The United Altered States of Maryam

The thing about winter is that it’s really cold. No, really. Why are you laughing? It’s a valid statement. Obvious, but valid. They say, “Oh, winter in the Gold Coast is mild enough for pussies.” So I’m thinking oh, okay, so maybe some “winters” aren’t very cold. But then no, if it wasn’t bloody cold, it wouldn’t be called “winter”, would it?!!!! I’m freezing my ass off here!!! Dude, if I wanted to freeze my ass off I would’ve gone to Uni in Antarctica or something (so what if there isn’t actually a Uni in Antarctica?). Not the Gold Coast. And yet here I am, having my ass frozen off. The weatherwoman on TV says, “-- temperature 3 degrees Celsius below average…” And I’m thinking below average?! Below average?! Dude, if I wanted below average I would check my own IQ score! I want average! You would think one could easily get “average” seeing as it is the “average” but no, here I am freezing my ass off! Indeed, that’s what I thought. Sure, 3 degrees Celsius below average only means that some nights and early mornings are 2◦C or 4◦C which doesn’t sound too bad until you take the fucking wind into account. The fucking wind! Dude, if I wanted wind, I would face your ass. Instead, I’m FREEZING MY ASS OFF HERE! Now I know what they mean by “the bitter cold”. Of course I would. I’m freezing my ass off here.

And I’m standing out here in the cold, blowing wind trying to light a cigarette which won’t light in the fucking blowing wind. The fact that I can’t feel my hands doesn’t help. I haven’t had any feeling in my fingers since last Thursday. A friend thinks that all the brain chemistry altering recreational holiday activities have done some serious damage to my brain/ nerves. But I say, “because it has been cold, stupid!!! I’m freezing my ass off here!” Ok, so why not wear gloves? Have you ever tried to light a cigarette or a bong with gloves/ warm woolly mittens on? It’s difficult. And besides, who would think that they would need winter gloves in the Gold Coast?! It’s the Gold Coast! Do they put sad, shivering, cold people on their brochures? No! Bikinis, Bikinis, Bikinis. Ok, what about fingerless gloves? You do know those things are antithetical to utilitarian, right? Someone didn’t invent it because their palms were cold but their fingers were hot.

Some day, someone will name a band after me. The Maryams. Or The Maryam Disco Liberation Regime. Or Rage Against the Maryam (not related to Rage Against the Machine™.)

Ok, where was I? Previously, I had been caught out in the rain 6 separate times in two days. So standing out in just the cold, blowing right now isn’t too bad in comparison if I ignore the long arms of Hypothermia reaching out for me. And I’m coughing like a Puss That Ate the pair of Fugly Furry Boots - yesterday, I think one of my ribs came out with my phlegm. So you’re probably wondering, (or at least, I should explain since I brought it up) why is it I’m outdoors in the cold and smoking?

“Because I like it,” is D’s answer and she says it with absolutely no guilt or regard for political correctness. It’s politically incorrect now to give smoking any sort of positive representation, isn’t it? Even smokers must now publicly flagellate themselves every time they light up. And make remarks like, “Oh, it’s so bad for me, I really should quit”, “I don’t know why I do this, I don’t like it anymore and it’s bad for me” and of course, “kids, don’t do this at home. you’ll regret it. I know I do” Yes, this might be merry and true and all but it doesn’t change the fact that we like it which is what makes it not only a health issue but a political one. And a bit of a social taboo. After all, the only things worth disputing, hiding, regulating and covering up in this world are the things that people enjoy, no – sex, drugs and money?

D and I are one of the few suckers stuck taking a course in winter school at uni while everyone else is on holiday in warm, Thailand or on a snowy mountain slope somewhere snowboarding or having a European summer or in a smoky basement just traaaaavelin’ in their miiiiiinds, baaaaybeh, trrrraaaaaavelin’ without movin’. It’s not that we’re card-carrying members of the Yearn to Learn Club or anything; we just have no choice if we want to graduate some time this year. And D is getting married in September. Me, well, my fee-paying parents have had just about enough.

So we thought alright, it’s just an 8-day course. We didn’t take into account that it would be the most boring course on Earth (take my worst subjects – technology, graphic design, grammar & editing, lump it into 8 days and call it a course!) and that it would be the coldest, wettest, windiest 8 days ever. And each day started too early in the morning and went on for 7 rubbish filled hours. We had Lecturer #1 – old, crusty, battle-weary veteran journalist someone had dust out of a file cabinet somewhere- regaling us with stories about the good old days of DOS and manual printing and steam engines, about the times he was in Vietnam/ Lebanon/ Timor/ working at The Times in London and Lecturer #2 – not too young too old, fashionably sensitive but too cool to care, kinda hot if I wasn’t too cold to notice, trying to outshine the more experienced #1 with the latest in technospeak and how as a music-journalist he was once flown first class to Sydney, put up in suite at a 5-star hotel and got to party, drink lots of champagne with VIPs, celebrities and err……Jimmy Barnes. Some underground organized crime honcho who was also some band’s manager was trying to bribe Lecturer #2 into giving his band a good review. But after accepting all that, #2 went ahead and gave the band a shit review. And apparently the Honcho told him to watch his back and ooh yeah, he’s been a hunted man ever since.

And of course, Lecturer #1 had to go, “That reminds me of the time I interviewed Princess Di & Dodi Fayed’s bodyguard in Timor, you know, the guy that was the only one to survive the car crash. Everyone wanted to interview him but no one could find him. No one but me, that is. I had sources telling me he was in Timor and keep in mind that Timor was a very dangerous place at the time. And I asked him a few questions about the accident and he got mad. Keep in mind he’s a former SAS man because that’s how he became Dodi’s bodyguard, he was trained to kill. He had a gun sitting on the table between us and he threatened me ‘I better not see you here again in Timor or you’re going to get it!’”

“Well, that’s interesting,” said Lecturer #2, “Anyway, it’s important as a journalist that you know how to do everything even if it’s something that an editor or a sub or a secretary should be doing because when you work in a small paper, you have to do everything. I work in a small newsroom so I have to do EVERYTHING. Which means, if I wanted to, I can simply walk in and find employment in any news room anywhere in the world because I’m used to doing everything! I can do everything. I’m not only a journalist, I can sub-edit!”

Claps. Well, okay then, Woodward & Bernstein. See? Do you see now why people like D and I would rather walk out into the cold and increase our risk of lung cancer/ pneumonia/ hypothermia then sit indoors, in the warm relative comfort of the lecture theatre? You know, this wouldn’t be an issue if the world were more considerate to smokers. We’re bending over backwards here just so you guys don’t have to suffer the ill-effects of second hand smoking and die of lung cancer before we do.

I remember this one time, I was having a post-dinner smoke outside a remotely charming restaurant in Byron Bay and making sure that I stayed as far away from the door as possible (without you know, having to actually go too far) and just you know, trying to completely absorb all the smoke into my system so I wouldn’t be blowing out any smoke into your precious, passing non-smoking faces! This other dude was there having a pre-dinner smoke and he said to me, “Ah-ha, yet another social outcast!” Yes, smoking had made us social outcasts. Clearly the days of Grease, Rebel without a Cause and all those other Smoking-Is-Cool-Movies are over. Now you might as well be a leper in ye good olde’ days and be isolated with all the other nasty lepers in a far flung place where no one else wants to be - in the case of cold weather; it’s outdoors. “I don’t understand, why can’t they just install in those things in the ceiling which like sucks out all the smoke up into this vent and away instead of sending us outside like dogs every time we need a smoke?” continued Social Outcast Dude, “The bathroom in my parent’s house used to have that thing or something like it. I used to smoke weed with my mates in there all the time when I was 15 and my mom never smelled a thing………” Oh well, I remember thinking back then.

Yeah, everything’s well when you’re not freezing your ass off. I’m oh fucking not so well now, I’m not. I’m freezing my ass off!

“You know, very soon there will be nowhere left for us to smoke,” says D. “Not even outdoors. Do you know what happened to me the other day? I was sitting with some mates, outdoors, you know, and this chick came and asked if she could sit at the empty spot at our table and we were like yeah, whatever, free country right? She had her iPod headphones in her ears and like 10 books with her and she sat there and started studying. She looked a bit Indian… not that I have anything against Indians and Asians right, don’t get me wrong; it’s just related to the story……”

For the record, because it’s related to the story, D has big, blonde hair and light eyes.

“…So, she’s sitting there reading her book with her iPod like blasting in her ears, I know it’s loud because I’m sitting at the other end of the table and I can hear like the bass of the song. My mates and I were talking and smoking and suddenly she screamed at us ‘could you all quiet down? I’m trying to study here! And don’t fucking smoke around me!!!’ I’m like look, bitch, it’s not like my mates and I came to your table and disturbed your fucking peace. You came to us. And this is like one of the few non-smoking areas left in the universe. If you wanted some place quiet and smoke-free to study – they built a nice building for that – it’s called the library! And we’re not in it!”

And I say, Testify!

“And guess what she said? She went psycho, she was like ‘fine, so I suppose I should go back to my own country, now? Because this is YOUR table, YOUR country!!’”

Bitter, was she?

“More like crazy. My country? Is she joking?” D grumbles, “My father’s French and my mom’s Bosnian and I was born in Bosnia. I barely speak fucking English!”

Posted by Maryam on Saturday, June 30, 2007 at 4:41 AM | Permalink