caffeineguy (caffeineguy) wrote,
caffeineguy
caffeineguy

Sydney. Night Shots.




Maybe it's because we were on the other side of the equator and International Date Line. Maybe it's because we finished a bottle of Goose. Maybe it's because the time was just right for watching people consume each others feces and vomit. Maybe it's the worst decision I have ever made.



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Because we're on the bottom part of the planet, the gravity's much weaker down here.



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Perhaps it's because of the weaker gravity, but the cockroaches fly in Australia. We were at Bungalow 8 on King Street Wharf when our friend Kai sat down at our table. She felt something in her hair and brushed it off with her hand - and that's when the roach fell off her head and right into her drink. I was forced to drown the poor bastard in her cup (you can watch the video on 1roach1cup.com), which was a horrible way to go because the cup was filled with gin. I don't know what's more nasty: cockroaches or gin.



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This was taken at the World Bar in King's Cross. I think this photo speaks for itself. And it would be speaking some kind of monkey language.



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One more thing about King's Cross: Half of it is legit bars and clubs, and the other half is strip joints and hookers. I think it was a Tuesday night, and out of sheer boredom Paul and I decided to check out a King's Cross strip joint. There's an entire block filled with them, so we walked into the first one we saw, called Love Machine. Big, big mistake.

I don't think I'd ever walked into a sadder strip joint in my entire life. It's quite possibly the saddest place I've ever been to in my entire life. There could've been corpses of kittens and unicorns in here, and it wouldn't have made it that much sadder. You just walked in and a giant wall of misery immediately hit you. It's a dark, rectangular room about the size of a liquor store. On one end is a bar, and on the other, there's a stage. Facing the stage were five small rows of plastic chairs. I think there were about four guys sitting on them, all looked semi-awake.

On stage was a topless stripper who wasn't really dancing - more like walking around with the same lifeless expression as her audience. Every once in a while she'd lie on the floor and gyrate, or swing on the pole. Sometimes the stripper would stop dancing, get off the stage, walk over to the bar, grab a drink, and hop back on stage. Whenever the song ended, there'd be a five-second period of dead silence before the next song began. All the while, the stripper and audience would be completely motionless and quiet.

But there's more. Next to the stage, there was hardcore porn playing on a monitor. Meanwhile, two haggard-looking women - with faces deeply creased by years of drugs and prostitution - walked over to each customer and asked if they wanted to go upstairs for "a massage and sex."

It was surreal and utterly depressing. After we finished our Malibu vodkas (at least I think that's what they were called), we practically ran out of there before our souls were completely devoured by the darkness.



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The Argyle, located in the Rocks, was the first club I hit in Sydney. This is where I discovered that Australian bartenders are just as stingy with the drinks as their Canadian counterparts. They pour your alcohol into a tiny shot glass and then pour it into your cup - which is barely enough liquid to get the ice cubes moist. And thanks to weak-ass American currency, the drink price comes out to about one U.S. dollar per vodka molecule.



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Paul really liked his frozen sake at Rise. At least that's what he'd expect you to believe from this picture. But it is filled with lies as he didn't really like it at all once it began to melt.

When it came to picking restaurants, we relied on a combination of your many recommendations, our Sydney friends, Grab Your Fork, and especially Eatability.

Other places we ate at included:

Spice I Am
Prime
Longrain
Uighur Cuisine
Azuma
Sydney Madang



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Another restaurant we checked out was El Bulli, which was a tapas joint in Surry Hills. Paul has a strange love for churros.



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As much as he loves churros, Paul hates Chartreuse. For that matter, I really hate Chartreuse. One taste and suddenly you want to do bad things to the French to avenge your mouth, stomach, liver, and other organs. Not sure how we kept ending up drinking this one night, but it all began when Kai went to the bar and tried to order us shots of absinthe. They thankfully didn't have it, but instead they poured us Chartreuse - and I honestly don't know what tastes worse. Trust me, if you ever come across this bottle, turn around and run. Or throw holy water on it.



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Speaking of Kai, here's one pic of our Sydney party guide where the demon woman isn't trying to force-feed us tequila shots.



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When she's not trying to gleefully destroy us, Kai can also portray us as Japanese cartoon characters.



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