So, then we were seated and the conversation turned to cars, and how terrible my car was. They made valid points, my car is a hunk of junk. But it gets me from A to B, sometimes. If you can get it open to start with, and the engine eventually starts.
Apparently they were familiar with Jelly. They didn't like him. Jelly was the sort of person who refused to believe in the Ford/Holden rivalry.... as such, he was bad people.
Then the conversation turned to a recent Perth incident involving the death of a 2 year old aboriginal boy... they gave us their thoughts on the situation. I didn't know which one I wanted to punch the most, so we left.
As we left they were fingering flares, and plotting flare related nazi evil.
We went back to Vegie's house, and hung out for a while.
It's now almost a week after these events occured, but I will press on regardless.
The reason we were out was to go to a show, hence pre-show nazi drinks. Of which I didn't partake anyway, as I am a responsible driver. Anyway, the show was a crazy old band called Jason Lives (a reference to Jason Voorhees, who I'm told, lives)
Anyway, we departed for the show after a small while of hanging out, and on the way, we aspied some people what we knew standing on the side of the road. They were also going to the gig. The reason they were standing, and not walking, was because they were being questioned by the police.
I drove on by, took the next left, parked, and we all got out. We'd walked about 30 seconds back towards the people when the police car comes zooming around the corner, trying to catch up with us... but we had mysteriously vanished from the driving parts of the road. They drove on in vain.
We're like, "Hey."
They're like, "Hey."
We're like, "What'd the cops want?"
They're like, "Someone threw a flare at a car or something."
Those crazy nazis. Anyway, a lift was given unto them, and we arrived at the gig, and we talked to Luke, who is the lead singer in the band, and then he did pre-set stuff and we talked amongst ourselves in the crowded pub and the conversation turned to SteveSteve's sexuality.
For some reason, a lot of people have been unsure of said sexuality lately. We know this because people have been asking Steve questions such as, "What are you, a fag or something?"
Anyway, the reason that the conversation turned to this was because of this: We were at the pub. At a gig, to be exact. Vegie and I were basically wearing covert operations clothes - i.e. as much black as possible, for the purposes of covert operations. Rodriguez X and Smythe (the latter is some guy who I don't really know other than that he lives directly across from the Drouin police station and we let $50 worth of sparklers in an oversized novelty tennis ball off in his backyard in January.) had been instructed to dress likewise (for there were to be covert operations after the gig) but had failed miserably. Rodriguez X was all shiny piercings and no good for anything approaching Covertivity. Smythe... Smythe was just wearing street clothes. But Steve, Steve was wearing a suit. In fact, he was wearing suit pants, a brightish red shirt with a flared collar and a suit.
We were at the pub... at a gig... a bunch of nazis were also in attendance. I smelt trouble. Anyway, as it turned out, they only knocked Steve down a couple of times. The thing about dancing at this sort of show, is that it's less dancing, and more fighting... so everyone was sort of brawling anyway, so I jumped in and wreaked out some vengeance upon the skinheads.
After the fighting was broken up... I think the seventh time... I was sitting next to this guy Dean who I attended school with.
Anyway, he nudges me.
I say, Ow. He's quite the nudger.
He points at this point in the air, about 5 centimetres from the end of his index finger.
He says, "Observe."
I watch the space.
"Dude, there's nothing there."
Somebody spills beer on my arm... I wipe it off my jacket. Yeah.
He says, "No, beyond the space."
"You mean that guy?"
He says, "Yeah. He's trying to pick that chick up by dancing... but he really hates the music."
I observed, and lo-and-behold, Dean was correct. This guy wasn't even dancing in time with the tune... I mean, who could, really. But he was way, way, way, way off tempo. He was trying to groove to it. His face was kind of pained... in the end it worked.
Dean looks at me, "That's life, my friend. Always remember this moment."
He was very depressing that evening.
The gig ended. It had gone well. The nazis dissapiated. We spoke to Luke. We had a conversation about how well the gig had gone and the crowd's reaction and then Luke had to quickly talk to some guy, so we were standing, talking amongst ourselves again.
In a circle there was: Me, Veg, SteveSteve, Rodriguez X... possibly Smythe. He's not important in this bit.
We talk about just stuff, nothing important... or possibly important, but it's Thursday now, so it doesn't really matter. Anyway, this drunk chick comes over.
She says, "Campbell?"
She says, "Are you Campbell?"
I say, "Yeah."
She says, "Do you remember me from Mrs. Vickerman's class... in Grade 4?"
My thought patterns are as follows:
Grade 4? Grade 4? Which country was that? Australia. Right. Which school? Warragul Primary.
Grade 4. Mrs. Vickerman's class. Was in the Grade 4 part? Yeah, I must have been.
Who do I remember from then?
Justin. John. Alicia. Damian Eeles. Ricky.... Zoe.... uh... uh... uh....
Okay, let's look at this situation.
She wasn't Justin or John. For one thing, they're both guys, and I know them from the present as well.
Not Damian or Ricky, for same reasons. The only reason that they're in a different sentence is because I like Justin and John.
Which leaves Zoe and Alicia.... she's not Zoe... Zoe wouldn't be this drunk, or if she was, would have introduced the topic in a more intelligent manner.
Which left Alicia.
Time starts again.
I say, "Alicia."
She says, "No! It's not!"
She says, "Your last name is Sexenheimer. See, I remembered your full name and you can't even remember my name."
I say, "What's your name."
She says, "Ally. Do you remember me now?"
I think really hard.
I had tried guessing. That hadn't worked. So, I try honesty. Maybe the sheer frankness of my honesty will astound her.
I say, "No."
She goes berserk.
Wait, that's not what happened at all. Actually, I lied again.
I say, "Yeah, I think I remember you, Ally."
She doesn't believe me. She asks me what Ally is short for.
I think hard and accidentally think of another person called Ally and say, "Alison."
This, luckily, is correct.
She then admonishes me as to my lack of memory regarding her last name. It's something really crazy, she says, "I remembered Sexenheimer and you can't even remember Oliviati!" Or whatever the hell it was. (It was Uliando)
My friends all berate me alongside her. For the first time, she acknowledges their presence. She snaps her head around and stares at them intensely"Are you mocking me?"
"No, no, we're mocking him," they all say. The bastards.
Snap. Back on me.
I go into damage control.
I explain, "I can barely remember what I did last week, let alone someone I knew almost a decade ago."
She tells me, "I live in Melbourne now, and I still remember who you are."
Hey, I've seen governments toppled. I don't have room in my brain for fourth grade acquaintances.
I'm about to say as much when Steve lightly touches her arm. SNAP! Her head turns quickly to him. Steve says, "Campbell's a junkie. That's why he's wearing that jacket. To cover his track marks."
SNAP! Back on me.
"Is that true?" She's shocked. Shocked and drunk.
I plead ignorance, I say, "That's crazy! I'm not a junkie! I can quit any time I like, that's crazy. He's the junkie, man! Steve. He's the damn junkie. Steve."
SNAP! Her attention is back on Steve.
Steve says something else about how I'm a total meth head and so forth, and her attention snaps back to the point where I had been standing only a moment before. What a great escape.
Anyway, I don't know how the rest of them got away... I should probably ask.... but anyway, we met at my car about a minute later... the following four hours were primarily taken up with running around and creating havoc, as well as constructively informing the masses that it was indeed the Seventh of March. Not the 6th or the 8th. The 7th.
And then it was 5:08 and I was parking on my front lawn. I went inside and sat on my bed. I began to read Hell's Angels by Hunter S. Thompson. I pass out from exhaustion.
I guess the moral of this story is to run a total third degree on anyone that you meet. They could worship Hitler, and that's the sort of thing that you should know before you go to their house and let them burn you and spill beer on you and so forth.
The other moral is to not beat yourself up over someone who was in your class for a single year, almost a decade ago. I mean... I mean... yeah. What's with that.
The other moral is that you can have a system to gambling, it just won't work more than once and in reality you really only broke even, but you still came out with more money than you went in with. I've since purchased a single scratchie ticket upon which I made a profit of $2, which brings my winnings up to $7 or something.
And the final moral is that you should always plan jaunts down to Melbourne more better.
And that's about all the morals... I don't know why this story is called Viva Las Vegas... Well, actually, I do. There's gambling in the damn email, I mean. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to make the connection.