The time has come for me to finally get a car. Nothing flash, although for a time I had a Honda Type R Civic as my desktop wallpaper. Since I used to live in the city I needed a tiny, squat car that could fit into the smallest of spaces. Now that I'm out West (although not quite the fooly sick West), I can afford to get something bigger. Something that harkens back to my Bacolod years. Something that will fit my rapidly growing entourage and all our sporting paraphernalia. Something that's beauty and beast rolled in one, a multi-tasking mobile that can haul a film crew up a mountain one day and rock me and my date up to the Hilton the next.

Who am I kidding, give me something that won't die on me in the M4 in the middle of the night and I'm a happy man.

Am hitting the used car dealerships this weekend and it should be interesting to see if these salesmen are exactly the same as those clichéd characters you see in movies- loud suits, dripping pomade and charm. Since I can't haggle for shit and pretty much know nothing about cars, I'll get Pete to come along with me to inspect and bargain. The problem is, he drives a Mercedes, which would quite possibly give the impression that we were rolling in dough. So, I'll take Miguel too, in his more subtle looking RAV 4, and he can lean on the bonnet and look intimidating and hopefully scare the dealer to giving us 50% off. If those tactics don't work then I can always bring along Ala and Cat to bat their eyelashes and smile a little bit.

I wonder what car will "choose me?"

Afternoon rush hour. On the train, watching people.

How great would it be to get paid to do a job you actually love doing? To not have to settle and be status quo?

I look at the slumped figures all around me, how grey their skin looks and how they purposely avoid eye contact with each other, their brows furrowed as they shuffle their iPods or tuck into a game of sudoku . I wonder why they (me) do this. Are we so burnt out from dealing and wheeling and answering and asking in the previous 8 hours that we can't manage to hold a conversation with a random stranger anymore?

How great would it be to have a job that makes you so happy that you're still smiling on the train ride home?

Moving Out And Moving On.

For the very first time in my life I am co-existing with two housemates, in a 3-bedroom apartment in Homebush Bay, totally contradicting my sworn oath to never live outside the City. I can’t really fault myself much, after all, it was the rising rent of my old flat that drove me out West.

I am sad to have left the City, especially the area which I lived in which was right smack in the center of Potts Point and King’s Cross, the most curious example of the posh and dodgy coexisting peacefully within meters of each other. For the past three years and a half I have called that place home and while I had my gripes about it, most especially living right next to a homeless shelter and all its loud, bickering tenants, I can truly say that the warm memories far outweigh the horrible ones. And thinking hard about it, I find myself missing things I didn’t expect I would.

I’ll miss the random, familiar faces of people who’s names I never bothered to learn: the Thai hooker who used to actually be cute but is now toothless and drugged out, the biker dudes who have coffee in the tiny café along the strip, the warring bouncers who shout insults at each other and brag about how their strippers are hotter than the others.

I’ll miss the smell of the fresh waffle cones from the ice cream shop.

I’ll miss being so close to the train station. Because of it, I never had the need for a car. Now, it seems a foregone conclusion that some wheels are in order.

I still haven’t figured out where I am going to get a haircut because Jenny, the Chinese lady who knew how to cut my thick-ass Asian hair, is all the way back there. As a result I wonder about Mr. Gosling, the crusty old barber who could care less about race and would literally just butcher me with a Number 5 razor each time. Nevertheless, he was part of the inspiration behind my film The Haircut.

I’ll especially miss Rushcutter’s Bay Park, where every afternoon Mel and I would go for a run and a throw and watch in envy as the people with dogs would arrive at 4pm and we would get our dog fix by trying to pet them.

I’ll miss the feeling of belonging, even in a place as slummy as the Cross. I liked the fact that as time wore on I could make my way home with nary an ounce of caution, simply because as I had recognised the Cross’ inhabitants, I’m sure they in turn had recognised me, not by name, but by face, the dark-haired kid whizzing past on his scooter or walking home at midnight every Thursday lugging muddy football cleats. In my years in the Cross I have never been mugged, beat up, or harassed; the closest thing to danger I ever got was being propositioned by Sally the 60-year old prostitute.

And so I find myself writing this now, in an apartment an hour away from the hustle and bustle of what I used to call my neighbourhood, and while I am loving the fresh air and clear skies and the blissful silence I get every night, I know I will find myself longing for the madness of the city every once in awhile, especially now more than ever, when the possibility of new memories await.