From hibernation to observation.

Those of you who check in here regularly will have noticed this isn't a stream of consciousness blog, wherein I record everything from my morning cup of coffee to the noontime piss it engenders.
And for good reason- those kind of blogs bore me to tears.
I see and do too much to ever try and capture every blink and breath here- hey, I'm busy actually doing things. What you get here at the Tram are edited highlights- or lowlights - of that.
But recently I made a determined effort to capture some of the things that I do see and hear, over and above those I want to talk about, or that I get paid to report on. Here, then, is a notebook sketch of a 45 minute trip into town to see a show in the city last week:

• There are four or five teenage Asian Guido types in the local liquor store, arguing amongst themselves over who has what cash to buy a $40.00 bottle of Jagermeister. When I go to the counter, the Sikh bloke who runs the joint (and who knows me) winks and says he can't wait to ask them for ID.
• At the train station, two Maori girls with a slab of bourbon & coke ask me if I want a drink, but then one of them changes her mind- "Buy one, mate, buy one". I walk on, the train pulls in.
• In the city, I walk down Bourke Street, past an overtanned, overweight, overmoneyed but unhappy couple. Her- strapless, facelifted, him- red faced, wearing a blue blazer. Both are talking at about wine and taxis.
• There are a bunch of wannabe gangsters outside a notorious cafe a bit further down. No sign of any real trouble, though.
• When I cross the street, I find a couple of chunky-knit, chunky-jewellery type middle aged lesbians are having a hissy argument over the outside ashtrays, while a lost and lonely tourist family wander past, with the teenage girl whining about not getting to go to the Hard Rock Cafe.
• In a alleyway just off Chinatown, I see four men sitting at one table in a busy restaurant, deep in heavy conversation, while a huge bald guy sits by himself at a table set for five just next to them, watching every word. Bodyguard? Who can tell?
• Outside the Exford, a spotty backpacker holds an armful of (cheap, thin, greasy) takeaway pizza boxes like she's trapped them herself, while her buddies inside forget to buy beers and watch the rugby game playing in the back bar's huge plasma TVs instead.
• I turn around and see a huge ad for a strip joint pasted three stories high over the intersection.
• I buy some Pretz, (savoury cousin of the Pocky) from an Asian grocery, but then, 20 metres up the street, save a Chiko Roll from certain extinction in a dodgy bain-marie, and then head on through the drizzle.

And that, dear reader, was what I saw on the way, before my evening started.