We Blame the Lord for Our Gluttony

​I didn't wake until noon.  The night prior had been cursed by good times and it spilled over into the morning.  Plans had been made to meet at a friend's mother's apartment at 1pm.  I would arrive on time, maybe a few minutes late, with beer in hand. 

It was nice of them to have me for Easter Sunday.  Quite nice.  Pizza, spaghetti bolognese, ensalada, pesto penne.  That was the menu.  Needed it, and so it was done.  There was a barrage of wines and champagnes and beers.  Me, being the man I am, I stuck exclusively with beer.  Until, of course, I began to mix certain beers with wine…and champagne.  I’m not religious, really, although I do believe in an afterlife of some sort.  More a haunting I believe in, I suppose.  Perhaps, a reincarnation.  Undecided.  I’ll know when I’m dead. 
 
After the nice meal and dinnertime conversation, which traversed many topics including Australian books and television shows, as well as lawyering and NBA playoffs, we retired back to a friend’s house where we played a new game (to me) called “Touch”. 
 
In Touch, there are three rules.  One, you must say “touch cup” before touching the cup.  In the game, a coin is used, and I tell you this because the second rule involves the coin.  The second rule is that you must never accept the coin from another player.  The coin must be spilt onto the table and then gathered by you, the momentary active player.  The third rule: when a player successfully flips the coin into the cup three times, they are afforded the right to concoct a rule of their own.  All players must follow all rules. 
 
Soon, we all had made a rule, and, therefore, were sitting on the ground, hiding our teeth with our lips, speaking annoyingly in falsetto, fondling green men that were sitting on the lips of our beers, and avoiding eye contact with whomever was Snake Eyes at the moment.  Cheeks burned, eyes leaked, and we were favorably twisted into merriment.  The holidays, they bring out the best in all of us, don’t they?
 
The next day would see my compatriot and I scoot down the coast in his Mitsubishi right side steering express van.  A wonderfully slow and steady beast, requiring the manager of the wheel to simultaneously manipulate the tree-like knob-top that extends from its center consul with .  It was a manual transmission, and thus, a stick-shift.
 
One-hundred kilometers and we had arrived at Point Impossible, which is a funny, silly name to give such a kind, easy-access point break.  There, we set up camp, which meant parking the vehicle, and went for a sobering evening surf.  Long-winded, rolling right-handers slowly eased the ache from my head and the tingle from my spine – I’d been sore from a night on a deflated air mattress.  The deflation was no one’s fault but my own.  I’d been given all the proper tools to fix said deflation, yet I chose, instead, to let laziness guide my way. 
 
That night, once dry, and the sun setting, we realized how unprepared we’d been.  Canned beans, canned tuna, top Ramen-esque noodles, and water crackers.  Also, we’d forgotten entirely that our bodies run off water, and failed to pack enough.  No matter, for we made do with brilliant resolve and high spirits.  The dinner, itself, was tasteful, despite a lack of silverware, and we promptly retired to our sleeping spots within the van. 
 
It was a squeaky night of sleep as I tossed and turned in my many attempts to outrun a bear and save my, now dead, dog, Murphy, from certain Grizzly death.  In video game style, I was given many lives, and thus spent the night outrunning many, many bears. 
 
Upon waking the next morning, my compatriot, as well as I, were less than pleased with our rest.  No matter, for we, once again, showed the kind of resolve and high spirits the road requires. 
 
After a ration of water crackers and several sips of water, we paddled out to Point Impossible for a surf.  It was a nice surf, and the sun was shining.  How could we have known terror awaited us back at the van?
 
Well, not terror, but the vehicle had died.  Diagnosis: weak battery.  Luckily, a goodhearted Australian stopped and helped us get her back on the saddle.  Then, I tell you, we were off to the famed Bells Beach.
 
We surfed again, paddling out far for the waves.  Wholeheartedly worth the exertion.  As I tucked into a heaving curl towards the end of the session, my board was caught up by a swell of water and slung back into my head.  I did not leave the water, however.  I can take a blow, and I proved it further with this feat of resiliency. 
 
Several more waves, however, and we were done.  Back to Melbourne we travelled.  We would need to stop twice en route to Melbourne in order to let the Mitsubishi cool down.  She was old and her lungs burned hot if kept on the throttle for too long. 
 
At home, it was pasta (Italian again) and fresh salad.  Then, bed.  We’d be up at 5am the next morning. 
 
All for now.  More later, as always.
 
CMS

Downtown Melbourne, Victoria, Australia