly but steadily away from where I 
wanted to be. I was grateful for the fog on my specs, and didn’t clean them. 
I hoped that the surly cab driver, looking back at me in his rear view 
mirror, wouldn’t notice the salty dampness on my cheeks, if he couldn’t see 
my puffy, red eyes as well.

So, a lot of stuff happened, and here I am once more. I bet you didn’t miss 
me at all.

So now what? Basically I’m in the process of dismantling my life here, and 
figuring out how to get my new one started as quickly as possible. I’ve 
tried to explain to my family what I’m doing and why, with mixed results. 
I’ve told my friends that I’m leaving them behind, and encouraging them to 
come and visit me as soon and as often as they can. They used to mean the 
whole world to me, and I still love them to death, but there’s somewhere 
else I’ve got to be, and someone who’s come to mean more. This too, has met 
with a slightly mixed response. I’ve already handed in my notice at my 
‘dream job’, and started looking for work in New York, and finding out about 
Visas and so on. Everything seems so temporary that I haven’t even brought 
myself to completely unpack my suitcase yet. I’m home, but the last thing I 
want is to allow myself to settle back in.

This is the scariest and most exciting stage of my life yet, and it’s moving 
too fast for me to even feel that I can get a proper look at it. Writing 
this down has helped a bit, and I apologise if you’ve felt obliged to read 
it, as I’m quite aware that it’s largely for my own benefit.

When you think of a distant person and place, it seems natural to send your 
thoughts out sideways. I’m far enough away that I have to send mine more or 
less straight down. I’ve taken my first few steps – I just hope that time 
passes quickly until I pop out the other side once more. I’m happier and 
less happy than I’ve ever been – both at the same time. Emotionally, I’m one 
of those fizzy drinks your mother used to put a blob of icecream in.

That’s more than enough out of me. Um, and, oh yeah, books and music and 
stuff are fun. I like them. Sinister is also one of the best things in the 
world; it’s just a shame that it’s not a place.

I’ll insist that each and every one of you take nothing but the very best 
possible care, and stay candy-coated with a delicious cream centre.

Bulk love,
     -David.

PS – Danny: Hang in there, old man. Don’t make me come up there and mend 
you.
PPS – Honey: You’ve got a LOT to answer for ;)
PPPS – Those awaiting parcels: I’m evil and bad, yes, but I’ve also been 
somewhat distracted. Please accept my humblest apologies; I’ll put something 
good in to make up for the wait. Oh, and I might even drag my lazy arse down 
the post office one of these days as well.


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