Author Archives: tommy dalts

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Splendour on the Side of the Road

“This can only mean bad news…”

After copious amounts of time spent on the moshtix website and months of talking about it here we were….in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere.

For those of you who have had the pleasure of driving to Bryon Bay from Melbourne, I hope you didn’t have the pleasure of driving through the snowy mountain region, and if you did you would know there was nothing pleasure-able about it. Roughly 2.5 hours into our trip our driver at the time decides that instead of stopping to get fuel at the main town that we just stopped in for dinner he would push on and fill up at the next town.

I don’t really know Cory that well but the fact that he has a stable job, awesome girlfriend and a mortgage, points me in the direction that he wasn’t really a risk taker. I stood corrected whilst Zag was in the front seat kicking up a fuss, I was in the backseat really enjoying myself.
“Let’s do this” and “Positive attitudes boys” I egged him on.

Two open petrol stations flew by in the main town and at the second one Cory even flipped on the indicator…if only we had known.

I couldn’t even tell you where we were exactly, but we had konked out. We were 2 hours in to a 22 hour drive and the back seat of the car, and all our weekend supplies, had now been mushed together into some kind of not-so-mobile pantry, as we waited for our friends to drive on to the next town and pick up a jerry can full of freedom. The phone rings well before they are due back and Zag’s words echo through the pantry “This can only mean bad news otherwise they wouldn’t be calling us so soon.”

“All the servo’s are shut, well they’re 24hour servos but there’s nobody there”

“Fuck”

“You idiot”

“Where the next petrol station?”

“Raid a few bins and fill up some empty bottles”

“Fill up your esky”

“How will we get it into the car if the petrol is in an esky?”

The ideas were a-flowin’

The conversation looped around and around as we googled all the service stations located in Orbost until finally our friends on the other line let loose a piece of information. The last one they checked was located across the road from a pub. For the first time on the trip this boy had a welcome piece of advice

“GO INTO THE PUB AND ASK!” I screamed from the backseat and slapped myself on the head. How had they not thought of this yet?

Whilst it didn’t suprise me as much as it suprised the other lads on this adventure, it turns out that the bloke who owns the pub also owned the petrol station across the road and the next thing you know ( aka 35 minutes of Zag, Cory and Tommy scaring themselves shitless in the car with Wolf creek stories whilst munchin’ on starbursts) here come our heroes with the massive jerry can full of fuel.

Later, discussing our snapchat re-dramatisation of the event we happened to run/bump/fly over the biggest wombat I’ve ever seen in my life and this was all before Zag took control of the wheel and lost his mind in road side-sign pun-central land. I’ll leave you with that for now but say that I had one of the best weekends/road trips I’ve had in my life.

TO BE CONTINUED….

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Today I…

Woke up grumpy again. Get off me.

After an un-expected but amazing date night in Carlton watching Yves Saint Laurent we’d gone to bed – seriously SHUT THE FUCK UP HEAD MACHINE*.

Eli goes to work and I wake up in his bed again after pressing the snooze button 5 too many times. “I’m only working a day shift today and then I get to go to my screen writing course” I say to myself as I force myself out of bed and outside awaiting my taxi back home. Taxi comes and I get in, I tune out and pray that he isn’t one of those chatty drivers. I’m in luck he’s not and i get to listen to talk back radio all the way home until I stumble half asleep into my house. Past the lounge room I notice a yellow envelope on the bench with TOM written in black permanent marker. I get excited and open it to find an invitation to Bianca’s baby shower before throwing it on my bed as i’ve seen it before and the usual excitement of a baby shower is lost on me.

Checking the time as I get out of the shower I notice I’m running late so the pace picks up and before I know it I’ve stepped over my long overdue laundry and into ‘Coin Laundry’ my local cafe to pick up my “I’ve just missed my train and I have time to get a coffee, coffee.”

Arriving at work I hear the news about my managers heavy day the day before and also come to the realisation that I’m now working a double shift and will miss out on uni tonight. Devastated I rush downstairs in the middle of lunch service to send my lecturer and email joking about how the young bearded lad who says nothing in his class because he’s too scared to say anything won’t be there tonight. I make a point of letting him know how much I’m enjoying his class(highlight of my week is the exact describing phrase I use) and ask him to send me notes. Then out of desperation to escape I book flights to Perth..and New Zealand.

When your day starts off that rocky it can only get better. I had one of the best nights at work I’ve ever had. One of the guys called in sick and the whole team pulled together and helped each other out. I felt really proud of myself(I can’t lie) because every person running around that restaurant(except for one) had been hired after myself and to see they all have come so far, whether it had anything to do with me, or not…it was just pretty amazing to see how well they all worked together and helped each other out.

Its pretty horrendous when you take a snapchat selfie of yourself and realise that you haven’t put your phone on silent. Now I’m tipsy and in a taxi on the way to Brunswick. Howler to be specific, funnily enough it was really windy. Met up with Candice and Tania. Tania was back to her old self. I could see it in her eyes. We talk of art galleries and movies about fashion designers and long days at work and we hold hands. Its windy and the lights in the building reflect on to the trees and then the Irish bartender who we’ve made friends with tells us to get the fuck out in the best way.

The girls are in a cab and I’m getting a kebab. Mixed thanks, with cheese, garlic sauce AND hot sauce. Cabs fly by but I decide to get an Uber for two reasons. The first being, I’m not finished my kebab yet and the second being…its an uber.

Back in the south side, lying on my bed. Listening to music and trying to articulate my day. I text a few people and ask for their email address so I can subscribe them to this. Text Zag my drunken words of wisdom. Text Zsuzsa confirming my yoga session in the morning. Text Eli. Hit Publish.

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We don’t sleep when the sun goes down…

…we don’t waste no precious time.

I can’t sleep, my mind is reeling.

About a month ago I quit my job and signed up for a screen writing course. You can stop with your eye rolling right now, I know what you’re thinking. “Just what the world needs, more screen-writers” You might also think I’m crazy and will be living on the street in the next 2-5 months.

I’m well aware of the state of the Australian film industry and the lack of financial stability that comes with it so now I’ll confess that I didn’t exactly ‘quit’ in a conventional sense, but the sentence had way more punch when I put it like that. For the past five years I’ve been working my way up the hospitality food chain and its been quite the hard slog. It’s never been one of my dreams to work in or own a restaurant but I love people and food so it makes sense that I fell into it pretty easily. The last 18  months in Melbourne I’ve learnt more then I ever thought I would and have come to the realisation that there are certain parts of this industry that just don’t suit this crazy young man. Sure I know how to read all the financial reports, do the stock-takes etc but in all honesty the numbers bore the absolute shit out of me and I just can’t pretend to care anymore. Its been a wild ride; I’ve made some lifetime friends, educated myself about food and booze from other cultures and learnt so much about myself all while managing to save a decent amount of money along the way. However, the 70 hour weeks, constant phone calls and emails from work on my days off and the lack of job satisfaction have all hit home and its time for a change.

Writing makes me happy. Seeing my friends and family make me happy. Going to the gym makes me happy. I’m not sacrificing any of these things anymore for the sake of a career when my hearts not in it. In about a months time I’m going from Floor Supervisor at one of Melbourne’s most well known restaurants to your every day, paid by the hour waiter and I couldn’t be more excited. I’ve saved enough money so I can travel next year and my rents paid about 4 months in advance(Again bonus to not having a life) so why the fuck not?

My last month is also my second week at the screenwriting course I’ve been attending. I’ve been trying for the past couple of years to write an auto-biographical novel about my adventures and misadventures on Hamilton Island(Hamo) with little to moderate success. With a slight nudge from my mother I signed up to a screen writing course which is something I’ve always been interested in doing, I just thought I had to wait until I the previously mentioned novel was a best-seller and I’d been approached by some Hollywood big-shot to turn it into a movie. Still waiting……

I can’t be too bitter at the Hollywood big-shot, I haven’t finished the book after all(or come close at all) but I thought that going to this course would at least get me in the habit of writing again. Even if its only once a week for the next ten weeks it will be more consistent than my previous attempts and its a start. I’m really enjoying it although I’ve found it extremely hard to voice my ‘concept’ to the class of about 20 strangers due to the confronting nature of it. The theme for my concept is ‘Rite of Passage’ and basically is about me coming out of the closet on Hamo. I’ve been freaking out about talking about it because it sounds lame, embarrassing, shameful and every other cliche adjective you can think of. I’m even at the point where I was writing ideas down and covering them with my hand so the person next to me won’t read them, because the random stranger who’s known me for three hours is super interested in my super interesting life..#vain #itsallaboutme #getoveryourself

When I got home tonight I was determined to do some writing and while I waited for the mac to fire up I scrolled through insty to find a new post from one of my life-long best mates Quinn. I’ve been quite jealous but proud of her commitment to her latest blog as we’re both writers and both really inconsistent but tonights blog really moved me. It was confronting, honest and full of heart which are some of the things I admire most about Quinn. I’ve been on her back for years now to start blogging and what a waste of talent it was. This whole time I’ve been banging on to her about being brave and speaking the truth and I’ve been too scared to do it myself. Pot meet kettle. It was like instagram led me to a secret room and when I opened the door I found my balls again.

No more of this fear of failure bullshit. My course lecture said this to me on our first day of class. I can’t remember his quote exactly so I won’t quote him but it was brilliant and I really want to share it. To put it into context he was asking the class why we aren’t writing.

You’re not writing because you THINK you’re scared of failure but you’re already in a state of failure because you’re not writing. You’re scared of success. You’re scared of people seeing what you do but if people see what you do then you have succeeded because you have written something. 

DISCLAIMER: In my sleep deprived state the above makes sense.

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There’s a time for sloppy drinking…

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It’s called (never) when you arrive in the city and realise that your decision to not wear a jacket as you were hating on everything in your wardrobe …was a bad choice. Bring on the booze blanket!

I’m torn with this new campaign. Whilst working in hospitality and having eyes has allowed me to come to the conclusion that it’s a great idea and definitely necessary in our grog loving country, the inner sloppy drunk can’t help but feel offended and type cast.

I had a look at their Instagram between Richmond and Flinders Street and was pretty impressed with their creative graphics and use of the work f***. Perfectly in context if you ask me, as I’m guessing the demographic that they’re aiming at aren’t shy when it comes to profanities and it’s important to get on your target audiences level.

They include pictures with captions describing ‘grinding on inanimate objects’ and ‘hugging the toilet bowl’ as signs that maybe you’ve had a few too many. I guess the reality is that, especially in my case, these scenarios are all too familiar and not always a vital component in having a good time. Whilst appreciating that many are incapable of finding such a thing I think the most important aspect of drinking is balance.

Case in point; right now I’m balancing in my chair as I write this and if I can get up and balance my way to the bar, avoiding the drunken suits who are arguing with a bouncer in front of me, I shall purchase another beer. See?

Putting aside my ego driven offence I doth my cap to this How to Drink Properly campaign. Recommend you all check it out and fully intend to look more into it tomorrow…After I’m done with the toilet bowl that is.

Instagram: @drinkproperly
Web: howtodrinkproperly.com

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Now arriving at Aspendale

Aspendale.

I was at it again. Day four of my bender. If it weren’t for my one dry day last Wednesday I would’ve now been hitting the piss for a whole week straight. Meeting up with a friend I haven’t seen for a while, we headed down the familiar side alley to our usual haunt. I knew I was tired but as I sucked down my third old fashioned I didn’t seem to be concerned about how early I had to be at work the next day.
We made the sensible descision to kick on after the bar closed sometime around 3am. Being a Sunday night and sufficiently smashed, options were limited and we ended up at one of those glamoureious Pokie venues that are open 24/7  buying pints of who the fuck remembers what.
By the time we called it a night at stumbled out of the joint we notice a tram go sailing by as a cheeky indicator of how late we’d stayed out. I remember Candice getting in a taxi. I remembering buying a newspaper and getting on a train. I remember reading a few articles before throwing it over my shoulder in disgust of the average display of journalism in my drunken opinion.
Then I woke up.
Fuck. Peeled my eyes open; “Mordiallic Station” the LED sign read.
Fuck. “Is this train going to the city!?” I yelled out to whoever wanted to hear it.
“Nah mate! Its going to Frankston!” a kind stranger yelled in reply.
“FUCK” this time out loud.
I flew to the door and unsuccessfully pulled at the door with whatever ferocity I could muster. Then stood their looking and feeling like an idiot for however long it takes to go further away from the city to Aspendale. Off the train I get, around to the other side of the platform I go and there I wait. It must have been quite the sight for all the 9 to fivers: me standing there in my ridiculously purple, fern leaf coloured shirt, reeking of booze and ciggies on a Monday about to hop on the 6:46 train to the city.
I could barely see straight and didn’t even notice the judgemental looks being shot in my direction until I made eye contact with a  blonde haired young man sitting on the other side of the train amongst the suits. I could tell by the cheeky look in his eyes that he knew exactly what I’d done from his own experience.
I walked in the door at 7:30 and collapsed onto the bed. My clothes were still on, the sun and my housemates were up, I had an hour and a half to be up for work.
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The Best Plans

December 31st 

1999. 
 
It was New Years Eve and we spent the night driving around with Mum going from party to party. I don’t remember any of the parties except the last one we ended up at and the only part I remember clearly is when the clock struck 12, one of the adults at the party flickered the lights in the lounge room on and off and I thought what a lame way to bring in a new century. 

 
Safe to say that the 9 year old version of myself sitting on that couch in a strangers house would be proud of me to say the least. I definitely made up for the massive anti climax of that night over the years. It feels pretty weird that I’ve spend today working out, cleaning my house and napping. I had absolutely no plans up until 48 hours ago when Klinton announced that he would be hitching from country New South Wales around 9 hours south to Bendigo. When Lisa finishes work tonight at 6pm the two of us are jumping in the car with out friend Kitty and road tripping it to Bendigo. 
 
It might sound crazy to some(especially people living in Bendigo) that we would leave the city on New Years Eve. Not even heading to the beach but inland to a country town where we only know one person. The 9 year old Tommy inside me is thinking ‘what the hell are you doing?!’ I say to him what I said to Klinton a couple of hours on the phone when he was excited trying to plan an itinerary for the night; Sometimes the best plans are no plans. 
 
Happy New Year! 
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An open letter to Miss B.Conaboy

Dear Bridget,

Whilst walking down chapel street this afternoon I have compiled a list of things that you are not missing out on since moving back to Hamilton Island this week.

1. Nearly having your toe amputated by a soccer Mum in super high heels.
2. Multiple gangs of school boys who take up the entire footpath and stop randomly every ten metres, long enough for the rank smell of their BO to infest your nostrils.
3. Ugly boys riding skateboards.
4. The elderly attempting to break new records in slow walking.
5. Homosexual and/or heterosexual males who have mistaken the side walk for a cat walk (and you BEST get outta’ their way)
6. Finding 10,000 things you want to buy for yourself but its Christmas in a few weeks.
7. People speaking to you with your earphones in.
8. Missing your tram by 2.5 seconds because you’d stopped to admire the ‘sunny day on chapel street’ eye candy.

Regards,

Tommy.

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How civilised of us.

To say that I’m getting over having my weekend during the week is an understatement. The motivation behind moving back to Melbourne was definitely not to enjoy four seasons in one day.
What is there to do on a Wednesday night you might ask?

Moroccan. Delicious Moroccan. I’d been meaning to check out this place in South Yarra called B’Stilla for ages. Totally worth the wait. Going out for dinner with Lise is always easy and enjoyable anyway. After her getting a few words in about work as we got into the car I spent the remainder of the car ride down to chapel ear bashing her about my boy issues. There was some short chit chat about Christmas through the car park(She was getting very h-angry at this point) and we  got there at about 7:30. Not having to line up for anything is a Wednesday perk if I have to choose one.

Debrief about the weekend. Beetroot Jelly and tea.
Weekend stories exchange. Duck Merguez (Sausage). Grilled batbout (Tumeric and Oregano) flat bread.
Discussions about the disappearance of our friend formally known as ‘Balls’. B’stilla(Fish pie)
When am I going to South America? Asia? Beef short rib.

I even had desert which is a big deal, we pretty much just talked about how full we were whilst stuffing our faces with Tahini ice cream and rose water flan. As awesome as it was tonight was my Saturday night and we both had two glasses of wine.

How civilised of us.

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Suck it up Tommy boy!

I hate being sick almost as much as I hate going to the doctors. In fact besides heading out on horrendously horribly embarrassing trips to get tested, I can’t remember the last time I’ve been to the doctors. When I awoke this morning at 6am after a little under three hours sleep I was relieved to find there wasn’t a pitch fork sticking out of my left ear but less than relieved to discover the all too familiar pain of an ear infection; a common thorn in my side when I was a younger boy. Along side unnecessary doctor visits I also refuse to call in sick to work; ever. I guess that’s a result of my chronic school refusing antics from way back when I could get away with it.

This morning I found myself jumping on my phone to do both. I found a website where you can book docs online and then begun the process of trying to get my shift at work covered. I was now completely deaf and swollen on one side of my head and was considering waking up Briggs to get her to drop me at the hospital on her way to work.

Suck it up. I sent two half assed messages then got up threw on some trackies and my oversized hobo Cheap Monday jacket and off I went. All class in Armadale. After filling out the forms I discovered that my Medicare card had not coped with lack of being used, disintegrating in my wallet. ‘There goes 70+ bucks’ I thought. Medicare claims are third on Tommy’s List of …Fuck That.

I didn’t wait long and my doctor was awesome. I started rambling about my ear straight away and he cut me off to introduce himself. It felt nice being treated like a person by someone with a degree for a change. After not being able to see inside my ear due to the swelling he simply put it down to an infection and then asked if everything else was ok and if there was anything else bothering me. ‘Where do I begin!?!?’ I was tempted to say. I left it and made a move for the door issuing my trademark parting line ‘hopefully won’t be seeing you again, haha!’

It wasn’t until I had coughed up the money and checked the time that I came to the realisation that I’d been in there for 8 minutes in total. With my ear starting to throb I felt a little ripped off. I guess he wasn’t to know that I only go to the doctors if I think the world is ending but for $9 a minute he could’ve been a bit more dramatic.

After having a win at the pharmacy in the pain killer department, stoping off for a coffee on the way home I’ve made the decision suck it up and go to work. Sure I may be doped up on pseudo ephedrine but I’m feeling good about life and I like a challenge. It’s easy to haul your ass to work when your hungover because you know deep down that you should. It’s a lot harder to push yourself to get on with it when your feeling entitled to stay in bed all day.