Google in Cahoots with Safety Town

Google Maps caught this dude eating shit on his bike, right here in Oz. Let's all take a moment to laugh at him and applaud Big Brother Google for this morning's entertainment!

Thanks to the f for the heads-up

Cops, comin' try to snatch my crops.

I spent a good part of last week sitting in my darkened-but-still-hot-as-hell living room, watching a pirated copy of Melbourne mini-series, Underbelly. It's not only pirated but banned from Melbourne TV, by order of the Supreme Court of Victoria. Underbelly documents what came to be called the Gangland Murders in Melbourne between 1998 and 2006, during which time like 34 people were killed in underworld power struggles. Some of the trials are still going on, which is why it's banned from TV here, but I didn't feel bad about watching it because I can't be on a jury here anyway. Also, supreme court? Nothing is safe from public knowledge. It's called wikipedia.

Anyway it's an awesome series and really piqued my interest because of how unsafe it all was. I also learned about how inept the cops are—or at least were—while this was all going down. I thought that was pretty interesting because I remember noticing as soon as I moved here how non-threatening the cops are.

3 signs that you may have lost your authoritative hold on the public:
1. You drive a white station wagon.
2. You wear a blue and white checked baseball cap.
3. You have billy clubs, but no helmets.




If I were a crim and that chick in front tried to arrest me, I'd just punch her in the tit. Also, why are they wearing black leather gloves? Are they breaking in somewhere? Lock their keys in the wagon? Someone get these jacks a stylist.

Okay, I didn't exactly condone Guiliani's technique in New York of putting a cop in fatigues with an assault rifle on every corner in order to stop crime, but (ahem) it worked. Sorry. You should be afraid of cops. Especially if you're thinking about doing something like, I dunno, killing people.

In Underbelly they kept this running line throughout the script about how the cops didn't have the budget to properly surveil these gangsters so they could catch them before they killed more people. Like, honestly, I don't really care about the drugs part. They were ecstasy pills. As tragic as I find flourescent clothing and drum n' bass, E doesn't really destroy lives. It just turns you into a tooth-grinding, bad-dancing, owl-eyed, sleepless, grinning, bro-downing moron for several hours before beating you into submission until you're fetal and can't remember anything about 10th grade. Seriously, the worst it can do is turn you into this:


Killing people is (marginally) worse. But I suppose when you've been a cop in Safety Town, killing sprees catch you off guard. You've been too busy launching a campaign against jaywalking.


I understand not wanting to come off as a bunch of fucking thugs, like a lot of cops are anyway, but there is a spectrum of authoritative figures available. Below, I list my nominees for Melbourne's police academy, Class of 2008!

1. Robert Patrick: either his character in Terminator 2 or the real dude. Either way: tough as nails.



2. The mom from Malcolm in the Middle. You won't mess with this mom. You know you won't because she's already got some psychologically fucked up plan to make you terrified of spoons for the rest of your life.




3. I realize I'm getting into big budget territory, especially with the rising cost of fuel. So another option is just to stick with Australian enforcement, like Hugh Jackman as Wolverine. He's already gone through all the training, he understands bogan slang, and he has sword fingers.




4. The Ghost of Steve Irwin. Ghost + crocodile = "yessir officer". Can you imagine a crime going down when Steve was on the clock? Cops could just throw barricades up around a drug deal and throw some crocodiles in. Those things will do anything for Steve.



If this is all a bit too OTT for the Victorian police, can I make a suggestion? Get some new uniforms. Paint your cars black with big silver gun decals down the side. Put a big ass (useless) spoiler on the back. Dumbasses always think that makes a car go faster. And stop trying to be cyclists. It's not a good look.

No Sleep 'Til Brooklyn

I came back last week after spending three glorious weeks in the Northern Hemisphere. Holy shit was it awesome. We first stopped in Detroit to see all 5 billion of my family members, which was great. They're funny people. Weirdos, in fact. I also got to give husband a tour of The D: the original Dangerous Town. But I'll write more about that later, because I have to skip to Brooklyn before I expode.

We arrived in NYC after spending a week with my fam and I [figuratively] kissed the ground at LaGuardia baggage claim. Grabbing a cab, we made our way to Elizabeth Street--where our aunt and uncle have an apartment they generously lend to us when we're in town--and after settling in, set off to see the city and find our crazy ass friends.

There were some changes in our 'hood that made me pretty disgruntled--for instance, on the Bowery, a stretch I once avoided in my youth after a certain hour, there is now The Bowery Hotel, a swank poop of a place that was constructed and opened in the space of 13 months. Gross. Looking up, I noticed the Village Voice had an opinion about it too:



There were more things too, like a handful of sky-rise apartments going up on the Lower East Side, (which is now filled with bankers and Australians anyway so whatevs) and a Whole Foods that takes up an entire city block. It was probably built on top of junkie graves so you know some poltergeist shit's bound to go down at some point...

But don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to say it was all rough n' shit when I lived there, but when you return to a place you've missed as long as I've missed New York, you get offended when things aren't exactly as you left them. And things weren't. Two close friends moved to separate places in Brooklyn. Other friends have moved away altogether. A few dyed their hair. One even had a baby and moved to Park Slope while I was gone. You guys: some of them stopped smoking weed. (Not the new mom.) (JK.)

But we rallied on. We forced everyone out of their borough burrows despite the cold, and good times ensued. After a few days, I was walking around with the ol' spring in my step, as one does in New York when she doesn't have to go to work or pay exorbitant rent or hate humanity. It was great. And then on New Year's Eve, it got even better. Below, a photo essay with captions.


Our bag o' booze. Contents: Gin, mixers, beer, and Olde English. Participants: ecs, husband, and D-Mak (a stray Aussie we found who needed a party.)


D-Mak and ecs. D-Mak had already had about 11 gin and tonics.


















At left: Rikky, our host and good friend whose reaction upon my entering the party was probably the most welcome I've ever felt: full knee-slide from across the room, arms raised in victory, shouting eeeee ceeeee essssssss!



















Husband Ed and D-Mak. I like to think of this photo as foreshadowing; Ed is gesturing toward the fifth-storey window he will later barf out of. The barf did not land on anyone. (I love the word 'barf'.)















D-Mak and Andy (it's his fifth-storey bedroom window.)















Cokane's future husband and my current husband. For the record, I approve of Tom, if for no other reason than because he bought that Cornholio t-shirt off a bum for 50 cents.















I'm smiling because I may or may not be looking forward to something that is going to be handed to me to put in my mouth and smoked from someone I've never met in my life.















These facial expressions basically sum up the entire evening.



















When you can no longer hold your own booze, a good spouse will help you out.





























Malt liquor and red wine already warring on two sides of my head. I wonder why I barfed?

* * *
None of these photos really do the night any justice--there were also fireworks, a Designated Rage Zone where we moshed to Weezer, and 400 other people having an awesome time in Brooklyn. There's no place like home.

Happy new year to you and yours. More to come.
Love, Dangerous Girl and Ed.

Mysterious Shopping Cart Disappearances Elude Cops, Draw Support from Rich Morons

These flyers were at the checkouts of the grocery store last week. Considering this particular store is in Collingwood, I'm not sure how the trolleys' owners can remain this baffled.

Even I, a non-junkie, know that the bench in front of the store is a hot spot for scoring smack; across the street in two directions are popular places for outdoor drinking at 9am. It's Smith Street for Chrissake—a road I once described to my sister as the Old West, if you added tacky aluminum awnings, dollar stores, tram lines, drunk Aboriginals and toothless heroin addicts. Charming, no?

Actually, it is. Maybe it's because this street was my first exposure to Australia—back when I came to visit husband back when he was my bf—but Smith Street on a sunny day is probably where I'm most at home here.

But another street in Melbourne, Sydney Road, which features many of Smith Street's characteristics, is just ugly and depressing to me. I can't really tell you why, although part of it is also that people like Sydney Road better than Smith Street, and I'm an underdog kind of girl. [Locals: don't argue with me on this. You will not change my mind. Yes, Ray has the best coffee evs. I don't care.]

Anyway, I'm neglecting my point. Then again, so are those trying to "clean up our streets" by offering rewards for missing carts.

Party Tram, Excellent.

It's that time again, to say something positive about Oz. It's been difficult lately, what with getting run down by Japanese Paris Hilton, and the jihad Aussies seem to have against Halloween. Someone told me the other day that when kids are growing up here, Halloween is sorta cool but you learn at the same time that it's "just another made-up, consumerist American 'holiday'".

Excuse me, but dressing up and being creative about it, then drinking a shit load to celebrate said creativity isn't exactly American ingenuity, it's French or something, so whatevs to that.

But The Party Tram changed everything. I spotted it while walking down Bourke Street the other night and my negativity about Oz just faded away. I couldn't tell if the passengers on-board were there to party or not. Either way: RAD.

Speaking of parties, summertime is almost here. It's strange being on the opposite end of seasonal depression/elation from my U.S. friends. I was talking to my dad the other week and he was lamenting that it will soon be too cold for him to live in the garage, which is basically where you can find him from May to October. Whereas here, the mood is only getting feistier.

Right now Melbourne is celebrating this thing called Spring Carnival, which has something to do with (mostly) white trash people (called "bogans") dressing up to go to the horse races in ridiculous hats and ill-fitting suits. It actually sounds like a fantastic sociological event, and I must confess I'd be remiss in my duties as a whining ex-pat if I left Melbourne without once bumping shoulders with these awesome people.

In other party news, I'm leaving Melbourne—for like, the third time since I moved here—to go to some friends' wedding in some place called Kyneton. I haven't been to a wedding since my own, during which the guy who's getting married this weekend did a faceplant at the after-party. Danger.

National "Safety" Month

I thought maybe by it being National Safety Month n' all I wouldn't have to explain where I've been (out defying safety, natch.) But the truth is that I was a little embarrassed to tell you what happened to me, after my last post was all X-treme! That, and I do have a life you guys--do you know how time-consuming drinking is when you have a tolerance like mine?

Anyhoo, I was riding my bike one early evening to yoga, and upon slowing down to turn (the wrong way, down the tram tracks on Bourke Street), I got rear-ended by a new silver Mercedes, driven by a twat I like to call Japanese Paris Hilton. JPH, for short. Now, since I didn't see this coming, and I don't actually remember being hit, I have no idea what exactly happened. All I know is I was slowing down to turn and then I was peeling myself off the ground, my legs felt funny, and my bike was under a car. Later I would notice that my helmet was a little smashy.

It was 6pm in the center of the city, so a billion people saw this, and two nice dudes pulled my bike from under JPH's car. Some lady helped me up and asked if I wanted an ambulance. I declined and stood up and just stared in the direction of the car, as no one had surfaced yet. Finally, JPH and her blue contacts emerged and, sporting a big dumb smile, declared, "sorry!"

Why is girlfriend smiling?
ECS: "Uh. Why did you hit me?"
JPH: [still smiling] "I didn't know where you were going--you were wobbling!" [smile]
ECS: "So...you decided to hit me instead?"
JPH: "Sorry!" [unrelenting toothy grin]
ECS: "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

JPH took this as her cue that it's all good and got back into her car. She and Japanese Nicole Ritchie and Japanese Loho (in the backseat, probs chewing her face off), all stared straight in front of them as I kicked the car and yelled "stupid cunt" for whatever amount of time seemed adequate (and frankly, I was just repeating myself at this point, and I didn't want people to think I was retarded, or worse, not tough.) Then I wheeled my bike back home. I was only a block away.

About 7 minutes later I realized I was the fool of the sitch, as I did not get any of the bitch's details, and I could've gotten a new bike and some physical therapy out of it. Whatevs. I sorta refused to get shaken up by it, especially seeing how, for once, it wasn't my fault. As my friend Luke once wisely told me, "ecs, if you get hit, you won't even see it coming. So don't worry about it." Thanks dude. A week later, he stacked it and gave himself homemade stigmata. Ewwwww.

Dangerous Girl in Dangerous Town

On Friday night we met up at Public Bar in North Melbourne to document the Melburn Massive Alley Cat. An alley cat is a bike race through a city, with checkpoints, at which participants receive the location to the next checkpoint. The people who race in these mostly bike couriers, and they're completely insane. And within this insanity is total awesomeness.

I rolled up still wearing heels, so I think I bought a little cred from the crowd, most of whom had started in on the first of many beers. Husband and I joined them, and for an hour and a half everyone continued to put 'em back. I was instantly struck by how friendly and inviting this group of kids was—a few of them knew Husband, but the fact that people came up and introduced themselves to me was really cool. I get really sick of the hipsters in this city, a lot of whom have to meet you five fucking times, and then assess whether they think you're cool, before they'll actually acknowledge you. Most of these people also happen to be total pussies. They are the cause of roughly 79% of my rage, which gets aggravated by alcohol (consumed at venues I have to share with them) and why people consequently think I'm a cunt.

So this was a total welcome change. Bike kids are not pussies. They are the opposite of hipsters. Pictured at left is Hillary, who is also a really awesome skater, and I suspect is not afraid of anything. As for me, I had a nice little buzz happening by the time the organizers decided to start things up. It was almost 8 o'clock, so it was completely dark at this point and starting to get really cold. Everyone scooped up their bikes and headed across to the Queen Victoria Market to begin. The participants had to lean their bikes up against a fence, then go about 25 yards away from them to learn the first checkpoint. Once they found out where they had to go, they ran over to their bikes, each grabbing a can of Red Bull from the ground, and they were off.

Husband and I had volunteered to man the second of the 5 checkpoints with a nice graphic designer/ex-courier dude. As we started to head over to our checkpoint, Husband said to him, "just so you know we're not like, awesome riders." I was so glad we gave forewarning, because as soon as we were off, the guy was weaving through traffic and jumping curbs at (my) top speed. If I hadn't had that alcohol, I would've been way too scared to keep up. As it was, I don't think I did too badly, and when we got to Telstra Dome, I tried to be cool about it.

It wasn't long before the first few started coming through, snatching the envelopes we extended out to them with instructions and directions. There were 25 racers altogether, so after giving out 21, we headed back to North Melbourne, where the winners were already drinking. The first guy through was totally crazy and won on speed, but the second guy through actually completed the tasks, so he was the real winner. One of the tasks along the way had been to bring a takeaway menu from a restaurant. One of the guys brought a whole sandwich board instead.
Everyone headed back to the bar and recommenced drinking, and prizes were given out: cash to the winner, bike shit to the guys who came in second and third, plus First Girl prize, which went to a girl named Sarah, a courier from Seattle. They even gave us a six-pack of Melbourne Bitter cans to thank us for doing the checkpoint. Such rad people! And all the amazing danger inspired me to ride all day yesterday. Score one for Safety Town.

Dead Man Jaywalking

I haven't figured out yet why I haven't been hit by a car. In New York, pedestrians not only jaywalk, they hover around the edges of the streets even as oncoming lunatic cabbies threaten to slice the points off their shoes. People are like cockroaches, staying just far enough away, ever-encroaching, still daring to step ten feet off the curb in that crazed rush to get to the next place. If you've ever tried driving in Manhattan, you've seen this. A friend of mine was in the back of a cab once when a particularly brave little old lady stepped out into the street. The cab driver slammed on his brakes, stuck his head out the window and screamed, "you don't look like a fucking stop sign to me!" and proceeded to floor it through the intersection. In true NYC form, the old bag wasn't even phased by it.


In Melbourne, when you're waiting to cross the street, you stay on the sidewalk. Every time I step off the curb, looking up the street, watching for where I can dodge through like human Frogger, husband pulls me back and gives me that bitch is crazy look.

And apparently the authorities of Safety Town agree with him, because they've now instituted jaywalking blitzes across Australia. Blitz?! Like the fucking blitzkrieg?! So ... this is like, the fucking WWII of all Australian sting operations? Does this mean Australian cops are the Nazis and jaywalkers are the Jews?

Okay. It's on. I'm getting Russian on this sitch. (Husband is remaining contently Swiss) I hereby refuse to cross at crosswalks. Nein! I will stagger through the flow of traffic, leap toward moving trams, (Husband/Switzerland: you heard about the old lady who got chopped in half by a tram, didn't you?) and flip off that flashing dickless red man on the crosswalk sign.

Then, when the Nazis try to come for me, or my comrade (pictured), I'll bat my eyelashes, ham up my American accent, and pretend to be an ignorant tourist. Like I do when I'm getting out of tram fines. Shit costs money!

But once that's over I'll totally go to the bar and exaggerate my heroicism. It's the principle.

Come Here. I Have to Hit You.

This is so retarded I can't even think of something to write.

Double Dare and the Physical Challenge*

A lot of people from home tell me that I'm brave for moving to Australia. I guess they mean that it is brave to move so far away from friends and family; brave to commit myself so concretely to a different culture, one I didn't know much about before making the commitment. But it isn't brave. It's just inconvenient.

And sure, Australia is inconvenient in the obvious way, of being long-distant, but to Americans, the culture's inconvenience hovers around annoying. Take a deep breath, Aussies, I'm not dissing you or your country. I'm saying that constant cultural difference can be, after all the emotional and physical aspects of it, straight up exhausting.

When I was 22, I lived for a brief stint in France, and I remember being so physically exhausted at the end of the day because I spent every waking minute not only observing an everyday life that was so completely new and foreign--but also thinking, speaking, and reading in French. Translating is exhausting. Using that much brain power to do mundane tasks can tire a girl out. But all that was sorta expected--it's a country that has a very specific culture and a completely different language. Australia isn't supposed to be like that.

For the most part, it isn't, of course. They speak English here. And Aussies are laid back in a way that I daresay Americans appreciate far more than the monarchical motherland. The Westernized way of life is about the same age as the U.S.A., so even a lot of the surroundings look similar. Basically it's as close to living in the States as you can get without getting your socialized health care revoked.

So what's annoying is that it's so similar I let my guard down. It's all the same but slightly different. It's disconcerting, like Surrealism or a suspense thriller starring John Cusack. No no--it's like everything is labeled incorrectly--i.e., tomato sauce is ketchup--so you have to keep looking at it to see what it is before you can trust its contents. The best example is the grocery store.

Upon entering, everything looks basically the same. Celine Dion is wailing through the speakers, children are already giving you a headache. Check. But then there's a crumpet aisle. ?? Where...you might also find cookies? Wrong. Experience reminds me to go to the biscuit aisle, where first I find crispbreads (=crackers, okay, makes sense, crisp+bread), then there are sections for plain biscuits, snack biscuits, and chocolate biscuits. So while I did find cookies, I'd like to note that nowhere in this aisle will you find fluffy bread goods traditionally served in the southern states with gravy.

Nearby is a wall-size display of Vegemite which I steer well clear of. I then come to another aisle featuring a no-brainer: toilet rolls. Okay, I can figure that one out too. But I need some sliced swiss cheese. There's no specific cheese section, just occasional refrigerated bays, so I circle all of them about 15 times and keep coming across Tasty cheese. I still have no idea what this is, but it comes in "extra Tasty." It's always capitalized, eluding to a proper noun, but I'm afraid of food with such ambiguous descriptions (see: Chinese food offering the choice of 'brown' or 'red' sauce), so I give up on that one. I also pass a "cordial" aisle. I'm venturing into foreign territory as somehow I've ended up back in the produce section, which has all kinds of Asian vegetables (yummy, but I don't need them today) but no corn.

Getting my ass to the grocery store is hard enough without obstacles, but when I have to get there by walking through a place that looks exactly like K-Mart but is instead called Big W, the frustration sharks start circling. I decide to get hand soap for the bathroom. I gaze up at the ceiling, toward the section signage. Big Dubbs has one section for haberdashery which I always thought was a ye olde word, but apparently not. It also has a section entitled "Manchester". This means sheets and bedding. I wander over to a section that looks vaguely soap-y but am told hand soap is in Health & Beauty.

No, it isn't. There is shower gel but that isn't the same thing. ? I guess I'll wander around this aisle for 10 more minutes until I realize what I'm doing and get so frustrated that out of the sizeable list of shit I needed to get I can only find 3 of them in 15 minutes' time. I'll spend my whole life here if I can't navigate this shit better, I start thinking, and this song sounds like some kinda Evanescence black hole and it would all be much more amusing if I didn't actually need anything from this place, or if I could buy it all and send it to people who would also find it funny-cause-it's-different.

But I live here now. And aside from being a foreigner, it is my home.

*The title is basically irrelevant to the content of this post.

Deep Thoughts, by ecs

I don't really know how this is unsafe, per se, but the door to this ticket booth at the very fancy theatre on Collins Street was open, so, much like other open doors I see on Collins Street, I went in and made husband take a picture of me being an asshole. That's me going, "my job is exhausting!"

Dangerous Girl, Defined

It's not so hard to explain how Melbourne is Safety Town. Even to lifelong residents, I need only to point out common occurrences, like this 3-way no-standing-anywhere pole, to validate my point.

But by now a few people have asked me why exactly that makes me Dangerous Girl.
The answer to this is two-fold.

Example no. 1: Somehow I engage in dangerous behavior without any purposeful effort.
earlier this evening:
The cabinets in my kitchen are quite high (which I find funny considering everyone in my building is a short Asian aside from me and husband). Tonight, I came home parched from riding my bike.

I reached up on to my tip-toes to get a water glass out of the cupboard. The glass slipped out of the cupboard, hit me in the head, then plummeted to its death, shattering on the tile floor. My left eye has been going blurry lately, (which I attribute to staring into the 100-watt light bulb I call my computer screen all day ) so I was already squinting, and then, rubbing my head, I knelt down to start picking up the shards, at which point I skewered my knee with a rogue, upright toothpick of glass.

Shit like this happens all the time.


Example no. 2: Sometimes I engage in dangerous behavior quite purposefully, because I think it is fucking hilarious. Friday night, I was out with husband a few friends. We proceeded to get quite shit-faced early in the evening, laughingly traipsing from one establishment to the next. In transit from bar #5 to bar #6, we happened to walk by The Melbourne Club, a ye olde white boys' club that used to hate Jews and still hates women. The door was open a crack.

I walked confidently, albeit drunkenly, up the steps and through the front door, heading straight for the beautiful winding staircase, noticing out of the corner of my eye the fat old security guard waking from his nap just in time to see the Intruder/Female Infidel. The boys tried to follow me but got way-laid by Lieutenant Dumpy Butt, allowing me to slip under the radar and successfully into the second level. As I didn't expect to get as far as I'd already gotten, I started trying to encroach upon the House of Patriarchy/Freemasons/KKK as much as possible, testing every door handle, and sneaking quickly from room to room, as the boys watched my progress through the windows down below.

Eventually it occurred to me that I was trespassing and being an asshole—possibly risking the crisp and clean status of my brand-new Aussie Permanent Resident visa—so I stepped nonchalantly out of the shadows so that Old Man Diapers could finally figure out where I was. I walked past him, quickly, casually admiring the artwork but staying out of his reach, spouting off a story about how my art history teacher had mentioned what an impressive catalog the Club had, "so I thought I'd come check it out, y'know?"

And, finally nearing the door, I high-tailed it out of there and we continued on our way to the next bar. But not before husband slipped, and accidentally did this to my foot:

Walking Class Heroes

This post was supposed to be about people who don't know how to walk.

New York has something like three times more people crammed into it than Melbourne, which has rightfully forced various unspoken rules as to how to walk down the sidewalk. The flow of pedestrian traffic mirrors that of car traffic:

1. Stay to the right.

2. Pretend you're a car and stay in your goddamn lane.

3. If you want to pull over and look at your map/answer your phone/masturbate, look before you slam into another person.

4. If you want to window-shop, fuck you tourist. You should have figured out what you wanted to buy online before you left Midtown. But you didn't, so there is a designated lane for DUMB, which is right alongside shop windows.

This all makes sense to me. But not to Australians. Even though it may make sense to them to mirror traffic, their instinct is telling them that maybe they should walk on the right, because it's the way God wanted it, but then something reminds them, "wait we do it backwards here mate" and then they get all confused and start dawdling and drooling and pretty soon I'm kicking their children and screaming "This is AMERICA, asshole!" Which it isn't, of course. Whatevs. They know what I mean.

But this isn't about that. Because in my extensive research, wanting to fairly represent the Australian opinion on the matter, I came across another organization lookin' out for the safety of its citizens:

The Pedestrian Council of Australia.











This shit's so exciting that even John Howard (that's the Prime Minister, for the Americans reading this) wrote a letter describing how he splooged a 'roo (man I wish that was a real Aussie phrase) when he heard the council was creating "Walk to Work Day". Well he didn't really, but here it is.




Walk to Work Day, for those of you who haven't fallen asleep yet, counted nearly 1,000 people walking to work that day, and there was an article entitled "Walking Class Heroes" about the event on page 45 of the Canberra City Chronicle.

Holy shit.

But back to safety. So enthusiastic was I over discovering this, I delved further, and realized that the members of the Pedestrian Council of Australia are much like the neighborhood watch alliance in Hot Fuzz and that they are a bit too consumed with the safety of pedestrians. When you click onto "Issues and Policy" I discovered that there may be some serious breaching of safety due to the ever-popular Segway:






















as well as "How they Flout the Parking Laws at Manly". But again, I don't speak Australian. So don't ask me what the fuck that means.

Gravity-challenged Australians

I swear officer, I haven't been drinking. I'm just really tired.