NEWSLETTER



DOS & DON'TS

Whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa, whoa. Not trying to tell you what you can and can’t do with that face, but maybe you should leave the tricycling through the Red Light district in a raincoat to someone a shade less skeezy. Right now you’re making my ass clench so hard I’m worried my next dump will be glass. Comments/Enlarge | See all


New dads take note. When you work away from home too much and raise your kids on birthday magicians, cartoons and MTV Emo hour you will come home one day to this and start yelling: Sarah, I can't even recognize Kylie any more. Comments/Enlarge | See all






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This is nothing happening on the tram. Photo by the author.

BACK OF THE TRAM

A Day in the Met



It’s pretty cool that we have trams in Melbourne. The only other place I’m aware of that has trams is San Fransisco and after doing a cursory Google search, it appears my knowledge is extensive. Taking trams rules over taking buses because they don’t have to adhere to regular road rules and are therefore faster and, unless you are going somewhere beyond the end of the tram line, it generally beats taking the train too. Of course, it was even better before ticket inspectors outnumbered passengers three to one but that’s just something we’re all just going to have to work around.

That’s not to say that taking the tram is a stroll in a rose garden. I try to ride my bike anywhere I physically can, because I actually also hate trams, but there are times when the Collingwood to Prahran trek is just too daunting. So: the tram. Once I watched a badly smacked out lady comb the greasy hair of her half dead junkie boyfriend for half an hour and another time someone kept falling asleep on my shoulder—which I put up with until they started dribbling on me. Which got me to wondering; what would happen if I rode the tram around all day?

9:00 AM: I get to the tram stop and the first thing I see is an almost bald lady (who has dyed what remains of her hair a blueish, purplish black) wearing a conservative black skirt suit. Apparently on public transport in Spain, strangers speak to and smile at each other. Not here. Everyone looks like they have given up on the world and everyone in it.

10:30: A dude with the most intense scar ever on his face gets on. It kind of looks like half of his skull has been removed and then someone has sewn it back up again above his eye. Ew.

12:00 PM: Realising that trams go really fucking slowly. Everyone that gets on looks like a ticket inspector.

1:00: A guy gets stuck in the doors trying to get out and flails about while people yell at the driver. An old lady with an undercut gets on.

2:00: Nothing happens. Really bored and tired.

3:00: All at once a middle aged guy who looks like a child, a kid who looks like an old man and a really old man get on. The old guy yells to the whole tram that he needs a seniors card until someone buys one for him.

4:30: There’s some school kids getting on and off and I’m feeling pretty shitty and thirsty. Just when I think I might not speak to anyone all day, a fancily dressed lady with a gold shirt and gold gloves, sits down next to me and starts telling me how she had broken down crying that morning but was much better now. I listen. She gets it off her chest and then gets off at the next stop.

6:00: I was going to try to hold out till nine o’clock but I kind of feel like I’m going insane and I really need to check my emails. I stumble home and drink a litre of water and make a pact to try the ride across the river more often.

BEN STERN

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