For a Sydneysider The Golden Mile was always going to be the most appealing series of Underbelly. It covers 1988 through 1999, which, for a thirty year old, roughly corresponds to the time he might start paying attention to the news. The shooting of Lakemba Police Station or that year of kneecappings and other associated violence lingered the same way a hot summer does, leaving one reeling and with a template imprinted onto their brain against which all future summers are compared.
Eight hours with nothing to do at Los Angeles International Airport. No bomb threat theatre to watch. No art displays to mosey through. Nothing more than waiting in transit. Heat brings it on with humidity close to mop. Walking up and down the terminals lasts a half hour before the bus ride takes over. Eleven minutes away, the lug of sign-free roads and ambiguous traffic lights makes way to a bus rank. Mill about with pantsless individuals looking for a trip downtown.
Terminal 3 of San Francisco domestic airport, ground floor. Not far from Two Wings for Wall and Person by Vito Acconci, an etching in 12 parts wasting away some minutes of time. Dropping $20 into a machine spits out an international prepaid phone card from Exactta Communications. Nearby, cattle of wayward luggage and suitcases idle next to the bank of phone booths and empty carousels.
Vultures, the lot of them. Rabid packs of high school students on one of the cheapest and lamest excursions imaginable run the floor of the Sydney Convention and Exhibition Centre. Barging and bumping over each other, no sense of order and talking like the drunks ambling out of last night's gig.
Database error: Please bake some more brownies.
To at least one man standing on the corner of the Eastern Distributor and Oxford Street in Paddington, the area knows well the actions and activity of gays, lesbians, transgenders and bisexuals alike. Those looking for a simple stroll along a street famous for its annual Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras may find personal lap dogs eager to please or kidnap the unsuspecting participant.
Bondi Beach. Sand envelopes the entire place. Pot plants, inside the lifts, the counter top. Hell, even the showers scatter the grains of sand across the floor. Damn sand is everywhere. Knows of this observation's existence from a train and bus ride away. Daylight is unkind toward the Bondi Pavilion on Campbell Drive. Seat colours take up a lot of the ugly. Arriving with enough lead time, the cinemagoers find their mingling taking place on the balcony behind and in front of the pavilion. A paradox of locational streams.
These gloves are designed with a single purpose - prevention of blisters while pumping the iron. They are not intended for any other task. They will not make you run faster, lift more, or appear larger. They are not to be used when challenging someone to a duel or even demanding satisfaction from all who serve to insult you.
The sachets that were delivered say "combat stimulant," which lead me to believe that Ethan had somehow managed to get his fingers upon some kind of military supply box that managed to fall from a truck. Further investigation revealed some kind of crazy cross-marketing scheme between Octane and Sony, for the launch of the game Killzone.
As always, when all good things are said and done, they must inevitably come to an end. After all, the movie was over and so was our reason for being together.
Peak hour bums around the clock, slicked guys and busted girls at the Greater Union Hoyts Village complex on George Street stand in a thick depressing queue transplanted from the banks not open during the night. Taking the usual wear of sweat and dead skin, that creepy guy tries to sell a wristband to the homeless man with a photo of the Virgin Mary smoking a cigarette.
Skulled under cover of hair usually left unshaven, a pinkish-to-red welt sits just left on top of the scalp. Sitting below the skin on the left shoulder, a scarlet spider. An ear lobe split, now healed. Broken skin rips the fists with spotted crimson remnants. One hit the left leg, as two stained the right and a mark makes itself home on the left pectoral. Topping it all off, a glorious spatter of six shot dead on the back. Breathing deep is hard, moving in any direction or steam proving to be even more of a challenge.