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bliumchikChatswood needs to be hit by a nuclear bomb and handed over to the cockroaches. The winding streets! The avenues with the same name as the lanes that become different streets once you cross the road! The buildings that seem to have been built in exactly the same style as those in the city, except for being SURROUNDED BY TREES. There is something immensely freaky about a metropolitan block buried in vegetaton. It gives you the feeling that you're in one of those sciffy postapocalyptic books where the Land is reclaiming Mans Creation. Besides this, the railway station is surrounded by what appears to be dumps of scrap metal and rubble. This is separated from the Suburbia Of Confusing DETH by a narrow circle of previously mentioned high-rises. And trees.
Another factor that contributed to my getting completely and utterly lost on the way to Work Experience was the complete and utter randomness of Chatswood bus stops. I was told by a friendly driver (AFTER I had already circled round a few times) that they used to all be in one place, but then they split them up for no readily apparant reason. So now there's completely randomly scattered bus stops all round the station. About half of them have timetables. And woe betide you going in the wrong direction, for the streets are labelled funny and you end up going HALF WAY DOWN THE WRONG STREET before you realise what you've done. Speaking of friendly bus drivers - he was the only person in THE ENTIRE SUBURB (apart from the guy at the deli, for some reason) who knew ABSOLUTELY ANYTHING AT ALL.
I spent forty five minutes searching for my bus stop, and EVERY SINGLE PERSON I asked said "Sorry, dunno. I'm not from round here." By the end I was fairly going "Really? What a coincidence! You're not from around here? WELL WHO THE FUCK IS FROM AROUND HERE, HUH? DOES NOBODY LIVE IN CHATSWOOD?! Is it a ghost suburb full of tourists and commuters?! Are all those pretty metropolitan houses bravely staving off the Invasion Of The Trees COMPLETELY EMPTY?! Not even the SCHOOL KIDS know where the fuck I am!!"
To be fair,Woop Woop Chatswood can't be ENTIRELY blamed for my predicament. I reserve a healthy amount of RAAANT for www.131500.com - because it deserves it. I should have been suspicious when its starting point for "Chatswood Station" was actually a few blocks AWAY from the station. From there the route curved un-nesseccarily around and under said station, along a street which confused me by being labelled as the same street in two directions, when one was actually a completely different street. Never MIND I could've gone out the other end of the station and cut out a lot of time. The crowning glory of ineptitude is this: Dalton street. This is, according to the erstwhile site, the location of the bus stop of the 207, which would take me to within about three blocks of my destination.
Unwary, I proceeded along Albert avenue, knowing the next road along was labelled Dalton Street. Imagine, then, my surprise, when the first road I came to was Victoria St. I decided, since it went in the same direction, I would simply walk along it till I reached a street that crossed both. I passed two chruches, a school, a bunch of houses and SO MANY TREES - all I got was a little road that crossed BACK OVER THE RAILWAY LINE. WTF, says I. "Don't ask me, I'm from interstate" says the school-uniformed one. ARRGH, says I. Eventually I gave up, collapsed on the grass, burst into tears and called my dad, in that order. He kindly looked up a street directory, and GUESS WHAT? Dalton street, wait for it, DALTON STREET... DOES NOT EXIST. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, there is no such street.
At this point I ripped up my tear-stained "map", screamed, cursed 131500 with a thousand irate Broken Toaster Demons, and, upon my fathers advice, headed back to the station to ask somebody who knows what they're doing. The post office - nada. Three separate newsagents - do not contain anyone remotely familiar with the areas traumatic buses. Eventually I had a brainwave and asked a bus driver, who directed me to, of all things, the 136, which was RIGHT BEHIND the station (incidentally right near Help street. Oh, how I laughed.)
sooooo much frustraaaation.
But, I got there eventually, and had a wonderful six hours of putting tapes on shelves, ctrl+Fing my way through documents in search of dates and times of shows to put in spreadsheets, and watching countless episodes of a program about ART GALLERIES to write down the start time, end time and any swear words that might bring up the rating. Swear words. ART GALLERIES. oh my brain. Oh, my eyes, those screens... argh. Oh, my fingers, the repetitive movements... OH MY GOD SO BORED.
I got back to Maroubra just in time for guitar, where Damo "I'm not wearing any pants!" [I forget his last name, but it should go here] treated us to the wonderful quote of "At winter camp, on the window, there's an ass-print. Mine."
Also, somebody is stealing my vowels. I blame leprechauns.
Another factor that contributed to my getting completely and utterly lost on the way to Work Experience was the complete and utter randomness of Chatswood bus stops. I was told by a friendly driver (AFTER I had already circled round a few times) that they used to all be in one place, but then they split them up for no readily apparant reason. So now there's completely randomly scattered bus stops all round the station. About half of them have timetables. And woe betide you going in the wrong direction, for the streets are labelled funny and you end up going HALF WAY DOWN THE WRONG STREET before you realise what you've done. Speaking of friendly bus drivers - he was the only person in THE ENTIRE SUBURB (apart from the guy at the deli, for some reason) who knew ABSOLUTELY ANYTHING AT ALL.
I spent forty five minutes searching for my bus stop, and EVERY SINGLE PERSON I asked said "Sorry, dunno. I'm not from round here." By the end I was fairly going "Really? What a coincidence! You're not from around here? WELL WHO THE FUCK IS FROM AROUND HERE, HUH? DOES NOBODY LIVE IN CHATSWOOD?! Is it a ghost suburb full of tourists and commuters?! Are all those pretty metropolitan houses bravely staving off the Invasion Of The Trees COMPLETELY EMPTY?! Not even the SCHOOL KIDS know where the fuck I am!!"
To be fair,
Unwary, I proceeded along Albert avenue, knowing the next road along was labelled Dalton Street. Imagine, then, my surprise, when the first road I came to was Victoria St. I decided, since it went in the same direction, I would simply walk along it till I reached a street that crossed both. I passed two chruches, a school, a bunch of houses and SO MANY TREES - all I got was a little road that crossed BACK OVER THE RAILWAY LINE. WTF, says I. "Don't ask me, I'm from interstate" says the school-uniformed one. ARRGH, says I. Eventually I gave up, collapsed on the grass, burst into tears and called my dad, in that order. He kindly looked up a street directory, and GUESS WHAT? Dalton street, wait for it, DALTON STREET... DOES NOT EXIST. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, there is no such street.
At this point I ripped up my tear-stained "map", screamed, cursed 131500 with a thousand irate Broken Toaster Demons, and, upon my fathers advice, headed back to the station to ask somebody who knows what they're doing. The post office - nada. Three separate newsagents - do not contain anyone remotely familiar with the areas traumatic buses. Eventually I had a brainwave and asked a bus driver, who directed me to, of all things, the 136, which was RIGHT BEHIND the station (incidentally right near Help street. Oh, how I laughed.)
sooooo much frustraaaation.
But, I got there eventually, and had a wonderful six hours of putting tapes on shelves, ctrl+Fing my way through documents in search of dates and times of shows to put in spreadsheets, and watching countless episodes of a program about ART GALLERIES to write down the start time, end time and any swear words that might bring up the rating. Swear words. ART GALLERIES. oh my brain. Oh, my eyes, those screens... argh. Oh, my fingers, the repetitive movements... OH MY GOD SO BORED.
I got back to Maroubra just in time for guitar, where Damo "I'm not wearing any pants!" [I forget his last name, but it should go here] treated us to the wonderful quote of "At winter camp, on the window, there's an ass-print. Mine."
Also, somebody is stealing my vowels. I blame leprechauns.
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Date: 2005-11-14 04:15 am (UTC)So there. :P
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Date: 2005-11-14 07:23 pm (UTC)