Saturday night was pretty random. In the space of about 5 hours I'd been both drinking at a bikie clubhouse and witnessed two deaf guys punching on.
To go back to the beginning late Saturday afternoon I got a call, "Do you want to come with me to this going-away party? I don't really know the guy or whatever but we're going to head out later." I'm elbow deep in Pajero at this stage, but yeah drinks sounded good. So I down tools and commence the decontamination process (seriously, why does front loader washing powder not work as well at de-greasing hands as top-loader powder? - send your entries along with a stamped self addressed envelope to the address below).
About an hour later, we're heading out to the middle of nowhere to some clubhouse. I'm half expecting to arrive, trip and knock over a chopper and get turned into 12-gauge fairy-bread. As it turns out it wasn't exactly the lair of the Hell Angels. The only drug running these guys are likely to do is nipping down to the chemist for cough medicine. I'm pretty sure they were the sort of bike crew who rode for charities and had a monthly steak at the Norman hotel night. You know, the sort of club that gives bikies a bad name. I doubt they ever even wore leather as they were probably members of PETA.
I never met the guy who's leaving party it was, and the fact that there was cake and "happy birthday" was sung suggested that perhaps Emma didn't quite know either. We got out of there pretty quick when it became apparent that the mood of the place was about to change from jovial to light-hearted and we feared a hug might break out any moment.
We headed back to Norman Park to what Emma described as a sort of share house that a couple of her deaf friends lived in. When we got there I realised she had understated it. It wasn't just a share house, it was like a party house for deaf people. Apparently 7 people lived in this typically sized Queenslander, all deaf. Which of course makes perfect sense, because anyone who has ever lived in a Queenslander knows that you can't so much as get a hand job without interrupting your flatmates bible reading. They have walls, but they have all the noise damping capabilities of the Pajero exhaust. 7 people living in a Queenslander would be like 7 people living in a tent. The only difference is the ceiling is higher.
After a crash course in how to talk slower, we and a couple of the deaf guys headed to the Chalk bar and proceeded to get very drunk. Emma was signing like a mad woman, a skill of hers I hadn't ever seen before. I'm completely useless in a club because of a history of PPE-less grinder use I become de facto deaf anyway, so I need to point my ear to hear what the person is saying but a deaf person generally reads your lips if you don't sign. I was like a bobble-head half the time but half the time managing to talk with a drink to my mouth, with my head turned away or without moving my lips. Needless to say I worked out the sign for "pardon" pretty quickly. I then immediately forgot it. Kat, the other "hearie" with us, managed to just continue as normal. Talking shit at people who weren't listening, except they had an excuse.
Out of nowhere, some drunk guy saw a captive audience and decided to lecture us on how not to get caught by the police for being drunk in a car with the keys in the ignition (if only someone had told him). After 2 minutes, I began to wish I was deaf. He offered everyone a round of drinks and stumbled off to the bar to get them, unfortunately he returned probably half an hour later - without drinks. Seeing what presumably were fresh faces he started his lesson from the beginning.
Rice bread performanceAt a quarter to smashed, we caught a taxi back to the share house, which was now packed to the rafters. I had to introduce myself to 30 different people, and got offered drinks by everyone. Thankfully, I had translators at this stage. Its kinda surreal to be in a packed house with everyone talking but being able to talk at normal volume. There is none of that competition to be the loudest. I was probably still talking loud though, out of habit or in a totally offensive way, just not Matt Dale loud.
Then some guy who had just arrived from another party started words with some other guy who had apparently left said party without him. At least that's what I think happened, we'll assume it was Caxton St. The two weren't signing, at least not with open hands, so they weren't completely deaf but still screaming in that clipped deaf way. I had to leave the room just in case I burst out laughing. I wasn't ready for that. Meanwhile, people were sleeping soundly in rooms just off from the main living room. The guy who had been left behind stormed out, got in his car and left in a hectic burn-out which must have covered all 4 lanes of Lytton Rd, which I then had to explain to everyone who couldn't hear. I can sign "burn-out" apparently.
I ended up crashing out a bit later, after the fracas had died down. The rest of the party had decided to calm things down by putting on some porn. I fell asleep in another room to the sound of cunnilingus.
On Sunday, I went back for more on the Pajero. Its coming along nicely. The firewall needed a bit more persuasion to fit the fuel rail in properly. I fitted the low pressure pick up fuel pump down near the tank copping 5 flavours of earth in my eyes in the process. Hit a snag with the loom, as apparently we have the Gen 2 (curvey) Magna loom but with the Gen 1 (boxy) manifolds and throttle body. Most things work fine, Gen 2 uses knock sensors and the throttle body has completely different plugs. Shouldn't be a problem though. I've now lost track of how many different models this car is a chimera of.
I should receive the rest of the fuel gear this week (eBay specials), so with some luck we might have a turn key event by the end of the coming weekend. The locker diff still needs to be assembled and thrown in, along with the associated solenoids and so forth. The leaf springs in the rear should also be fixed before they completely invert. Unloaded they are effectively flat. Under full (over) load, it gets a bit scary.
To go back to the beginning late Saturday afternoon I got a call, "Do you want to come with me to this going-away party? I don't really know the guy or whatever but we're going to head out later." I'm elbow deep in Pajero at this stage, but yeah drinks sounded good. So I down tools and commence the decontamination process (seriously, why does front loader washing powder not work as well at de-greasing hands as top-loader powder? - send your entries along with a stamped self addressed envelope to the address below).
About an hour later, we're heading out to the middle of nowhere to some clubhouse. I'm half expecting to arrive, trip and knock over a chopper and get turned into 12-gauge fairy-bread. As it turns out it wasn't exactly the lair of the Hell Angels. The only drug running these guys are likely to do is nipping down to the chemist for cough medicine. I'm pretty sure they were the sort of bike crew who rode for charities and had a monthly steak at the Norman hotel night. You know, the sort of club that gives bikies a bad name. I doubt they ever even wore leather as they were probably members of PETA.
I never met the guy who's leaving party it was, and the fact that there was cake and "happy birthday" was sung suggested that perhaps Emma didn't quite know either. We got out of there pretty quick when it became apparent that the mood of the place was about to change from jovial to light-hearted and we feared a hug might break out any moment.
We headed back to Norman Park to what Emma described as a sort of share house that a couple of her deaf friends lived in. When we got there I realised she had understated it. It wasn't just a share house, it was like a party house for deaf people. Apparently 7 people lived in this typically sized Queenslander, all deaf. Which of course makes perfect sense, because anyone who has ever lived in a Queenslander knows that you can't so much as get a hand job without interrupting your flatmates bible reading. They have walls, but they have all the noise damping capabilities of the Pajero exhaust. 7 people living in a Queenslander would be like 7 people living in a tent. The only difference is the ceiling is higher.
After a crash course in how to talk slower, we and a couple of the deaf guys headed to the Chalk bar and proceeded to get very drunk. Emma was signing like a mad woman, a skill of hers I hadn't ever seen before. I'm completely useless in a club because of a history of PPE-less grinder use I become de facto deaf anyway, so I need to point my ear to hear what the person is saying but a deaf person generally reads your lips if you don't sign. I was like a bobble-head half the time but half the time managing to talk with a drink to my mouth, with my head turned away or without moving my lips. Needless to say I worked out the sign for "pardon" pretty quickly. I then immediately forgot it. Kat, the other "hearie" with us, managed to just continue as normal. Talking shit at people who weren't listening, except they had an excuse.
Out of nowhere, some drunk guy saw a captive audience and decided to lecture us on how not to get caught by the police for being drunk in a car with the keys in the ignition (if only someone had told him). After 2 minutes, I began to wish I was deaf. He offered everyone a round of drinks and stumbled off to the bar to get them, unfortunately he returned probably half an hour later - without drinks. Seeing what presumably were fresh faces he started his lesson from the beginning.
Rice bread performanceThen some guy who had just arrived from another party started words with some other guy who had apparently left said party without him. At least that's what I think happened, we'll assume it was Caxton St. The two weren't signing, at least not with open hands, so they weren't completely deaf but still screaming in that clipped deaf way. I had to leave the room just in case I burst out laughing. I wasn't ready for that. Meanwhile, people were sleeping soundly in rooms just off from the main living room. The guy who had been left behind stormed out, got in his car and left in a hectic burn-out which must have covered all 4 lanes of Lytton Rd, which I then had to explain to everyone who couldn't hear. I can sign "burn-out" apparently.
I ended up crashing out a bit later, after the fracas had died down. The rest of the party had decided to calm things down by putting on some porn. I fell asleep in another room to the sound of cunnilingus.
On Sunday, I went back for more on the Pajero. Its coming along nicely. The firewall needed a bit more persuasion to fit the fuel rail in properly. I fitted the low pressure pick up fuel pump down near the tank copping 5 flavours of earth in my eyes in the process. Hit a snag with the loom, as apparently we have the Gen 2 (curvey) Magna loom but with the Gen 1 (boxy) manifolds and throttle body. Most things work fine, Gen 2 uses knock sensors and the throttle body has completely different plugs. Shouldn't be a problem though. I've now lost track of how many different models this car is a chimera of.
I should receive the rest of the fuel gear this week (eBay specials), so with some luck we might have a turn key event by the end of the coming weekend. The locker diff still needs to be assembled and thrown in, along with the associated solenoids and so forth. The leaf springs in the rear should also be fixed before they completely invert. Unloaded they are effectively flat. Under full (over) load, it gets a bit scary.
2008-08-17 23:55:23 ( 0 Comments )
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