... and they have ordered both the shit sandwich and the vomit pie, with a large side serve of spanner in the works.
Woo hoo! Let the circus roll on.
To be frank my children predicted this result. As we were walking to our local voting centre yesterday Will said he wanted to vote for Tony Abbott because "he is a man, like me" and Marianna said she wanted to vote for Julia Gillard because "she has straight hair". I couldn't argue with either of those persuasive arguements.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
2011: The Year of the Frequent Flyer Points
I've just booked our flights to NEW YORK CITY for May/June 2011. My dear sister is getting married, which is wonderful and amazing news. But more importantly I am going to NEW YORK CITY, THE BIG APPLE, THE CITY THAN NEVER SLEEPS.
Just a little excited about it. I just hope it doesn't disappoint like LA.
I'm on a no-shopping diet between now and then because I plan to hit the shops hard in NY. It's going to be a tough nine months.
And because spending endless hours on painfully uncomfortable long haul flights is just too much fun we are starting to plan what we've been calling THE BIG TRIP.
December 2011/January 2012 we'll see us visiting Colombia, Guatemala and then back to Orlando, Florida. We want to take the kids back for a good visit to their countries of birth which will be very special. Then we want to finish the holiday with a week or so in Orlando visiting DisneyWorld and most importantly Harry Potter World.
I don't know what I'm most excited about really (apart from the actual wedding part, though secretly I think I'm just a little more excited about Harry Potter World, sorry JB). It's going to be a huge travel year and I'm starting to feel the familiar happy/scared anxiety building.
Just a little excited about it. I just hope it doesn't disappoint like LA.
I'm on a no-shopping diet between now and then because I plan to hit the shops hard in NY. It's going to be a tough nine months.
And because spending endless hours on painfully uncomfortable long haul flights is just too much fun we are starting to plan what we've been calling THE BIG TRIP.
December 2011/January 2012 we'll see us visiting Colombia, Guatemala and then back to Orlando, Florida. We want to take the kids back for a good visit to their countries of birth which will be very special. Then we want to finish the holiday with a week or so in Orlando visiting DisneyWorld and most importantly Harry Potter World.
I don't know what I'm most excited about really (apart from the actual wedding part, though secretly I think I'm just a little more excited about Harry Potter World, sorry JB). It's going to be a huge travel year and I'm starting to feel the familiar happy/scared anxiety building.
Away We Go
I watched Away We Go this morning (planned to watch it last night but fell asleep watching Alvin and The Chipmunks: The Squeakquel - is there anything more annoying than those chipmunk voices? oh the pain!).
Loved it! Just the sort of little movie I enjoy thoroughly. Not a huge amount to say. Just a gentle look at modern life. Great characters, great soundtrack, strong dialogue, beautiful scenery.
Special mention for Maya Rudolph who was superb and for the entire Montreal sequence which felt very right and brought a tear (or 20) to my eye.
Very surprised that this was a Sam Mendes effort. I still haven't forgiven him for American Beauty (I know I'm the only person on Plant Earth who hated this film).
Loved it! Just the sort of little movie I enjoy thoroughly. Not a huge amount to say. Just a gentle look at modern life. Great characters, great soundtrack, strong dialogue, beautiful scenery.
Special mention for Maya Rudolph who was superb and for the entire Montreal sequence which felt very right and brought a tear (or 20) to my eye.
Very surprised that this was a Sam Mendes effort. I still haven't forgiven him for American Beauty (I know I'm the only person on Plant Earth who hated this film).
Just call me Domestic Goddess
Spent half the day baking for the school's Election Day Cake Stall yesterday.
That's Cranberry and White Chocolate Biscuits (these are super delicious and you make a huge amount from the recipe) on the left and Nigella's Totally Chocolate Chocolate Chip Cookies (very good but just too chocolatey for me) on the right.
All I can say is I went through a lot of butter and my KitchenAid got a thorough workout. I just love a few hours at home, in the kitchen, in peace. Heaven.
So hopefully there will be a few voters leaving my children's school today feeling happy and satisfied (which are two feelings you won't get from actually voting).
Friday, August 13, 2010
Shit or vomit?
Would madam like a shit sandwich or a vomit pie for lunch on Saturday 21 August?
That's basically our political choices when we face the federal election next week.
I have felt like we've literally been drowning in a sea of piss weak political bollocks these last few weeks and there is no respite in the foreseeable future.
Today we received a brochure from The Climate Sceptics Party in our letterbox at the office and I jumped around like a lunatic shouting "yippee". A tiny voice of reason amongst the white noise of political nonsense. I know they don't have a hope in hell but at least there are people out there trying and I salute them.
The alternative is Mr and Ms Bland with their equally bland and pathetic so-called policies. Shuffling our money from here to there, making policy statements which amount to a whole load of bullshit because there is a more than equal chance they will never see the light of day anyway. A hospital for you, a rail network for you, some token cash for you disability groups... now run along and vote for us but at the end of the day we'll move that money sideways after the election and forget all about you until the next one.
One of the many "policies" which drive me wild is this "stop the boats" crap. I see red whenever that pops onto the teev. Why is all the focus on these poor boat people? Why doesn't anyone talk about the real illegal immigration problems with people coming from the UK and NZ and Europe and Asia by plane and simply outstaying their holiday or student visas? Do you ever hear anyone mention that aspect of illegal immigration? No, it's all "boat people" this and "stop the boats" that. As if that's really the biggest problem this country has anyway! Sheesh! What a smokescreen and a pile of populist rubbish.
As always I start to rant and rave and froth at the mouth in a most unbecoming manner when I start thinking about politics. So I better just stop now and have a cup of tea and a lay down in a quiet room.
That's basically our political choices when we face the federal election next week.
I have felt like we've literally been drowning in a sea of piss weak political bollocks these last few weeks and there is no respite in the foreseeable future.
Today we received a brochure from The Climate Sceptics Party in our letterbox at the office and I jumped around like a lunatic shouting "yippee". A tiny voice of reason amongst the white noise of political nonsense. I know they don't have a hope in hell but at least there are people out there trying and I salute them.
The alternative is Mr and Ms Bland with their equally bland and pathetic so-called policies. Shuffling our money from here to there, making policy statements which amount to a whole load of bullshit because there is a more than equal chance they will never see the light of day anyway. A hospital for you, a rail network for you, some token cash for you disability groups... now run along and vote for us but at the end of the day we'll move that money sideways after the election and forget all about you until the next one.
One of the many "policies" which drive me wild is this "stop the boats" crap. I see red whenever that pops onto the teev. Why is all the focus on these poor boat people? Why doesn't anyone talk about the real illegal immigration problems with people coming from the UK and NZ and Europe and Asia by plane and simply outstaying their holiday or student visas? Do you ever hear anyone mention that aspect of illegal immigration? No, it's all "boat people" this and "stop the boats" that. As if that's really the biggest problem this country has anyway! Sheesh! What a smokescreen and a pile of populist rubbish.
As always I start to rant and rave and froth at the mouth in a most unbecoming manner when I start thinking about politics. So I better just stop now and have a cup of tea and a lay down in a quiet room.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
In the presence of greatness
These past two weeks have seen me share the air space with two men I admire greatly. Two men whose command of the English language leaves me gobsmacked and inspired. You could say that they are the extreme ends of the language spectrum but each uses words in ways which amaze and amuse me. I am talking about Stephen Fry and Kevin Smith.
Two weeks ago Stephen Fry spoke at the Sydney Opera House Concert Hall and last night Kevin Smith did the very same thing. So similar and yet so very different.
To me Stephen Fry is the last bastion of the old English English. As a child of the Enid Blyton generation I grew up reading not just Ms Blyton but Oscar Wilde, the Bronte Sisters, Jane Austen and a myriad of other English writers. The beautifully rolled words and turns of phrase were music to my literal ears. The way Stephen Fry speaks takes me back to that time and those memories.
But his talent is much more than that. Words are his plaything, his tools of trade; he has an ability to fashion a sentence which makes me gasp with delight. To some he may sound like a toffee nosed old Pom but to me he is an intellectual God.
Kevin Smith (hate to say it Kev but you could loose a few kgs) at the Opera House on Monday night.
I wouldn't call Kevin Smith an intellectual God, not in the same way. His craft is modern language, colloquial language and he is a master. His dialogue makes me want to write and makes me hang onto my dream of writing a script (but when I read his scripts I know it's much harder than it looks to write such "real" shit).
On Monday night he was there for his fans and his was incredibly generous with his time. Unlike Stephen Fry who worked on a very strict and organised schedule (45 minutes of pre-prepared banter followed by 45 minutes of pre-Tweeted questions asked by Jennifer Byrne), Kevin Smith gave himself to us totally. First he talked and then he answered questions from the audience, and there was a fucking shitload of questions. The KS geeks out did themselves. We left at the 3 hours 35 minutes mark and they were still going strong.
To me Kevin Smith is legend and here is a small reminder of the sort of thing I love about him. The Silent Bob Speaks scene from Chasing Amy is perfection to me; the timing, the surprise factor, the understanding of relationships disguised as male bullshit banter, it's just beautiful.
>>
Holden looks out the window. Jay continues to roll his joint. There's silence. Then...
BOB
You're chasing Amy.
Holden's head snaps forward. He stares, wide-eyed at Silent Bob.
HOLDEN
What..what did you say?
BOB
You're chasing Amy.
Holden stares, shocked. He looks to Jay, who's still rolling his joint.
JAY
What do you look so shocked for? He does this all the time. Fat bastard thinks just because he never says anything, that it'll have some huge impact when he does open his fucking mouth.
BOB
Why don't you shut up? Jesus! Always yap, yap, yapping all the time. Give me a fucking headache.
(to Holden)
I went through something like what you're going through. Years ago. Same kind of thing with a girl named Amy.
JAY
When?
BOB
A couple of years ago.
JAY
What'd she 'Live in Canada' or something? Why don't I remember this?
BOB
What you don't know about me I can just about squeeze into the Grand fucking Canyon. Did you know I always wanted to be a dancer in Vegas?
Jay and Holden look at him. Silent Bob busts a move with his hands.
BOB
Hunhh? Bet you didn't know that?
JAY
Just cell your fucking story so we can get out of here and smoke this.
BOB
(to Holden)
So there's me an Amy, and we're all inseparable, right? Just big time in love. And then about four months in, I ask about the ex-boyfriend. Dumb move, I know, but you know how it is -
you don't really want to know, but you just have to... stupid guy bullshit. Anyway she starts telling me all about him - how they dated for years, lived together, her mother likes me better,
blah, blah, blah - and I'm okay. But then she tells me that a couple times, he brought other people to bed with them - menage a tois, I believe it's called. Now this just blows my mind.
I mean, I'm not used to that sort of thing, right? I was raised Catholic.
JAY
Saint Shithead.
Silent Bob backhands him. Jay raises his fist as if to strike.
BOB
Do something.
(to Holden)
So I get weirded out, and just start blasting her, right? This is the only way I can deal with it - by calling her a slut, and telling her that she was used - I mean, I'm out for blood I want to hurt her - because I don't know how to deal with what I'm feeling. And I'm like "What the fuck is wrong with you?" and she's telling me that it was that time, in that place, and she didn't do anything
wrong, so she's not gonna apologize. So I tell her it's over, and I walk.
JAY
Fucking a.
BOB
No, idiot. It was a mistake. I wasn't disgusted with her, I was afraid. At that moment, I felt small - like I'd lacked experience, like I'd never be on her level or never be enough for her or something. And what I didn't get was that she didn't care. She wasn't looking for that guy anymore. She was looking for me. But by the time I realized this, it was too late, you know. She'd moved on, and all I had to show for it was some foolish pride, which then gave way to regret. She was the girl, I know that now. But I pushed her away...
Everyone's silent Silent Bob lights a cigarette.
BOB
So I've spent every day since then chasing Amy...
(takes a drag from his smoke)
So to speak.
They sit there for a beat. Jay pockets the rest of his dime-bag.
JAY
Enough of this fucking melodrama. My advice - forget her, dude. There's one woman in the world. One woman, with many faces.
(to Silent Bob)
Get up, bitch
<<<
Two weeks ago Stephen Fry spoke at the Sydney Opera House Concert Hall and last night Kevin Smith did the very same thing. So similar and yet so very different.
To me Stephen Fry is the last bastion of the old English English. As a child of the Enid Blyton generation I grew up reading not just Ms Blyton but Oscar Wilde, the Bronte Sisters, Jane Austen and a myriad of other English writers. The beautifully rolled words and turns of phrase were music to my literal ears. The way Stephen Fry speaks takes me back to that time and those memories.
But his talent is much more than that. Words are his plaything, his tools of trade; he has an ability to fashion a sentence which makes me gasp with delight. To some he may sound like a toffee nosed old Pom but to me he is an intellectual God.
Kevin Smith (hate to say it Kev but you could loose a few kgs) at the Opera House on Monday night.
I wouldn't call Kevin Smith an intellectual God, not in the same way. His craft is modern language, colloquial language and he is a master. His dialogue makes me want to write and makes me hang onto my dream of writing a script (but when I read his scripts I know it's much harder than it looks to write such "real" shit).
On Monday night he was there for his fans and his was incredibly generous with his time. Unlike Stephen Fry who worked on a very strict and organised schedule (45 minutes of pre-prepared banter followed by 45 minutes of pre-Tweeted questions asked by Jennifer Byrne), Kevin Smith gave himself to us totally. First he talked and then he answered questions from the audience, and there was a fucking shitload of questions. The KS geeks out did themselves. We left at the 3 hours 35 minutes mark and they were still going strong.
To me Kevin Smith is legend and here is a small reminder of the sort of thing I love about him. The Silent Bob Speaks scene from Chasing Amy is perfection to me; the timing, the surprise factor, the understanding of relationships disguised as male bullshit banter, it's just beautiful.
>>
Holden looks out the window. Jay continues to roll his joint. There's silence. Then...
BOB
You're chasing Amy.
Holden's head snaps forward. He stares, wide-eyed at Silent Bob.
HOLDEN
What..what did you say?
BOB
You're chasing Amy.
Holden stares, shocked. He looks to Jay, who's still rolling his joint.
JAY
What do you look so shocked for? He does this all the time. Fat bastard thinks just because he never says anything, that it'll have some huge impact when he does open his fucking mouth.
BOB
Why don't you shut up? Jesus! Always yap, yap, yapping all the time. Give me a fucking headache.
(to Holden)
I went through something like what you're going through. Years ago. Same kind of thing with a girl named Amy.
JAY
When?
BOB
A couple of years ago.
JAY
What'd she 'Live in Canada' or something? Why don't I remember this?
BOB
What you don't know about me I can just about squeeze into the Grand fucking Canyon. Did you know I always wanted to be a dancer in Vegas?
Jay and Holden look at him. Silent Bob busts a move with his hands.
BOB
Hunhh? Bet you didn't know that?
JAY
Just cell your fucking story so we can get out of here and smoke this.
BOB
(to Holden)
So there's me an Amy, and we're all inseparable, right? Just big time in love. And then about four months in, I ask about the ex-boyfriend. Dumb move, I know, but you know how it is -
you don't really want to know, but you just have to... stupid guy bullshit. Anyway she starts telling me all about him - how they dated for years, lived together, her mother likes me better,
blah, blah, blah - and I'm okay. But then she tells me that a couple times, he brought other people to bed with them - menage a tois, I believe it's called. Now this just blows my mind.
I mean, I'm not used to that sort of thing, right? I was raised Catholic.
JAY
Saint Shithead.
Silent Bob backhands him. Jay raises his fist as if to strike.
BOB
Do something.
(to Holden)
So I get weirded out, and just start blasting her, right? This is the only way I can deal with it - by calling her a slut, and telling her that she was used - I mean, I'm out for blood I want to hurt her - because I don't know how to deal with what I'm feeling. And I'm like "What the fuck is wrong with you?" and she's telling me that it was that time, in that place, and she didn't do anything
wrong, so she's not gonna apologize. So I tell her it's over, and I walk.
JAY
Fucking a.
BOB
No, idiot. It was a mistake. I wasn't disgusted with her, I was afraid. At that moment, I felt small - like I'd lacked experience, like I'd never be on her level or never be enough for her or something. And what I didn't get was that she didn't care. She wasn't looking for that guy anymore. She was looking for me. But by the time I realized this, it was too late, you know. She'd moved on, and all I had to show for it was some foolish pride, which then gave way to regret. She was the girl, I know that now. But I pushed her away...
Everyone's silent Silent Bob lights a cigarette.
BOB
So I've spent every day since then chasing Amy...
(takes a drag from his smoke)
So to speak.
They sit there for a beat. Jay pockets the rest of his dime-bag.
JAY
Enough of this fucking melodrama. My advice - forget her, dude. There's one woman in the world. One woman, with many faces.
(to Silent Bob)
Get up, bitch
<<<
Monday, July 19, 2010
[Not so good] Food and Wine Show
Saturday afternoon - 3 to 5 pm - there's 2 hours of my life I won't get back.
Why? Because I spent doing my best bovine impersonation, along with about half of Sydney's population, at the [NOT] Good Food and Wine Show.
This is my fourth visit and last. It started off as a way to showcase interesting, often small, food companies and their offerings. A chance to taste some things you might not see at the supermarket. An opportunity to see some chefs in full flight (Big Jay and I saw Gordon Ramsay a couple of years ago, which was entertaining if odd, with the audience screaming like he was a rock star... and if anyone recognises rock-star-style screaming it would be me).
Anyway, this year I went with my mum and sister and it was awful from the very first minute when we were squeezed in there like toothpaste going back into it's tube. There were so many people we barely got close to any of the stalls and only tasted a handful of items. Most of the time we were shuffling along with the throng, having our feet stepped on and my nanna trolley (which is useful for bringing home the sample and "Show Special" bags) tripped over.
The moment I knew this show had lost the plot was when we spotted the Lean Cuisine stand. I don't think there's any real need to spell out why I think a Good Food and Wine Show is no place for Lean Cuisine.
What I don't understand is why they can't break it up into "sessions" and only allow in a limited number of people for each session. It just seems logical to me. That way it would be an enjoyable experience rather than one I couldn't wait to get out of.
Why? Because I spent doing my best bovine impersonation, along with about half of Sydney's population, at the [NOT] Good Food and Wine Show.
This is my fourth visit and last. It started off as a way to showcase interesting, often small, food companies and their offerings. A chance to taste some things you might not see at the supermarket. An opportunity to see some chefs in full flight (Big Jay and I saw Gordon Ramsay a couple of years ago, which was entertaining if odd, with the audience screaming like he was a rock star... and if anyone recognises rock-star-style screaming it would be me).
Anyway, this year I went with my mum and sister and it was awful from the very first minute when we were squeezed in there like toothpaste going back into it's tube. There were so many people we barely got close to any of the stalls and only tasted a handful of items. Most of the time we were shuffling along with the throng, having our feet stepped on and my nanna trolley (which is useful for bringing home the sample and "Show Special" bags) tripped over.
The moment I knew this show had lost the plot was when we spotted the Lean Cuisine stand. I don't think there's any real need to spell out why I think a Good Food and Wine Show is no place for Lean Cuisine.
What I don't understand is why they can't break it up into "sessions" and only allow in a limited number of people for each session. It just seems logical to me. That way it would be an enjoyable experience rather than one I couldn't wait to get out of.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
The death penalty
This story in todays news has had me feeling sick all day. I remember very clearly when this horrible thing happened and today's sentencing has brought up all those feelings and worse.
I don't believe in the death penalty. I think as a society we should be better than that.
But I strongly want to harm the man involved in this crime. I would happily fire the bullet, press the button or inject the lethal dose. Whatever his background, and undoubtedly it is awful, he is a wretched human and would be best not on this earth.
Generally I can see the other side of most crimes, at least imagine the motive, the accident, the whatever set of circumstances led to something horrible happening. I can feel a tiny bit of sympathy towards the criminal, even to a tiny degree.
But this story is so awful, so disgusting, that I feel nothing but horror and anger and vengence. I imagine my own daughter so terrified that she jumps out of a third floor balcony, naked, to escape the horror which has befallen her. The feeling which arises is pure loathing towards this creature which would do something so degrading, so disgusting to another human.
I feel so much for her family and the families of all those involved. I want to hug them but I know that would do nothing to ease the emotional agony they must suffer for the rest of their days. I feel for the police, the hospital workers, the social workers, the court workers, everyone who has come into contact with this case on a professional level because they would know details that would make this story not just horrible but an absolute nightmare.
I don't often feel this level of anything about crime; there is so much on the news I rarely give it a second glance, but this is one of those stories which has got under my skin, like the Bilal Skaf gang rapes, makes me angry and sad and fearful and wanting to wrap my children up in their quilts and lock the door and stay away from the world.
But of course that won't happen.
What I hope does happen is that this Brendan Dennison monster gets what he deserves in jail. I know this makes me less of a person, a good person, that I hope that I am, but I can't help it. I want him to suffer, I want some other evil creature in jail to do to him what society is not able to do.
More than anything I hope that the innocent people involved in this are able to find some sort of peace.
I don't believe in the death penalty. I think as a society we should be better than that.
But I strongly want to harm the man involved in this crime. I would happily fire the bullet, press the button or inject the lethal dose. Whatever his background, and undoubtedly it is awful, he is a wretched human and would be best not on this earth.
Generally I can see the other side of most crimes, at least imagine the motive, the accident, the whatever set of circumstances led to something horrible happening. I can feel a tiny bit of sympathy towards the criminal, even to a tiny degree.
But this story is so awful, so disgusting, that I feel nothing but horror and anger and vengence. I imagine my own daughter so terrified that she jumps out of a third floor balcony, naked, to escape the horror which has befallen her. The feeling which arises is pure loathing towards this creature which would do something so degrading, so disgusting to another human.
I feel so much for her family and the families of all those involved. I want to hug them but I know that would do nothing to ease the emotional agony they must suffer for the rest of their days. I feel for the police, the hospital workers, the social workers, the court workers, everyone who has come into contact with this case on a professional level because they would know details that would make this story not just horrible but an absolute nightmare.
I don't often feel this level of anything about crime; there is so much on the news I rarely give it a second glance, but this is one of those stories which has got under my skin, like the Bilal Skaf gang rapes, makes me angry and sad and fearful and wanting to wrap my children up in their quilts and lock the door and stay away from the world.
But of course that won't happen.
What I hope does happen is that this Brendan Dennison monster gets what he deserves in jail. I know this makes me less of a person, a good person, that I hope that I am, but I can't help it. I want him to suffer, I want some other evil creature in jail to do to him what society is not able to do.
More than anything I hope that the innocent people involved in this are able to find some sort of peace.
Eating your own vomit
It's well documented how I feel about Robbie Williams. He is my fantasy sex on legs.
But today's announcement that he is getting back together with the boy band that spawned his career is akin to eating your own vomit.
For a start he has built a career on shitting on the band, it's members and his entire time with them. Having read his biography Feel I don't recall a single positive word about his experience with Take That.
Furthermore Take That were a boy band and I am fairly certain that none of them can these days be referred to as boys. And there is nothing more pathetic than grown men doing what must be done when they are recreating a boy band: i,e, doing naff dance moves while singing even naffer songs aimed at 12 year old girls.
It's not like he needs the money and I'm sure he didn't just wake up one day and realise he actually loved Gary Barlow instead of despise him.
So what's up? The whole things smells very bad to me and I am going to try very hard to ignore it. Hopefully it will just go away. Because if I see Robbie doing some lame choreographed dance routine alongside his old mate Gary there will be vomit, mark my words.
But today's announcement that he is getting back together with the boy band that spawned his career is akin to eating your own vomit.
For a start he has built a career on shitting on the band, it's members and his entire time with them. Having read his biography Feel I don't recall a single positive word about his experience with Take That.
Furthermore Take That were a boy band and I am fairly certain that none of them can these days be referred to as boys. And there is nothing more pathetic than grown men doing what must be done when they are recreating a boy band: i,e, doing naff dance moves while singing even naffer songs aimed at 12 year old girls.
It's not like he needs the money and I'm sure he didn't just wake up one day and realise he actually loved Gary Barlow instead of despise him.
So what's up? The whole things smells very bad to me and I am going to try very hard to ignore it. Hopefully it will just go away. Because if I see Robbie doing some lame choreographed dance routine alongside his old mate Gary there will be vomit, mark my words.
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Why the only thing we'll leave our children is the mortgage
How is one supposed to save, or even live within one's means, when every email brings a temptation?
At the end of the month we're going to see Stephen Fry.
Two weeks after that KEVIN SMITH. Yes, I have to say it in capitals because it's fucking KEVIN SMITH. KEVIN SMITH. KEVIN SMITH.
Talking. Live. In front of me. In the same room. I'm not dealing with it very well.
Then we have tickets for A Day on the Green in December featuring Blondie and The Pretenders.
I think there are other things in between but I'm too lazy to go have a look in the ticket drawer.
There is more to come. The rumours of Robbie Williams, Kiss, Pink touring are just the start.
Make it stop. Or hide my credit card.
At the end of the month we're going to see Stephen Fry.
Two weeks after that KEVIN SMITH. Yes, I have to say it in capitals because it's fucking KEVIN SMITH. KEVIN SMITH. KEVIN SMITH.
Talking. Live. In front of me. In the same room. I'm not dealing with it very well.
Then we have tickets for A Day on the Green in December featuring Blondie and The Pretenders.
I think there are other things in between but I'm too lazy to go have a look in the ticket drawer.
There is more to come. The rumours of Robbie Williams, Kiss, Pink touring are just the start.
Make it stop. Or hide my credit card.
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
Palmer Street
[Warning: This is long and tedious and of little entertainment value. Just a meander down memory lane. Not of any interest to the casual observer. You have been warned.]
Sometime in early 1984 I moved into a terrace house on Palmer Street in Darlinghurst with my friend Yolanda and a bunch of skinheads. I wasn't quite 16 (or maybe just), I was a skinhead girl and I was having the time of my life.
I was quite a tragic for subcultures in those days. I had started off at 13 as a new wave, Rocky Horror type: black tutu, one leg red/one leg black leggings, pointy shoes and crinkly hair with a giant red bow. We hung around at the old (then brand new) Hoyts Cinema complex in George Street, the heart of Sydney. We drank cappucinos at the cafe and smoked cigarettes with an exaggerated coolness. We hung out with gay boys and older boys/men who should have known better.
From there I progressed to a baby punk, when Frank and his brother Alfred arrived at our school. They were punks and they introduced us to the scene and to two boys who were to become very important in my life and the life of my best friend A. Sid and Dean (aka Fang) were from the bad old Western suburbs and had just been released from Minda, the childrens' home, when we met them. We didn't know jack shit about "punk" but we were rebelling and this seemed like an express route to where we wanted to be.
Punk was good for girls who didn't fit in with the "pretty and popular" model. It allowed us to take ugly up to an art form. We thought we were saying "screw you" to the society and its rules and regulations but we were just signing up for another society with a different set of rules.
My uniform consisted of variations on this theme: tartan mini skirts with ripped fishnets, simple white dresses I had made myself with words of my favourite punk songs written on them in blood like scrawl, a giant jumper hand knitted on huge needles from green mohair (my green pubic hair jumper), resin penis shaped earrings.
When we decided to move across to the skinhead camp I think it was a simple style decision. We actually thought out parents would be happy at this change. Before I go any further it is important to clarify the skinhead thing. Most people think skinhead = racist thug. To a large degree that is true. But when I entered the scene it was neatly split down the middle: Oi skinheads (previously mentioned racist thugs) on one side and Ska skinheads on the other. As the name implies Ska skinheads were into Ska music (you know, The Specials, Selector, Bad Manners, The Allnighters). The Ska skins were into the look but had a much more benign attitude.
So that's where I found myself during Year 10 high school. Cropped hair with long fringe and tails, tight jeans or tartan skirts with Doctor Marten boots and Fred Perry shirts. I have to say it is still a look I love but you just don't see many skinhead girls (or punks or mods) around these days... or maybe I just hang around the wrong circles.
I started working full time at the beginning of December 1983, four days after I finished school at the end of Year 10. I can (modestly) say I was quite smart at school but I couldn't be bothered working hard to get the marks and I was anxious to get a job and start my "real" life. I was lucky to be offered a job at HCF, in their art department, after having done work experience there earlier in the year. Not only was I working and earning reasonble money but I was doing something "creative", the dream of any school leaving teen.
Life reveloved around working and partying on weekends. Friday after work we would hit the Royal George Hotel (now famous as the Slip Inn, where whatshername found her Danish prince). It was skinhead headquarters and where it all happened on Friday and Saturday nights. We would start by drinking copious amounts of KB lager (no wonder I can't even stand the smell of beer these days) and would end the evening by finishing up whatever drinks were left on tables. We had no shame; we were teenage pissheads.
What I remember most about that time was the "us" and "them". "Them" were the big boy skinheads and their girlfriends. John Duffy, king of the skinheads, is a name and face I will never forget. No-one fucked with John; from his bitten off ear to his stocky, brick shithouse build, everything about him yelled "don't screw with me, arsehole".
Then there was Big Phil, gorgeous, MG driving, in the Navy, so far out of our league he may as well have been from Mars. Big Brian, aloof, arrogant, gorgeous, we all hated him but secretly had a crush on him.
The "us" were me and my gaggle of skinhead girls. We were mostly middle class teenage girls having an absolute ball. We were getting pissed, taking drugs, seeing bands, dancing, living life. It was an amazing time. It was also the junior skinhead boys. The ones who weren't up to hanging out in the major league.
I fondly remember Little Brian, who was a sweetheart and with whom I had a one-time fondle in the dirty garden behind the Royal George. He came from Galston which was impossibly far from the heart of civilisation.
Later there was my Neil and Little Michael and Big Brett, but Palmer Street was before all that.
I got to Palmer Street via Paddington. Paddington was where Yolanda and her boyfriend lived in a tiny one bedroom flat when I moved out of home. It was very sudden. I think it came about like this: I was out on Friday night, I rang my mum to say I would stay at Yolanda's house because we were going to have a late night (and after all Yolanda was "older" at 21, and obviously mature and responsible), mum said if I didn't come home I shouldn't bother coming home. So I didn't. Well, technically I did the next morning to pick up some clothes in plastic bags, but I didn't live at home again for any considerable period of time ever again.
I moved onto a mattress on the floor in Yolanda's living room and life was so fucking good. It was the pub every evening after work, it was hanging out with my friends, it was no rules, it was sharing $2 bundles of newspaper wrapped hot chips for dinner.
Sometime during that first month or two we were taking a walk one night when we noticed a big terrace on Palmer Street with a For Rent sign. We thought it would be cool to get such a big place and fill it with our best friends. Somehow we managed to rent it (the concept seems so ridiculous today, when you virtually need a reference from the Prime Minister and a gazillion dollars to rent a studio flat). They rented a six bedroom terrace house 5 minutes walk from the city to a couple of barely employed teenage girls. Shit!
Yolanda lived there with her boyfriend (whose name escapes me, but I can picture him quite clearly). I shared a room with a girl called Natalie who was Brinley's girlfriend. At that point we lost all control and the other residents seemed to be a constantly shifting group of skinhead friends and friends of friends. You just never knew who would be at home when you got there from work every afternoon. One afternoon we arrived to find the living filled with a couple of the "regular" boys and the prostitutes from the brothel next door. In our weird "feminist" way we were not impressed.
An important part of that time was "Evil" Jeff. A skinhead with a monster reputation but a guy we loved and tried to take care of, despite, or maybe because of, his frailities. Namely heroin. The night he OD'd in the big front bedroom will always be etched in my memory. Being woken up by the commotion, stumbling into the room to find him cold and blue on the floor, standing aside as the ambulance people rushed in. They gave him an injection and he sat straight up and lit a cigarette, swearing at the people who had just given him back his life.
I remember preparing him for his regular court visits by putting foundation on his heavily tattooed face and neck; making him appear a total freak rather than just a very scary mofo. To the world he was frightening and the sort of person you would cross the street to avoid, to us he was a pussycat and we loved him. I heard much later that he got killed by a train, undoubtedly in some sort of drug induced stupor. I didn't understand what his demons were at the time, I was a baby with no life experience, but looking back I wonder what it was that had made him into who he was when I knew him. Rest in peace, dear Jeff.
We used to drink at the Lismore Hotel, which was on the corner of Pitt Street and the little lane which runs between it and George Street, right in the middle of the city. It's long gone now. The Lismore was run by a little mean Greek guy called Nick. He hated us but we were generally his only customers so he couldn't chuck us out, underage or not.
A skinhead called Spike, who originally hailed from Canberra, lived in one of the Lismore's upstairs bedrooms. He was much older than us, late twenties or even thirty (or maybe he was 22 and we just thought he was "old" in the way teenagers do). He was obviously a damaged man, to be living alone in a pub and hanging out with young teenagers. I'm sure we made fun of him but tolerated him because he was sweet and gentle and bought us drinks.
I have so many swirling memories which are hard to pin down, isolate, get into clear focus. I am quite sure that I have many of them confused in terms of the time line and who was involved. I want to document things as they float up in the murky pool which is my memory because I am scared that this precious time in my life will simply fade away like a cloud in the breeze. Those people meant so much to me and yet I am finding that their names are getting harder (or impossible) to recall.
For example, there was a beautiful young skinhead boy who hung around with us for a time. He shared Yolanda's living room floor with me for a while when he was coming into the city to do summer school at the University of Sydney in preparation for his HSC. He was big and tall and my memory of him is that of a labrador puppy, all eager but shy affection. He may have had a crush on me but I was after the bigger fish and looked upon him like a little brother (though he was probably older than me).
His time with us ended so tragically it makes me ill now to think about it. There was a party at one of the big league skinhead's flats in Bondi. We went for a while but it wasn't for us. These were the heavy weights and they were mean and drunk and even we knew that we were in dangerous territory. Our friend (why can't I remember his name? he was so special to me!) turned up at the party late, after we had left, or maybe he had stayed after we left. Either way, as these things usually happen, he had taken a beer from somewhere he shouldn't have or there was a misunderstanding about the beer he was drinking. He was a babe in the woods and the wolves attacked. We heard later he had been beaten savagely. He had ended up at St Vincents in intensive care. His family wouldn't let us in to see him (who can blame them). If he survived (and for some reason my memory tells me he did) his parents whisked him off to the safety of their suburban home and we never saw him again.
When I look back I know it was only pure, stupid luck which enabled our survival. We were such stupid, innocent, arrogant little girls playing in a very dangerous big world totally out of our league and out of our control.
But fuck I never ever ever felt so alive as I did then.
Sometime in early 1984 I moved into a terrace house on Palmer Street in Darlinghurst with my friend Yolanda and a bunch of skinheads. I wasn't quite 16 (or maybe just), I was a skinhead girl and I was having the time of my life.
I was quite a tragic for subcultures in those days. I had started off at 13 as a new wave, Rocky Horror type: black tutu, one leg red/one leg black leggings, pointy shoes and crinkly hair with a giant red bow. We hung around at the old (then brand new) Hoyts Cinema complex in George Street, the heart of Sydney. We drank cappucinos at the cafe and smoked cigarettes with an exaggerated coolness. We hung out with gay boys and older boys/men who should have known better.
From there I progressed to a baby punk, when Frank and his brother Alfred arrived at our school. They were punks and they introduced us to the scene and to two boys who were to become very important in my life and the life of my best friend A. Sid and Dean (aka Fang) were from the bad old Western suburbs and had just been released from Minda, the childrens' home, when we met them. We didn't know jack shit about "punk" but we were rebelling and this seemed like an express route to where we wanted to be.
Punk was good for girls who didn't fit in with the "pretty and popular" model. It allowed us to take ugly up to an art form. We thought we were saying "screw you" to the society and its rules and regulations but we were just signing up for another society with a different set of rules.
My uniform consisted of variations on this theme: tartan mini skirts with ripped fishnets, simple white dresses I had made myself with words of my favourite punk songs written on them in blood like scrawl, a giant jumper hand knitted on huge needles from green mohair (my green pubic hair jumper), resin penis shaped earrings.
When we decided to move across to the skinhead camp I think it was a simple style decision. We actually thought out parents would be happy at this change. Before I go any further it is important to clarify the skinhead thing. Most people think skinhead = racist thug. To a large degree that is true. But when I entered the scene it was neatly split down the middle: Oi skinheads (previously mentioned racist thugs) on one side and Ska skinheads on the other. As the name implies Ska skinheads were into Ska music (you know, The Specials, Selector, Bad Manners, The Allnighters). The Ska skins were into the look but had a much more benign attitude.
So that's where I found myself during Year 10 high school. Cropped hair with long fringe and tails, tight jeans or tartan skirts with Doctor Marten boots and Fred Perry shirts. I have to say it is still a look I love but you just don't see many skinhead girls (or punks or mods) around these days... or maybe I just hang around the wrong circles.
I started working full time at the beginning of December 1983, four days after I finished school at the end of Year 10. I can (modestly) say I was quite smart at school but I couldn't be bothered working hard to get the marks and I was anxious to get a job and start my "real" life. I was lucky to be offered a job at HCF, in their art department, after having done work experience there earlier in the year. Not only was I working and earning reasonble money but I was doing something "creative", the dream of any school leaving teen.
Life reveloved around working and partying on weekends. Friday after work we would hit the Royal George Hotel (now famous as the Slip Inn, where whatshername found her Danish prince). It was skinhead headquarters and where it all happened on Friday and Saturday nights. We would start by drinking copious amounts of KB lager (no wonder I can't even stand the smell of beer these days) and would end the evening by finishing up whatever drinks were left on tables. We had no shame; we were teenage pissheads.
What I remember most about that time was the "us" and "them". "Them" were the big boy skinheads and their girlfriends. John Duffy, king of the skinheads, is a name and face I will never forget. No-one fucked with John; from his bitten off ear to his stocky, brick shithouse build, everything about him yelled "don't screw with me, arsehole".
Then there was Big Phil, gorgeous, MG driving, in the Navy, so far out of our league he may as well have been from Mars. Big Brian, aloof, arrogant, gorgeous, we all hated him but secretly had a crush on him.
The "us" were me and my gaggle of skinhead girls. We were mostly middle class teenage girls having an absolute ball. We were getting pissed, taking drugs, seeing bands, dancing, living life. It was an amazing time. It was also the junior skinhead boys. The ones who weren't up to hanging out in the major league.
I fondly remember Little Brian, who was a sweetheart and with whom I had a one-time fondle in the dirty garden behind the Royal George. He came from Galston which was impossibly far from the heart of civilisation.
Later there was my Neil and Little Michael and Big Brett, but Palmer Street was before all that.
I got to Palmer Street via Paddington. Paddington was where Yolanda and her boyfriend lived in a tiny one bedroom flat when I moved out of home. It was very sudden. I think it came about like this: I was out on Friday night, I rang my mum to say I would stay at Yolanda's house because we were going to have a late night (and after all Yolanda was "older" at 21, and obviously mature and responsible), mum said if I didn't come home I shouldn't bother coming home. So I didn't. Well, technically I did the next morning to pick up some clothes in plastic bags, but I didn't live at home again for any considerable period of time ever again.
I moved onto a mattress on the floor in Yolanda's living room and life was so fucking good. It was the pub every evening after work, it was hanging out with my friends, it was no rules, it was sharing $2 bundles of newspaper wrapped hot chips for dinner.
Sometime during that first month or two we were taking a walk one night when we noticed a big terrace on Palmer Street with a For Rent sign. We thought it would be cool to get such a big place and fill it with our best friends. Somehow we managed to rent it (the concept seems so ridiculous today, when you virtually need a reference from the Prime Minister and a gazillion dollars to rent a studio flat). They rented a six bedroom terrace house 5 minutes walk from the city to a couple of barely employed teenage girls. Shit!
Yolanda lived there with her boyfriend (whose name escapes me, but I can picture him quite clearly). I shared a room with a girl called Natalie who was Brinley's girlfriend. At that point we lost all control and the other residents seemed to be a constantly shifting group of skinhead friends and friends of friends. You just never knew who would be at home when you got there from work every afternoon. One afternoon we arrived to find the living filled with a couple of the "regular" boys and the prostitutes from the brothel next door. In our weird "feminist" way we were not impressed.
An important part of that time was "Evil" Jeff. A skinhead with a monster reputation but a guy we loved and tried to take care of, despite, or maybe because of, his frailities. Namely heroin. The night he OD'd in the big front bedroom will always be etched in my memory. Being woken up by the commotion, stumbling into the room to find him cold and blue on the floor, standing aside as the ambulance people rushed in. They gave him an injection and he sat straight up and lit a cigarette, swearing at the people who had just given him back his life.
I remember preparing him for his regular court visits by putting foundation on his heavily tattooed face and neck; making him appear a total freak rather than just a very scary mofo. To the world he was frightening and the sort of person you would cross the street to avoid, to us he was a pussycat and we loved him. I heard much later that he got killed by a train, undoubtedly in some sort of drug induced stupor. I didn't understand what his demons were at the time, I was a baby with no life experience, but looking back I wonder what it was that had made him into who he was when I knew him. Rest in peace, dear Jeff.
We used to drink at the Lismore Hotel, which was on the corner of Pitt Street and the little lane which runs between it and George Street, right in the middle of the city. It's long gone now. The Lismore was run by a little mean Greek guy called Nick. He hated us but we were generally his only customers so he couldn't chuck us out, underage or not.
A skinhead called Spike, who originally hailed from Canberra, lived in one of the Lismore's upstairs bedrooms. He was much older than us, late twenties or even thirty (or maybe he was 22 and we just thought he was "old" in the way teenagers do). He was obviously a damaged man, to be living alone in a pub and hanging out with young teenagers. I'm sure we made fun of him but tolerated him because he was sweet and gentle and bought us drinks.
I have so many swirling memories which are hard to pin down, isolate, get into clear focus. I am quite sure that I have many of them confused in terms of the time line and who was involved. I want to document things as they float up in the murky pool which is my memory because I am scared that this precious time in my life will simply fade away like a cloud in the breeze. Those people meant so much to me and yet I am finding that their names are getting harder (or impossible) to recall.
For example, there was a beautiful young skinhead boy who hung around with us for a time. He shared Yolanda's living room floor with me for a while when he was coming into the city to do summer school at the University of Sydney in preparation for his HSC. He was big and tall and my memory of him is that of a labrador puppy, all eager but shy affection. He may have had a crush on me but I was after the bigger fish and looked upon him like a little brother (though he was probably older than me).
His time with us ended so tragically it makes me ill now to think about it. There was a party at one of the big league skinhead's flats in Bondi. We went for a while but it wasn't for us. These were the heavy weights and they were mean and drunk and even we knew that we were in dangerous territory. Our friend (why can't I remember his name? he was so special to me!) turned up at the party late, after we had left, or maybe he had stayed after we left. Either way, as these things usually happen, he had taken a beer from somewhere he shouldn't have or there was a misunderstanding about the beer he was drinking. He was a babe in the woods and the wolves attacked. We heard later he had been beaten savagely. He had ended up at St Vincents in intensive care. His family wouldn't let us in to see him (who can blame them). If he survived (and for some reason my memory tells me he did) his parents whisked him off to the safety of their suburban home and we never saw him again.
When I look back I know it was only pure, stupid luck which enabled our survival. We were such stupid, innocent, arrogant little girls playing in a very dangerous big world totally out of our league and out of our control.
But fuck I never ever ever felt so alive as I did then.
Thursday, July 01, 2010
Beth I hear you calling
I learnt an interesting factoid the other day.
Beth was Kiss' first US Top 10 hit. It was actually the B-Side of Detroit Rock City (or was it Shout It Out Loud?). Either way it's not a song which yells "KISS" at you. It's a ballad, a love song, it's accoustic. It's a song I absolutely love.
Like its sister Hard Luck Woman it's a song written and sung by Peter Criss, the drummer, and for me both songs are fantastic. They both pull at my heartstrings (yes, there are some there, well buried) and make me wonder how a drugged out rocker like Peter Criss could come up with such incisive lyrics.
But really the surprise is that this little song struck more of a chord with US radio listeners in the late 1970s then the real Kiss songs, the big songs. For my money Detroit Rock City and Shout It Out Loud are what Kiss are all about; the big stadium anthems which I just love singing along to in the car.
Sorry to bother you with that weird little tidbit. Just thinking out loud (as oppossed to shouting, I guess).
Beth was Kiss' first US Top 10 hit. It was actually the B-Side of Detroit Rock City (or was it Shout It Out Loud?). Either way it's not a song which yells "KISS" at you. It's a ballad, a love song, it's accoustic. It's a song I absolutely love.
Like its sister Hard Luck Woman it's a song written and sung by Peter Criss, the drummer, and for me both songs are fantastic. They both pull at my heartstrings (yes, there are some there, well buried) and make me wonder how a drugged out rocker like Peter Criss could come up with such incisive lyrics.
But really the surprise is that this little song struck more of a chord with US radio listeners in the late 1970s then the real Kiss songs, the big songs. For my money Detroit Rock City and Shout It Out Loud are what Kiss are all about; the big stadium anthems which I just love singing along to in the car.
Sorry to bother you with that weird little tidbit. Just thinking out loud (as oppossed to shouting, I guess).
Monday, June 28, 2010
Fantasy overload
Came across this little gem while Googling photos of Anthony.
This would be circa 1989 or thereabouts.
A beautiful photo and a moment which lives only in legend in my disturbed little mind (but here is photographic proof):
The gorgeous Ione Skye, filming Say Anything with John Cusack while living with Anthony.
Life (at least in my fantasy world) does not get any better than that. Fact.
Special Edition 5th Anniversary Post
Last Friday was the 5 year anniversary of this blog. Talk about making something out of nothing. This blog is almost like a third child to me. Sometimes the responsibility (or the idea of the responsibility) is a heavy psychological burden and other times I don't know how I'd get through life without it. It is a strange little creature, this cyber diary of mine.
Because I don't have anything interesting to write in honour of this significant anniversary I thought I'd take a moment to see what subject matters have taken up the majority of my thinking/writing time.
So here is the Top 10 (Top 17 actually, as some topics were statistically equal with others):
1) Life
2) Kids
2) Movies
3) Sydney Swans
4) Marianna
5) Big Brother
6) Parenthood
6) Politics
7) Music
7) Cooking
8) The Climate Change Fiasco
9) Food
9) Holidays
10) Family
10) Books
10) Anthony Kiedis
[Yo, AK! Looking so much like your old man Blackie these days, my lovely man!]
I couldn't have said it better myself. This blog has organically become what I couldn't have ever envisaged it being, or maybe exactly what I had hoped it would be. A reflection of me.
Hip hip hooray!
Because I don't have anything interesting to write in honour of this significant anniversary I thought I'd take a moment to see what subject matters have taken up the majority of my thinking/writing time.
So here is the Top 10 (Top 17 actually, as some topics were statistically equal with others):
1) Life
2) Kids
2) Movies
3) Sydney Swans
4) Marianna
5) Big Brother
6) Parenthood
6) Politics
7) Music
7) Cooking
8) The Climate Change Fiasco
9) Food
9) Holidays
10) Family
10) Books
10) Anthony Kiedis
[Yo, AK! Looking so much like your old man Blackie these days, my lovely man!]
I couldn't have said it better myself. This blog has organically become what I couldn't have ever envisaged it being, or maybe exactly what I had hoped it would be. A reflection of me.
Hip hip hooray!
The Beginning of the End
When I think back to the moment when I went from being a sweet, goody-two-shoes, library monitor child to a blue haired, penis-shaped-earring wearing, running-away-from-home, moving in with a household of skinheads at 15, teenage nightmare, I think I can trace it back to a day in 1980 at the old Bondi Junction Cinema when I saw the movie Foxes. It starred Jodie Foster but for me the big star was Cherie Currie. She played the tragic, bad girl Annie and she changed my life.
For me seeing that movie and falling in girl love with Annie/Cherie Currie was the first step on the road to teenage rebellion. I hadn't thought of that movie and that moment and that time in my life for a very long time. It is funny how such an important moment (and believe me, I knew it was an important moment the minute I came out of that cinema, feeling punch drunk and knowing at a certain level that nothing would ever be the same again) became a blind spot in my memory.
What brought it back into close perspective recently was getting an email from Popcorn Taxi about the upcoming movie The Runaways. I had seen bits in the entertainment media about this movie but hadn't registered much except that it starred that blank faced Kristen Stewart (who seems to have all the personality of a damp kitchen sponge, from what I have seen of her on the teev). I almost deleted the email outright (though Popcorn Taxi have delivered tasty treats in the past, lately there hasn't been much to interest me) but seeing the name Cherie Currie triggered something. An actual lightbulb moment!
The event they were advertising was a preview screening of The Runaways with a live, via satellite, chat with Cherie Currie (actress and member of the actual Runaways). Seeing that name opened a floodgate of memories and I sat shaking at my desk, remembering so clearly coming out of that screening of Foxes 30 years ago and feeling the foundations of my life shift under my feet.
So on 7 July I'll be dragging my long suffering sister to this night of nostlagia, if that is even the right word for it. I don't know anything about the band The Runaways and I didn't know Cherie Currie was in it, so this will be something of a learning experience as well.
All I know right now is that I need to get my hands on a copy of Foxes. In equal parts I desperately want to see it again and I am terrified of seeing it again. I am so scared that actually seeing what is potentially (undoubtedly!) a very poor 80s teenage angst piece of schlock will shatter the exquisite feelings I remember from that time. Is it best to cling onto the memories or watch it again and re-examine it from a 42 year old perspective? What do you think?
For me seeing that movie and falling in girl love with Annie/Cherie Currie was the first step on the road to teenage rebellion. I hadn't thought of that movie and that moment and that time in my life for a very long time. It is funny how such an important moment (and believe me, I knew it was an important moment the minute I came out of that cinema, feeling punch drunk and knowing at a certain level that nothing would ever be the same again) became a blind spot in my memory.
What brought it back into close perspective recently was getting an email from Popcorn Taxi about the upcoming movie The Runaways. I had seen bits in the entertainment media about this movie but hadn't registered much except that it starred that blank faced Kristen Stewart (who seems to have all the personality of a damp kitchen sponge, from what I have seen of her on the teev). I almost deleted the email outright (though Popcorn Taxi have delivered tasty treats in the past, lately there hasn't been much to interest me) but seeing the name Cherie Currie triggered something. An actual lightbulb moment!
The event they were advertising was a preview screening of The Runaways with a live, via satellite, chat with Cherie Currie (actress and member of the actual Runaways). Seeing that name opened a floodgate of memories and I sat shaking at my desk, remembering so clearly coming out of that screening of Foxes 30 years ago and feeling the foundations of my life shift under my feet.
So on 7 July I'll be dragging my long suffering sister to this night of nostlagia, if that is even the right word for it. I don't know anything about the band The Runaways and I didn't know Cherie Currie was in it, so this will be something of a learning experience as well.
All I know right now is that I need to get my hands on a copy of Foxes. In equal parts I desperately want to see it again and I am terrified of seeing it again. I am so scared that actually seeing what is potentially (undoubtedly!) a very poor 80s teenage angst piece of schlock will shatter the exquisite feelings I remember from that time. Is it best to cling onto the memories or watch it again and re-examine it from a 42 year old perspective? What do you think?
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Travelling North (and South)
We've just returned from a pleasant long weekend in Melbourne visiting Big Jay's brother T and his wife A and their little fellow A.
We drove down, the first time in a long time, and it was good. Luckily Big Jay likes the long distance driving (whereas I DO NOT) which leaves me ample time to read on my Kindle. (I've just finished The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro and The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley, both of which will hopefully get an entry of their own sooner rather than later.)
Gundagai was our mid-way overnight stopover in both directions. Small towns make my skin crawl. I can do one night but the idea of living somewhere like that makes me feel ill. I've probably mentioned that I have a medical condition which means I have to live within a 15 minute drive of a Myer and/or a Westfield at all times. We passed a town which had a population of 150 - that's ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY PEOPLE. Our apartment block would have more than 150 people living in it. I can't imagine a whole town that small. It scares me that such places exist and, worse still, that some people want to live in them. Why?!
Anyway, enough about my mental health problems. Our visit in Melbourne was very nice. Low key and enjoyable. I got to spend time with my sister-in-law A who is a very classy lady. She epitomises what I consider good fashion sense and style. She always looks damned fabulous. She has the sort of petite figure which looks good in just about anything and she makes the most of it by wearing very stylish gear. She knows her brands and she knows how to put an outfit together. Every time I see her I know I'm going to get a little visual treat.
Nothing notable happened but here are a few picture momentos (I love the Hipstamatic app on my iPhone).
We drove down, the first time in a long time, and it was good. Luckily Big Jay likes the long distance driving (whereas I DO NOT) which leaves me ample time to read on my Kindle. (I've just finished The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro and The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley, both of which will hopefully get an entry of their own sooner rather than later.)
Gundagai was our mid-way overnight stopover in both directions. Small towns make my skin crawl. I can do one night but the idea of living somewhere like that makes me feel ill. I've probably mentioned that I have a medical condition which means I have to live within a 15 minute drive of a Myer and/or a Westfield at all times. We passed a town which had a population of 150 - that's ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY PEOPLE. Our apartment block would have more than 150 people living in it. I can't imagine a whole town that small. It scares me that such places exist and, worse still, that some people want to live in them. Why?!
Anyway, enough about my mental health problems. Our visit in Melbourne was very nice. Low key and enjoyable. I got to spend time with my sister-in-law A who is a very classy lady. She epitomises what I consider good fashion sense and style. She always looks damned fabulous. She has the sort of petite figure which looks good in just about anything and she makes the most of it by wearing very stylish gear. She knows her brands and she knows how to put an outfit together. Every time I see her I know I'm going to get a little visual treat.
Nothing notable happened but here are a few picture momentos (I love the Hipstamatic app on my iPhone).
I want Meat
Last week I bought tickets for the upcoming Blondie and The Pretenders double bill at A Day on the Green. We saw Blondie a few years ago and she (and the band) still rocked in a very big way. I'm hoping Chrissie Hynde still has it too.
This is a concert I'm really looking forward to, most of all because we can take the kids (for free!). I love introducing them to "our" music. They have it on their iPods and taking them to a concert is an extra special thrill. They are still at an age when they enjoy music for what it is, without the "theirs" and "ours" attitude.
The next day I was listening to a radio special on Meatloaf's Bat Out Of Hell, a classic by any standard I would think (though I understand that there are those who think it's schlocky rubbish - bah humbug to you, I say).
Then it hit me: how amazing would it be to see Meatloaf performing the entire album at A Day on the Green. Pumping out those huge songs under a starry sky. I hope there's a promoter working on it right now...
On a hot summer night would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?
FUCK YEAH!
This is a concert I'm really looking forward to, most of all because we can take the kids (for free!). I love introducing them to "our" music. They have it on their iPods and taking them to a concert is an extra special thrill. They are still at an age when they enjoy music for what it is, without the "theirs" and "ours" attitude.
The next day I was listening to a radio special on Meatloaf's Bat Out Of Hell, a classic by any standard I would think (though I understand that there are those who think it's schlocky rubbish - bah humbug to you, I say).
Then it hit me: how amazing would it be to see Meatloaf performing the entire album at A Day on the Green. Pumping out those huge songs under a starry sky. I hope there's a promoter working on it right now...
On a hot summer night would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?
FUCK YEAH!
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Chip off the old block
We spent the weekend having a wonderful time at Camp Connection (a weekend away for adoptive families).
We had a funny moment on Saturday evening when the kids were playing Celebrity Heads. Will was one of the contestants and his celebrity to be guessed was "BATMAN". He asked a few relevant questions, like "Am I am man?" and "Am I on television?". Then, sensing he was getting an idea about who he was, he asked "Am I Dr Phil?".
Aaahhhh, makes a mother proud.
We had a funny moment on Saturday evening when the kids were playing Celebrity Heads. Will was one of the contestants and his celebrity to be guessed was "BATMAN". He asked a few relevant questions, like "Am I am man?" and "Am I on television?". Then, sensing he was getting an idea about who he was, he asked "Am I Dr Phil?".
Aaahhhh, makes a mother proud.
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