Stilgherrian » the duke hotel

My life according to Twitter

Stilgherrian — Sat, 21 Jun 2008 23:55:39 +0000

Once again, my Twitter stream reveals much of interest. This week’s highlights:

No matter how many times I say “Wynyard is a railway station” it still looks like a poorly-maintained pub urinal. It’s the colour.
If you have a beard, you’re allowed to be fat and incoherent.
“I hate it when you’re pulling off a buttoned shirt and the buttons get caught on ur nostrils.” Agreed.
I really should write more serious essays or news stories soon lest people think I’m only about odd drinking games and ranting on camera.
Hotel Cremorne: Friday. Semi-bearded ad agency geekbois and Lesser Office Wendys with overly-tall heels, overly-tight skirts, nasty accents.
The Duke Hotel in Enmore has barred me from drinking any Wirra Wirra wines from McLaren Vale until I try every other decent red on their new wine list.
Once I’m appointed Tsar, all jazz musicians will go to Nauru concentration camps, paid for by a levy on jazz enthusiasts.
“Apple has 3 basic moves”? No, just ONE. “We’re sooooo fuckin’ cool, iz pretty, buy our stuffz kthxbai.” [Chorus: "Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve Much Loves."]
“Dear Fat Bloke, nothing says ‘yobbo slav’ more than a pair of (fake) Bvlgari sunglasses kthxbye.”
“Dear Bus Driver, if having to change a $50 is your day’s worst then you and Mr 9mm need to chat.”
I now understand why the law prevents me from bringing firearms to conferences.
Platypuses don’t actually have antlers.

And at that point Twitter tells me it’s over-capacity, which is probably a good thing.

[Credit: Cartoon Twitter-bird courtesy of Hugh MacLeod. Like all of Hugh's cartoons published online, it's free to use.]

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The Man in the Window, revisited

Stilgherrian — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 21:17:30 +0000

Here’s a closer, colour view of The Man in the Window. I still think he looks a little creepy.

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The Man in the Window

Stilgherrian — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 11:56:52 +0000

I took this photo with my phone the other night at The Duke Hotel. The man stood at the window in exactly this position for about 15 minutes.

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Another brain in my notebook

Stilgherrian — Thu, 06 Mar 2008 07:21:47 +0000

My notebook is full of references to the human mind.

Once, on a Saturday Night at The Duke last year, it was a written note by a chap who’d only just been released from jail.

This time (pictured) it’s ’Pong explaining certain basic neurological reflexes.

No, it doesn’t say “Eight High Freeze” — whatever that is! — but “Fight Fligh[t] Freeze”. This diagram explains it all, neurochemistry and everything. Uhuh.

I just love the way that sketched explanations only make sense at the precise moment they’re being created.

Maybe I should go back through that notebook…

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Saturday Night at The Duke

Stilgherrian — Sat, 04 Aug 2007 23:06:50 +0000

It’s 8am, a crisp winter morning. 11C outside. I drag a battered flannelette shirt over my t-shirt — a shirt that’s now 12 years old, I remember. I bought it at Gowings when I first came to Sydney, and it’s still wearable, more or less. Where will I buy everyday clothes now that Gowings is gone?

The shirt smells of smoke. Why is that?

It’s not the acrid stench of cigarette smoke, but the dusty odour of burnt wood. Eucalyptus. A bushfire? Ah, no, I remember now. Sitting by the open fireplace at The Duke Hotel… red wine… the memories flood back as the coffee kicks in…

“What are you writing?” asks a gravelly voice.

A tall, thin lad with long greasy hair has spotted the newspapers spread across the table between me and the Snarky Platypus, the open notebook, the pen in my hand. The page is empty.

“Nothing, yet,” I reply.

The lad is drunk. Very drunk.

Stinkingly shit-faced drunk.

He looks a bit like a younger, thinner Tex Perkins, only more dangerous.

“Let me write something then,” he slurs as he grabs the pen and starts flipping pages. “I’ve just come from Silverwater.”

“Reason enough to celebrate then,” I say.

The Snarky Platypus says nothing, sips his wine.

I notice the lad’s got a friend with him, somewhat less drunk. We exchange a knowing glance as the lad writes boldly, aggressively across a double-page spread:

THIS IS YOUR MIND

And he underlines it. And again. And again and again and again and again — stabbing the page repeatedly until the pen rips right through the paper.

He stops, picks up the notebook and stares at it curiously for a few moments, surprised at his own aggression.

Suddenly a woman’s voice says “Can I write you a poem?” and her hand takes the notebook. She’s young, neatly dressed and coiffed, well-educated, bright-eyed and perky. “I’ll write a poem,” and she starts jotting down what she hears as the drunken lad rants to us, his friend, to everyone, to no-one in particular.

This is what she writes:

Explain the whole universe.
Which big cunt.
It’s coming around.
Peter Jackson died about the cunt.
But happy and healthy.
There’s all different Peter Jacksons.
We’re all happy.
What’s going on down there?

She explains that this is her technique. She listens to conversations and as soon as she hears a phrase that sticks out she writes it down. Then the next one, then the next. This is her technique, but I’m allowed to use it if I like.

In thank her, and tell her that her poem will be on the Internet in the morning. I ask her name so I can give her proper credit.

“Amala,” she says, “A M A L A,” assuming immediately that I’ll need to have it spelt out. “Groom, G R O O M for Mary.”

Amala Groom, there is your poem, on the Internet as promised.

“Another drink?” I ask the Snarky Platypus? “Here or somewhere else?”

“Somewhere else,” he says. He downs the last of his wine and we leave.

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Abstracts in the Urinal

Stilgherrian — Mon, 14 May 2007 13:21:29 +0000

Even if it’s your local pub, there’s a limit to the kind of photographs you can take in the urinal and still use the excuse that it’s for “Art”.