faux junkies are dreamy.

Legends of Motorsport have been escaping me all year. I didn’t discover them until I saw the fabulously bearded Richard Fyshwick play at some Fringe Fest thing whenever the Fringe Fest was on, and fall deeply in love with the song Brunswick Ladies. Ever since I brought the CD and played it incessantly in my room, my friends who had overheard their sweet, sweet sounds would never go see them (by slyly being out of town, or ‘tired’).

Once again I am unable to attend Legends of Motorsport when they play along side Dynamo at the Cherry Bar tonight. My Cherry Bar cherry will remain unpopped most likely forever, as nothing there ever really tickles my fancy (although Digger and the Pussycats are playing there this New Years Eve, except I’m busy), but then again, I never really think about going there.

I like Dynamo. They were one of the first local Melbourne bands I ever listened to. Back in my country high school my friend gave me approx. five of their badly recorded song he swiped off his brother, and I used to listen to them all. the. time.

Because I can’t go see Dynamo and Legends of Motorsport tonight, I’ll just imagine what would have happened:

I’d probably wear one of my two outfits on high rotation- the tablecloth 80s party dress or the white, lace-trimmed, short-sleeved blouse with a skirt- and go buy myself (hopefully not by myself) a beer and stand by a piece of furniture or wall with my arms crossed.

LoM would sing new album songs that I don’t know, and I would get bored until they sing the ones that I know. I’d be happy (maybe tearful- depending on my alcohol level) when they play Brunswick Ladies and then I would stroke Fyshwick’s beard and find a family of birds.

Dynamo would play, and it would be fun and nostalgic and prompt me to send annoying text messages… Afterwards the drummer would remember meeting me on Wednesday and we’d discuss his missing cymbal prompting him to go see the band about the return of the cymbal. I would follow, because they are friends with good looking men, and I’d eventually meet a tall, thin man with facial hair who looks like a junkie (but isn’t really). Then faux-junkie and I would fall in love and I’d drop out of uni and we’d spend our days kissing and moulding each others faces in clay.

I haven’t used my imagination in a long time, so please excuse me.