Posted on Jun 27, 2010 - 11:19 AM

Realitising

The story of the Evolution of Cloneage Man - By Virgil Reality

If I believe the words of my best ‘friend’ Tommy: “It’s all good”.

From his perspective, lying face down under a table at the Exchange Hotel, it probably is.

It’s been rigorous. Pouring at least 14 “schooner burgers” down his gob has taken more tolls than the NSW government. At least it’s better than the other things people try and shove into it, usually their fist in some ill advised attempt to get his attention.

He elevates slightly as he consumes his other great love; oxygen, so I know he’s OK. If he only had a piece of toast in his mouth all his chakras would align as toast is the only thing he appears to eat.

I first met Tommy when he was fourteen, a private school boy who made his pocket money selling the other boys sugar cubes. Not because their tea wasn’t sweet enough, because each cube had exactly one drop of LSD on it. Tommy himself didn’t take drugs, he didn’t need them, and he was already pretty out there. One day he went up in his imaginary aeroplane and never came down.

He played trombone in his school’s band and though I was a guy from the wrong part of town we met at some combined schools show and then again playing at shopping centres and the local working men’s clubs.

His parents were staunchly religious and there was no TV in his house and all the music was opera. All the time. If we ever passed a TV in a shop window it would suddenly snare him like the Sirens in the Odyssey and he would stand transfixed fascinated by the scenes.

Near the end of school we auditioned for a rock band and even though we were underage, we played in places that we would never have been able to get in to. We met people that we wished we hadn’t and also people who wished they’d never met us.

Tommy had an important attribute as he got older, that he could sometimes borrow his dad’s Ford to get us to gigs in the countryside or across town. That is, until the day that his Dad fronted at his room and told him it was time to leave the house. This forced him into University housing (12 old run down houses at the back of the sports field). He shared the block with some guys whose course was “Spirits Appreciation”. With that we installed ourselves at the Uni Bar, sometimes getting a gig because we were there.

Tommy had no furniture except an old cot bet, a toaster and only ever one jar of spread, usually mayo. It’s where he learnt his favourite meal. Survival on Toast.

There was another guy living in his ‘house’. Ernesto, who like Tommy had been and still was a purveyor of fine party favours and mushrooms of the non omelette variety.

One night we caught the train to the coast and hiked along to a secluded beach we and imbibed. Fifteen minutes they kicked in and we went through the looking glass. The flames of a modest beach bonfire took us to places as we sat and stared. Tommy got mystical in that way that Sitar music starts playing and the Maharishi appears talking to Ringo.

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