st. kilda today

is there something really different about whether you live north or south of the river?

i know the cooler young people live north of the river.

but i reckon the cool older people live south. in st. kilda.

i hate st. kilda on a weekend. and even a thursday night.

give me st. kilda on a wednesday morning about 10am, when the grand old dame is empty of tourists from other suburbs, and the dirty footpaths can be trod by me and my dog.

or on a school day, in the afternoon, about 5 o'clock when you can be coming back from the park, and be stopped by an old man on a door step in a back street. he is wearing a singlet and has skinny arms and legs, which poke out of baggy shorts.

hello, he says. what's your name, son?

small boy looks at me.

i smile and tell the old man.

you any good with that footy, son?

yep, you bet, he's good all right, i say.

you gunna play for any league when you're older?

small boy looks at me, then at the old man

collingwood, he says in a small voice.

argh, no! you need to play for geelong!

that's what i think, i say.

anyway son, you make sure you don't let anyone push you around, you have to learn to stand up for yourself.

the old man is emphatic about that.

we say goodbye and the small boy with me asks if i know the old man.

nope, i say. i just like to talk to people if they talk to me, especially old people.

small boy is confused, i can see that. after all the lessons of not talking to strangers etc. i can see his brain spinning.

you can't talk to people on your own, but when you're with me, you can.

he accepts this logic and sees that it is right.

and he was right, i say, that bit about standing up for yourself. it's something we've all got to learn.

* * *

but this morning, i am with white dog, not small boy. we skirt the grand prix mess [shakes fist and curses] and walk along canterbury road. then we cut in along the street with a hotel on one corner and a bike shop on the other; we walk down to the beach. then back along towards st. kilda to the place where the dogs can swim. year round, any time of day, off lead.

it is magical.

witness:

* * *

after the water we cut back up through catani gardens, the grass is so dry. the notice for the laughter club is in the bushes at the base of the rotunda. the meetings are every saturday at 10am.

we walk up fitzroy street. street cafe is behind us (best seafood pasta and great service) as is the spanish restaurant, can't remember the name, but enjoyed it years ago.

they are putting the tables out at di stasio. gigi makes a beeline for a man walking towards us and gets in front of him. i tell her to watch where she's going, and as i walk on, i feel the man thinks i have just shouted at him.

there's a man with hoodie on the nod on the steps of the prince of wales. the 711 does not have the annoying "street performer" out the front, who is frenetic and quite threatening when you walk past in the evening with an ice-cream and kids.

there is an old man with his pants too high, and another hooded junkie coming towards us. we are in the badlands, the bit in the middle where it's most interesting, where there's still a little bit of colour and grunge and you can have an ice cream at cold rock and there'll be an aboriginal family sitting there wanting to give your dog left-over pizza crusts, and you talk to the kids, and your kids talk to their kids, and they all pat the dog - the great leveller - and that this can happen in the city is to me great.

the george is shut. and the underneath pavement bar is advertising for staff. there is no witty blackboard out the front saying "drink more beer" or "beer is life" or anything like that. [note: this blackboard shtick has been copied all over; this place did it first, and it was the manager phil years ago who instigated it. i don't think he's still the manager.]

people at the st kilda grocery bar, always are, i don't like it too trendy even though i have to admit i have been there though not recently and i had an exchange with the very scary alannah hill, who suggested that her then-toddler son had taken a shining to my slightly older princess, yeah, they should totally get married, "older woman" giggle giggle, etc.

gigi stops for a drink at cafe banff, they always have water out the front. banff has gone down-market but in a good way and i reckon is the only place, the ONLY PLACE on fitzroy street which has cultivated a north-river atmosphere. almost. it is really cheap, good food, but the wine comes in tumblers. i'm trying to deal with this.

then there's d. chirico with those gorgeous salesgirls, kate is the cutest and the sweetest, she has red hair normally but she's dyed it a light-choc brown, and she also has the best dresses.

then up past the japanese restaurant, struggling now i suspect - it used to be packed 8 years ago when it was the new kid on the block; now there's always the same man sitting outside drinking wine.

the salon where they wax you; you can choose to either have a spunky turkish girl, deriye, or a man. i saw a man sitting at the counter this morning; he is chubby with funky specs and bald. when i had deriye working on me, oh too long ago now, must make an appointment ey? she said he's a great waxer, when i asked whether women booked a session with him. i just don't think i could go there, he's not a gynaecologist after all.

then we have the big three: a taglio, with the best pizza by the slice, and the best blue-swimmer crab with a bit of red chilli, garlic and thin spaghetti. then bar corvino which has come up in my estimation - used to be bad, bad, bad. i had a bad breakfast there once years ago, my girlfriend had mouldy orange cake one night after the movies and my mother always talks about the time we were in there, and they had possum on the menu. personally, i don't think possum on a menu is a bad thing, but she obviously does.

next to bar corvino there is bar roy. i don't like bar roy - it's cold and impersonal with plastic chairs and a big kind of cavernous space. but the biggest reason i don't like it is it used to be cleopatra's, where you could get ace lebanese food and the owners would all make a fuss over princess and give her free baklava, and she would run in to say hi to ozzie.

at the moment, however, you can go in and have a drink with two corvettes. or were they lambourghinis? i don't remember, i don't even know how to spell those cars.

then there is the new chinese restaurant, mah jong, with impressive decor and an even more impressive review in the age a couple of months ago which mentioned that the young owner was waiting on tables. i will go there one day but somehow it looks just a little too new at the moment.

and then soon we are home, where the gigi gets rinsed under the hose and parked out on the balcony to dry off.

and i eat rice with mushroom salad.

channelling elaine benes for a minute

remember that seinfeld episode when elaine thought that a cafe owner was only hiring large-breasted waitresses? and it turned out they were all his daughters.

well, has anyone else noticed that baker d.chirico only hires sales-girls who wear floral, 1940s dresses and who are all really quite pretty, with rabelaisian hair?

there's none of this:

i'm not saying it's a bad thing. just saying is all.

the black dog

was it ernest hemingway who talked of the black dog? it was his depression, and i wonder if he imagined it lying at his feet under that table in havana, or at the door of harry's bar in venice. sitting patiently, waiting while ern finished his cigar or pernod or toasted cheese sandwich.

i don't have a black dog. my thing is a monkey, that sits on my right shoulder, and incessantly chatters, and tugs at my hair. mischievous little shit.

how do i find a way to quieten the monkey?

my days, my waking hours, are filled with all the normal stuff that people have to do to get through their lives. there are things to do with food, washing clothes, tidying houses, vaccuuming floors, picking up papers, making sure there's only one green guide on the coffee table. changing bed linen, collecting mail, walking up and down stairs. supermarket. butcher. baker. candlestick maker.

then there's the doctor appointments, school assemblies, dentist, vet. there's the friends, lunch, dinner, text, phone, email. there's family, as above. but even more intense.

the kids, three of them with their own realities, their own egocentricities, their own special characters; flaws and delights.

all the relationships must be maintained. you can't just throw your hands up in the air and say "fuck it."

but against all this, or with all this, there is a multi-layered and many-machined grinding of activity that is my brain.

this is where the monkey comes in. he sits there on my shoulder, and feeds me the thoughts. he picks them up out of the air, pops then through my ear into my brain. and there they start spinning. so on top of all that other stuff you have to do, pay bills, have sex, watch quality television on dvd - oh my god hands up who has watched love my way? - so on top of all that, i have my brain going a million miles an hour, jumping across topics, flitting all over the place.

it's too much.

i've tried meditation. i've tried yoga. i've tried pounding at the gym.

i can't say none worked, but an hour at meditation is good. i can clear my mind and try to, really try to, keep things quiet and calm. but then i walk out and go head on into the rest of my life.

i have to find a way to make the monkey still.

does this sound like i'm going mad? really, i'm not going mad, i'm just waking up.

every day i am a little more awake.

the hangover hell that is ikea

what is worse than going to ikea on a sunday?

GOING TO IKEA ON A SUNDAY WITH A HANGOVER.

what is worse than going to ikea on a sunday with a hangover?

GOING THROUGH IKEA TWICE ON A SUNDAY WITH A HANGOVER.

i had to go back and get the fake peonie roses from the display vase - yep, lifted them out of the vase in the show room, grabbed the label/price thing too, then went all the way back through, lined up again with the million other people, and got them. 5 very pretty fake peonies for $20. usually the nice looking ones are almost $20 per stem, which is what has always put me off.

it was worth it, they look gorge.

hope you are all ok.

i'm never drinking again. what a stupid fucking night, i'm ashamed of myself.

and the oscar goes to...

 

















worst nose - owen wilson. you know it's true and he nose it's true too.

best gown - tilda swinton. i mean look at it. it's as beautiful and mysterious and silky dark as loch ness.

best speech - diablo cody. at the end, just going "gah" and having to run off. i notice that she seemed to ditch the spesh shoes that were organised for her, and gone for flats. good on her, you go girl, don't sell your soul to the hollywood man, etc.

funniest presenter - anne hathaway. she was better than steve carrell.

most delicious female - marion cotillard. nice frock too.

people who you know you would have a fantastic time in bed with - jonah hill and seth rogan. together even. it would just be too funny you wouldn't even get to the sex which would be just fine because you'd be laughing too much and that would be better really than even being there with pitt and clooney, say.

worst gown - jennifer hudson.

worst boobage - jennifer hudson.

best richard wilkins brush-off - nicole kidman.

most nervous - katherine heigl. come on, the first rule of being nervous in front of a crowd is NEVER ADMIT IT. i would have been more relaxed than her.

best lover of everyone, and smiler and emoter - laura linney. was she the only one they could get the camera on who was smiling for most of the event?

people i would have wanted to hang out with afterwards - daniel day-lewis, tilda swinton, marion cotillard and javier bardem. come on, admit it, you know it would be great.

GIDDY UP, AUSTRALIA. IT'S NATIONAL SORRY DAY

go kevin

sorry is the first step

to me, there's something epic about knowing that at the moment, and in days past, there has been a slow but steady trickle of indigenous people, travelling to canberra for tomorrow's sorry day. it's a moving thing, and a sad thing, that these people have to travel great distances, simply to hear an apology. but it's also breathtakingly evocative; indigenous people on the move in this beautiful country, wending their way towards what will hopefully be a moment that helps them heal, and makes them realise that there are a lot of people in australia who feel sorry and want reconciliation. a proper reconciliation.

some people deny there was a stolen generation, let alone generations. despite the intentions of the governments during the period of child removal (1910s to 1970s), and whether people were motivated out of kindness to remove children from abusive/neglectful family situations, the impacts on people's lives have been devastating at worst, and "affecting" at best. how can this be denied? even if it was considered in the best interests of these children, can people not realise that it can be said now, without falsity, "well, we got it wrong. we meant well, but we fucked up."

clearly there has been a whole range of experiences for those children taken away from their families. but for some, for many it seems, it remained a blight on the rest of their lives. it's not easy being indigenous in this country - it's unjust when experiences like this just add to the hardship.

and the hardship continues as we know. i'm thinking the sorry should cover past stuff, from invasion onwards, and to today, that somehow leaders in this country can't get it right when it comes to the inequity across many areas (all areas?) faced by the indigenous population of australia. but there seems to be hope. today we are waiting for the apology to be made, formally, tomorrow in canberra. who knows what might come next? perhaps some real policies which translate into real, sustained, beneficial action.

now. let's all be sorry tomorrow.

it's a sweet, sweet week for us left-wing, bleeding heart losers.

the only thing that would make it sweeter would be to see this on the front steps of parliament house:

but i guess, realistically, one dream is enough for the day.

robert manne's position

andrew bolt's position

restoring white havaianas

i'm being a lazy blogger but also trying to kick-start my other blogs - big tips and food musings.

i've posted the following on big tips but thought i'd get more suggestions here.

maybe not.

ok, so i know it was a mistake to buy white havvies. i know that now. but the fact is that the black ones i bought at the same time i bought the white ones, are long dead. and the brown ones i bought after the black ones died, broke yesterday. yes we were walking up fitzroy street from checking out the festival of st. kilda when the bit that goes between the toe snapped just outside that coolsie bar on the corner of fitz and canterbury rds. no, not the prince, and not the terminus and not the chemist [that's not a bar you fool] but the other one. while gigi was trying to get in the door past the rather slim bouncers, i kind of twisted my foot and snappo. so my brown thongs are now in the bin outside that bar.

so i had to walk barefoot home.

do you realise how dangerous this is in st kilda?

do you realised that within a 200 metre radius of the pig and whistle/elephant and wheelbarrow place there are a billion shards of broken glass?

anyway we got home without me slashing my feet.

and then i went and got my grotty, dirty, grubby, blackened "white" thongs out of the cupboard.

they are horrible.

but until i get my next pair [i'm going brown again. it's my fave colour] i would like to try and clean these ones.

yes, i've tried an old toothbrush with some sort of ajaxy powder.

any tips?

when the celebs come out and endorse american politicians

if you were an american presidential candidate, who would give you more endorsement credibility?

george or ric?

babs or jenna?

i was amused by a piece in the age yesterday, which detailed who the celebrities are rooting for in the current u.s. presidential nominee primaries.

check the list:

hillary clinton - barb streisand, steven spielberg, jack nicholson, carly simon, janet jackson, hugh hefner, magic johnson, jerry springer and jenna jameson.

pretty predictable apart from the pornographers. mildly interesting.

then for barack there is oprah, gorgeous george, will smith, halle berry, stevie wonder, robert de niro, forrest whittaker, kathleen turner, toni morrison, gene wilder, ethel kennedy and maria shriver.

also pretty predictable.

for john mc cain there is arnold schwarzenegger (married to maria shriver, oooh, potential republican vs democrat election-night tension there), sly stallone, tom selleck, rip torn, general norman schwarzkopf and screenwriter joe eszterhas (sliver, showgirls, basic instinct.) i can see a bit of a theme here, tough guy macho mixed with sexploitation-type b-grade movies.

and then there's that scary wife, featured today at rywhm.

for me, the most interesting candidate is mike huckabee. firstly there's that surname, which none of us can hear or read without imagining this:

then there is the fact that mike huckabee reminds me of gomer pyle:

no really, he does.

look again.

for mike huckabee there is chuck norris and his wife on youtube telling people to vote for huckabee, rocker ted nugent and pro wrestler ric "the nature boy" flair.

who looks like this:

and whose wiki file includes the following fascinating information:

Finishing and signature moves

Figure four leglock
Knife edge chop, usually with Flair shouting "Wooooooooo!"
Belly to back suplex
Chop block
Elbow drop to the knee
Inverted atomic drop
Running Knee drop
Shin breaker (Used normally to set up for the Figure Four)
Stalling double arm suplex
Standing Vertical Suplex
Step over toehold
Small package rollup

Signature illegal moves
Various roll-ups while holding tights or with his feet on the ropes
Eye poke
Low blow
Thumb to the eye
Testicular claw

Other signatures

Throwing an object down (such as his suit jacket or Mick Foley's autobiography, due to their rivalry) and subsequently dropping an elbow onto it.

The "Flair Flop", where after being pummeled (usually in the corner), he will confidently stride out and look to have regained his composure, only to flop flat on his face.

After being floored to the mat, holds his hands up whilst kneeling down submissively and begs his opponent not to strike him (often yelling "Nooo!" in the process); thus catching them off-guard, and usually then resulting in a low blow or a thumb to the eyes.

Being caught and thrown off the top turnbuckle whenever he tries a move from there.

Being thrown towards the turnbuckle, flipping over the top rope and landing on the apron, followed by one of two things: 1. Flair runs along the apron to the next available corner, climbs to the top rope where, almost always, he will be grabbed by his opponent and body slammed back into the ring; or 2. Flair runs along the apron towards the next corner, but is clotheslined (either by his opponent or an opposing partner in a tag match) before he gets to the corner.

Nicknames
"The Nature Boy" Ric Flair
Naitch (Short for "Nature Boy")
The Dirtiest Player in the Game
The Man
Limousine ridin', jet flying, kiss stealin', wheelin' dealing, son of a gun
Space Mountain
The Sixty-Minute Man

i rest my case. surely there can be no better candidate.

also, i was thinking if celebs were to come out of the woodwork here in australia and endorse political candidates, who would they be?

a few thoughts i had. for mark "bad boy" latham, hiding just off-stage where we didn't see them, might have been chopper read, mick gatto and joe korp?

for john howard, perhaps eddie mcguire, guy sebastian and darryl somers?

i don't know. any suggestions for current politico dudes?

my day yesterday

1. when you know it's not your car-space, don't park in it.

and then when i park behind you, to block you, so that you have to go to all the apartments in the block to find out whose car it is, and i am amiable about moving it, don't fucking tell me that i was inconsiderate to not leave a note telling you which door to knock on.

you were the inconsiderate one.

i was very considered, i knew exactly what i was doing, i knew that if you had to knock on all the doors, you might be less likely to do the same thing again.

don't be huffy with me, when you are in the wrong.

and don't think just because you are older, have a beard, are male and talk like a university lecturer that you can intimidate me. you have no idea who i am. mr.

2. brushing the gigi is like working a fairy-floss machine. i just don't know where it all comes from. if you live in melbourne, and somehow find a floating whisp of white fairy-floss-like ball, DO NOT EAT IT. it is from the gigi.

japan part 2

i came across some notes i'd made and shoved in one of my books from japan-times.

this is a list i made, early on during my stay. there are two sheets of paper, with a line drawn down the middle. on one side, the heading "strange or bad things" and on the other "positives".

note how i somehow equalled "strange" with "bad". i don't think i think like that any more. now i like the strange, i embrace the quirky, i seek out the odd.

i guess i've grown up.

strange or bad things:

• staring on trains, everywhere!
  rude to eat or drink in public
• slow walking
• banks, post offices, etc really slow, inefficient
• sniffing and hawking
• pissing on the street
• women let men sit down on trains. men don't give their seats to the elderly
• squat toilets
• women laugh and eat behind their hands
• no public affection
• fruit and vegies so expensive
• no birds (but they have crows)
• crazy drivers, no footpaths
• people don't give way on the street. Bump into people, don't say sorry.
• 180% squashing on trains
• no brown bread
• pins and needles from sitting on the floor too long
• cold showers
• hard pillows
• bikes ridden on pedestrian walk
• so inquisitive, want to know everything
• pollution
• over-packaging of food
• flowers expensive, $1 for a single stem (eg daisy)
• tasteless toothpaste
• newspapers expensive, ¥120-160 for flimsy 6-10 sheets
• $6-7 for a beer in bars
• long-staying gaijin turn Japanese
• Cosmopolitan mag costs $15
• no ovens
• Tokyo suicide line
• Japanese game shows
• 1 yen coins - nuisance
• no pepper in restaurants
• sewer smells on street
• only hair colour in shops is black
• separate slippers for balconies and toilets
• people sleeping on trains
• gloved train stuffers
• gloved taxi drivers with automatic doors and pristine white seat covers
• vending machines (condoms, beer, wine, cigarettes, batteries, porn movies, hamburgers, hot and cold drinks. Beer open until 11, 11.30, midnight.
• taped "I've been working on the railroad" soundtrack on the Hanshin train line
• short ironing boards
• tiny houses/flats
• kids go to school 6 days
• militant boys black school uniforms with brass buttons and inch-long haircuts
• girls' bucked teeth
• old men wearing pantyhose
• alcohol stench on trains
• cooking with gas only
• if moving into a new flat, you give 3-4 neighbours white towels and soaps
• take gifts if invited to a meal
• suit system: begin a new job with a company, start with blue suit. colour graded thereafter.
• men: affected speech where their intonation goes down saying "horrrrr" when responding to something amazing or interesting or unbelievable
• women: affected speech where their intonation goes up saying "mmmmm" like a plane taking off, in the same instances as above.
• family sleeping together eg. mother, father, 13-year-old daughter, all in one room.
• all the men have a little wallet/carry bag
• women carry one small shoulder bag and one large store paper bag with handles carried in crook of arm
• women have amazing skin - so youthful
• overstaffing in shops
• tiny shorts on boys - hight-cut and horrible
• taking shoes off everywhere
• pandering to children, especially boys
• 98% literacy but everybody reads comics on trains, even businessmen

positives:

• tissue packs handed out on streat
• trains efficient
• clean
• safe
• food
• cheap shoes
• cheap cigarettes
• companies pay for employees' transportation
• gomi system
• nice pastries
• cheap ice creams (nice)
• tap water okay
• cheap spirits
• food presentation in restaurants is superb
• bentos
• hot towels
• heated toilet seats
• mood lighting (3 phase, including candle light)
• sliced bread is so thick, the equivalent of 2 slices at home
• consumer society
• everyone well groomed and nicely dressed
• nice yoghurt
• specially marked arrows, circles and triangles on platforms at train stations. Depending on which train is arriving, you stand at a certain symbol to line up. Everybody follows the system.

interesting how most of my positive points are to do with food, drink and other vices. i love the appearance of "cheap shoes" at number 6 on the list. and free tissue packs at number 1.

japan's wonderful englishes*

* with apologies to our dearly departed friend, gianluca di milano.

i've worked out a way to blog about the trip without boring everyone, including myself, senseless.

i hope.

i will pick a photo from the holiday and use it as a springboard to get myself started.

and let's start with japan - osaka to be precise, and creap.





















"for relaxing coffee time your guest can enjoy its stylish design

stick creap will give you a splendid time"

creap is powdered cream that you put in your coffee, or tea. we saw this when we stayed at my japanese friend's parents' "retirement village" down near kobe. the place was called charming square, and let me tell you, no chance of even one bed sore in this place.

we stayed there a night in one of the guest apartments, it was very luxurious, and we visited the onsite onsen (japanese baths/hot springs) and the dining room, where the food was very kai-seki -traditional kyoto food, presented most beautifully.

in the onsen, i was surrounded by tiny naked old japanese women, one of whom was asking questions to me, through my friend mayumi. i hadn't bought a correct wash-cloth, and i was standing there with a tiny fabric skerrick of nothing, trying to remain as modest as possible while this cute little button of a 90-year-old was asking me about O-su-tu-ralia. you'd think my almost 3 years in japan in the early nineties would have sufficiently cultured-me-up enough to avoid the embarrassing gaijin gaffs that foreigners make in the land of the rising sun.

not so. it took about 3 hours of being in the country before i started feeling that old feeling again. big. awkward. clumsy.

we were there only 4 days or so. we packed in so much. we ate. we drank. we walked, oh god we walked. and we sweated in the humidity. we visited bearing gifts. we nodded. we bowed. princess told me she wouldn't "bow for anyone". then after a few hours of being in a land where everyone bows, she told me she was doing it without knowing, and couldn't stop herself. it's like that there.

we went crazy in a toy store and came home with a whole bunch each of tiny tiny miniature plastic things, like trays of sushi with miniscule chopsticks, all different types of food.














i even bought a plastic display case.

random diary excerpt from japan - friday 17-12-93

----------

Stayed in front of the heater all day, reading Shogun. The descriptions of the courtesans and their "practices" are fascinating. One quote re:

Always remember, that to think bad thoughts is really the easiest thing in the world. If you leave your mind to itself it will spiral you down into ever-increasing unhappiness. To think good thought, however, requires effort... So train your mind to dwell on sweet perfumes, the touch of this silk, the tender raindrops against the shoji, the curve of this flower arrangemenr, the tranquility of dawn. Then, at length, you won't have to make such a great effort, and you will be of value to yourself...*

I like the idea of being simple and aesthetically aware. Japanese are very aesthetically aware, eg. hanami, moon viewing, ikebana, kimono, rock gardens etc.

It feels like the most civilised country on earth; everything is very ordered and precise. But I find it soulless: I like passion and a touch of chaos, emotion and energy. Japan is not like that for me...

Tonight I met Takashi at NHK. We took a taxi to Shinsaibashi, to Hozenji Suji, a famous street of traditional inns and restaurants - narrow cobbled paths, lanterns. It was gorgeous. Our restaurant was a well-known place - we had a private room upstairs and ate mini nabes, fried oysters, sashimi, flounder, wild duck. The food was delicious. After, Mr Ogami had to go home as he's playing golf early tomorrow. Takashi and I went to Hozenji Temple and ate a special dessert - sweet bean soup with mochi - which is said to bring married couples happiness (if shared together). **

At the temple, we prayed*** and I got a fortune. Takashi translated. It was full of warnings. To be careful when travelling. To be careful not to desire something beyond my control. That if I or a friend is ill, it would be difficult to cure. That if I try to take care etc etc I'll be rewarded with limited happiness.

Great. So I tied this piece of paper to the rope to improve my fortune. Then we went and played Pachinko, 1,000 YEN bought maybe 40 or 50 balls. They all disappeared pretty quickly. I saw some people with trays of balls under their seats. The professional Pachinkas (as they're called.)

Hitoshi called today and asked me if I'd sing at his wedding. I firmly declined. He asked me to make a speech so I said I'd do that. But god only knows why - token whitey? - and it'll probably all be Japanese people, don't know how many will be there or anything. I'll have to learn some appropriate Japanese phrases.

I'm not allowed to put water down the sink or use the shower. Damn. Some pipe problem. Did I write about this oilier? Yeah, I did. God I'm boring. I really wonder if anyone would ever manage to read all their way through the entirety of all my scribblings. I'm sure they'd commit seppuku about 1/2 way through.





* lesson here - do not be dismissive of clavell.

** at that time I was not married to Takashi. I can't even remember who he was, but probably a student of mine from NHK. I remember Mr Ogami. I'm reading this and wondering whether Takashi had hopes of a romance with me? If so, I was completely unaware at the time.


*** this would have been me being polite and "culturally immersed".

when god people are so nasty, it's just so sad

why would this woman think that she can say this shit about a man who has just died?

WBC [Westboro Baptist Church] will picket this pervert’s funeral, in religious protest.

why would a god lady, a woman who follows jesus who said to be kind to others and don't judge and first stone and all that, say this?

God hates the sordid, tacky bucket of slime seasoned with vomit known as Brokeback Mountain – and He hates all persons having anything to whatsoever to do with it.

"tacky bucket of slime seasoned with vomit"

why would a god lover, who supposedly is meant to be a good and kind and loving person, say this?

Heath Ledger is now in Hell, and has begun serving his eternal sentence there.

why would anyone say that? why would anyone think that? what a sad mental case she is. i'm sorry this is so badly written. i am speechless. i am without speech. not because heath is dead, but because of this stupido woman opening her mouth and presuming to speak like this. i hope someone kills her.

PS check this: http://www.progressiveu.org/082634-shirley-phelps-roper-wow-have-you-heard-of-her

and this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b3PyoUPcobA

when i said i hope someone kills her, seems i'm not the only one.

holding pattern

remember the old test pattern i think it was on the abc because they didn't have enough money to "put more television" on?

well, just think of that happening here.

i'm all kinds of concerned with a myriad of things at the moment, and just don't seem to have time to satisfactorily contribute here.

what i am wondering about:

- wondering how to solve certain bedding issues in the secret life of them flat

- wondering how to get my beloved to see atonement with me on our date friday night

- wondering, indeed, where to go for dinner on our date night friday night. suggestions?

- wondering how hard it's going to be to get my beautiful, wonderful and entirely necessary cooking books out of storage.

- wondering who graham kennedy is on facebook.

- wondering where to store gigi's other bed that we are not using. see, more fucking bedding iss-ews.

- wondering how to approach blogging about the trip. to be honest, it seems old news now. i like to move on, man. but i've promised and i will work out a way.

- pondering the golden compass and the negative reviews etc, nay religious propoganda, that it has attracted. geeze you can't win. "offensive" religious pieces get damned, and then an atheist, yet spiritual and human, movie gets panned as well for being anti-christian. what's wrong with being anti-christian? really, it's not as if atheists want to kill christians and eat them. why can't atheists have a fair go?

- wondering if leo's spaghetti bar really has gone bad or whether it was just an off night on nye?

- wondering whether i should have a martini party and invite just 3 people because i only have 4 martini glasses out of storage. people could bring their own glass?

- wondering whether nicole's pregnancy will go all right. i really hope so. she's so vulnerable.

- wondering which series of books to get princess onto once she finishes the narnia chronicles. suggestions?

what i am reading:

- phillip roth's memoir of his father's illness, patrimony.

- the third in the golden compass series, can't remember what it's called.

- the age newspaper

i am off the trash mags. trying really hard.

what i am cooking:

- soba noodles in dipping sauce

- spaghetti bolognaise

- toast

- coffee

what i am waiting for:

- fegari seafood in hampton to re-open january 21st i think it is. i need, NEED, one of my spaghetti marinaras. with buckets of chardonnay.

- d. chirico bakery to re-open, ALSO january 21st. i need, NEED, some of their bread. but in the meantime i am making do with greg brown's rye and sunflower seeds 1kg bread. a very worthy replacement. may even out-do chiricos. i will do a bread-off when chirico re-opens. anyone care to join me?

- school to re-start. it's always an exciting time of the year. plus then i get my days to myself.

well, lookee here

we finally have internet connection after 3 weeks back. i've been through my emails, and my mind turns to all things internetty.

but really, i think i might just go and read in bed.

i promise to catch up on the trip, there is much to tell, my friends. and, yes, there are photos, 6,000 of them. for real.

i also promise a return to bad '80s journalling - it's an easy way of blogging but there is still so much fodder there.

as for us, in the here and now, we are back in groovy-town, in the good old secret life of them flat. it's nice to be back. i was just kidding myself i think when i said i liked living in the suburb named after a european car. here i can get the best bread, and coffee, and walk around the lake and see my pelicans and ducks, the gigi is spreading her love around the hood, i swear there were people lining up on acland street a couple of sundays ago to talk to me. about her. about my dog.

men check her out before they do me. or even instead of me.

heh, it's good to be back.

and there is the smell of hope in the air, things are different, a certain short-statured shit has left the office, has gone to the golf course, and things are happening, things that i had despaired of ever happening.

that feels good.

oh, and how are you?

in the manner of my bad '80s poesy (apols to john keats, robert browning and INC)

Ode to the Frescoes of Mike

OR Broken by the Vatican

[this is a manner of writing that i sometimes slip into when i want to write about something which was meaningful, but at the same time it shat me big time.]

The contempt with which they treat you
As you are Herded
Like so many fucking sheep
Bleating in ever increasing, rhythmic chants

Is this it! Is THIS it?

[The Sistine Chapel. Must get to the chapel.]

No, you are told. No, not yet.
As you pass through
More
And MORE
Rooms filled with "art"
Oh, the Vaticanus ART
Of Yore.

Most is Shite
Perchance by hand of minor
Fra Pandolf AKA Papal Wannabe.
We are fed through rooms
With Roman Numerals above
That count the huge numbers
Of spatial repositories for this
Fucking Bad Art.

Is this it! Is THIS it?

I'm dying.
Being killed by the Vatican.
Right her, and right now.
[How ironic, they presume to save souls.]

But finally, FINALLY
We five, weary solds (heh)
Burst into the room
After being tantalised,
Nay taunted,
By lesser hands
The prior paint a travesty
On the walls and ceilings
I'll admit, some fair tapestries,
Yea, I will nod to them.
And having taken
A vast number of digital images
On my photography machine

But none compared
To the Fair hand of
Michaelangelo.

The fingers almost touching
Just so.

A chapel full of paparazzi
ignoring the signs of "no photo"
I am swept with the fervour
With the "must take as many
photographs as possible, oh look
At that one, look at THAT!
It's coming right off the ceiling
Right at you, can you see it,
Like the Spiderman ride at
Universal Studios Japan.
How did he DO that?!"

Silenzio. There is none.
Cameras. There are many.

We leave, exhausted.
Husks of humans.
Drop into taxi.
Go to our flat
With the nice parquet floors
Drink quickly
And scoff potato chips
And cold left-over pesto pasta
From the bowl, like animals at the water hole.

Tomorrow - Calabria.




And for those who like:

Robert Browning, My Last Duchess.

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart---how shall I say?---too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace---all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men,---good! but thanked
Somehow---I know not how---as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech---(which I have not)---to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark"---and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
---E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

roma

city of water and transparent bra straps. the fountains are splashy on white stone sculptures. never have the kids seen so many penii. after conversations in topkapi palace about the harem eunuchs, where clokey goes silent and melbournegirl goes all - well, the men who lived in the harem were aunuchs which means their testicles were chopped off so that they would be safe to guard the sultan's wives and girlfriends - here in rome the little innocents quickly noted that all male nude statues are without penis.

they have their balls, though - princess elegantly comments. she's eleven now, she can say things like balls.

so then we joke about the statues in rome being like reverse eunuchs - you know, no penises but with balls. the kids get it immediately, and we all warble, feeling very witty. except clokes who is quiet.

but the water. the bottoms of the fountains are greenish, but not that kind of mossy green, it's a clear, pure light green. clean and cool. and you can find a tap and just fill you old empty water bottle right up to the rim, unless there is a pushy russian lady in a print top getting impatient next to you and tries to get her bottle under the stream and knock you out of place. you can splash your face and wash that oily orange-juice off that is stickying your hands.

in istanbul we were always buying water. but istanbul won the spunky lothario race hands down. and also the mucho bread on the table, replenished frequently, at every meal race as well.

princess is starting to get looked at. part of me feels proud and part of me wants to go running up to the man-boy-statue with arms flapping, screaming like some demented crone -

but she's only 11. just!

in a way it seems fitting. her blooming on this trip. as her mind opens to all the colour, sound and history, so should her body be ripening in syncopation.

but she still references goscinny and underzo as her major sources when talking roman history. and this is a good thing.

the bra straps - clear, plastic ones - i've seen three. usually with an off-the-shoulder top. i really don't see what's wrong with a charming black strap, or clean white one. plastic seems so tacky and uncomfortable.

the coffee bars are cool. you walk in, stand there and drink your fix. let's not beat around the bush people. you want a fucking coffee and you want it now.

planes, boats and jeeps

the sun shines brıghtly here ın kas, south turkıye. the ınternet cafe has a plethora of motorbıkes parked ınsıde and we have to drıve a jeep along the road from the vılla we are stayıng - penınsula, bouganvıllea, aqua waters - to the town. we laugh about beıng on turkey tıme - we're on turkey tıme now. we laugh about the dudes - a term prıncess has gotten us usıng. there ıs the car dude - the man who parks the car for us ın hıs lıttle lot behınd alı's carpet shop. he also runs a toılet paper and baby nappy bulk outlet. he dresses pretty gay and the other day he made puddıng for us and sent ıt home wıth alı on hıs moped.

we have taken over alı's vılla and he ıs stayıng ın the other apartment ın town wıth hıs workers. prıncess and ı are very comfortable ın hıs bedroom whıch perched at the top of the house has strange slopıng sectıons of ceılıng and an odd-shaped wındow whıch gıves us a vıew of the water - rıght down there ın front of us - a vast expanse of blueness wıth all manner of boats passıng.

we have aır condıtıonıng ın that room - ıt's hot here. we are eatıng olıves, eggs, red tomatoes that taste lıke tomatoes. melons, fıgs. and we are drınkıng beer as well as strıppıng the supermarket shelves of çankaya wıne. the prıce went up 3 tl per bottle yesterday. ı'm sure nothıng to do wıth our excessıve consumptıon.

today we caught up wıth more of the famıly prıncess and ı stayed wıth at theır home when she was 3, the last tıme we were here. the mother, scarved, grabbıng me and kıssıng me and me tellıng her maşallah on hearıng she has recovered well from her bypass surgery. my turkısh ıs rusty but my sıster and her husband are ımpressed and thıs makes me feel good. you know how easıly people are ımpressed when they can speak nowt.

prıncess' bırthday - we went out on a boat. we had a bbq and swam and snorkelled. looked at the craggy coastlınes as we motored past. towards the end of the day ı saw somethıng that flıpped out of the water.

dolphın?

turtle?

then the captaın told us there were turtles there. ımmedıately a party set off to look for ıt, and by huge chance ıt was found. old man turtle potterıng around down on the sea-floor. ıt was amazıng.

a bırthday cake wıth oh so wrong but oh so sweet chrıstmas-type holly decoratıons on ıt and some sparklers whıch burnt down and made a burnıng marshmallow smell on the ıcıng.

today ı drove the jeep for the fırst tıme. ı am not scared of much ın thıs world, thıngs do not bother me other than thoughts of mass and random annıhılatıng accıdents befallıng those ı love.

but thıs jeep.

alı saıd - people ın kas would kıll to drıve thıs jeep. he saıd thıs as we were all packed ın - 4 adults, 3 chıldren, no seatbelts, and no relıgıon the day he took us out to see hıs lands. fırst there was the vıllage house - a derelıct crumblıng beauty amongst almond trees wıth goats. we pounded almonds open wıth rocks, took photos of the old cardıgans hangıng on naıls ınsıde the house, studıed the old wooden doors. the second land was the mountaın land, wıth dream-house foundatıons sıttıng atop a hıll at the end of a very precıpıtous and gravelly prıvate road. alı took us to see 'where the horses wıll be' - a natural cırcle ınsıde trees and a ramblıng stony fence - where we looked at berrıes and made jokes about junıper berrıes and junıper bushes ın hılarıous monty python voıces.

land 3 was the forest land - a stretch along a road, wıth pretty trees and bushes, and where alı dıd not mentıon scorpıons or snakes under every rock, as he had at the mountaın land.

ın short, thıs trıp around the 3 lands took several hours and made everyone except 2 of the chıldren and alı extremely nervous. hıgh roads, steep drop offs, no raılıngs. then a noıse started under one of the wheels when we turned on curves, and a rattle started up. we returned back to the vılla wıth survıvor euphorıa, drank too much wıne, and sınce then ı have refused to 'make practıse' wıth the jeep. but soon our chauffeur' my bro-ın-law leaves, and ı wıll have to drıve ıt. so ı trıed today, wıth success, but ı wıll not go down the drıveway whıch wıll be our certaın death.

ı have to go now. prıncess needs to play a harry potter game and clearly none of the other 15 computers ın thıs place wıll let her.

bye for now dear people.

hope all well.

love mg xxx

this one goes out to the one[s] i love. this one goes out to the one[s] i'll [leave] behind

there is a woman running along the footpath. she is quite old, matronly and is not the type to be running. i am driving towards her, and look, scan quickly, to see what has caused her to run. she is running towards me, on the other side of the road to me.

i'll pull over and help her, i think. as soon as i see what it is that she is running to. or who.

she runs up to an elderly man who is standing on the nature strip, whippper snipper resting against his leg. she stands in front of him, plants her feet wide, and holds out her arms, wide too. then she clasps his face in her hands and kisses him in a most flamboyant manner.

this catches at my heart and i drive past, everything registered in a second. it makes me teary.

*

this is my 300th post on this blog. this is also the last post i do before we leave for our trip.

i've tried to do the following before. it was a yuletide yuyu, where i didn't actually list everyone cause i ran out of time on christmas eve, especially after making some dessert without a food processor and having to do everything by hand, in addition to erecting a full-size tramp-o-line.

i want to pay tribute to all the people who have caught at my heart, like the lady and man this morning around the corner, standing on the street. for i am sentimental about many bloggers who i have met over the last few years. some have come and gone, some are constants in my blogging life. i know people will understand me when i say it is special. and real. i'm not going to justify things regarding "in real life" and that blogging is somehow less than a real-life friendship.

people who feel it's real, know it's real. for real.

if i was more au-fait with songs and their titles, i would dedicate a song to the people who have touched me in some way through blogging.

songs aren't really my thing. i know what i like, but i can't remember them, and don't know who sang them, or what they're called. books are my thing, and food. and hospitality.

so what i'll do is have you over, give you a book, or cook you something, give you a drink. or maybe everything at once.

ladies and gentlemen, and small green frogs. it's been an honour.

alabama

for dear, sweet alabama, she of the gossamer words and fairy-wing imagery: we would find that meadow of sweet summer grass and run across it to then fall giggling under the gigantic spread of a huge shady oak. there would be little daisies in the grass and you would make a chain for your hair, and i would marvel at your youth and beauty.

then i would open the picnic basket. there would be real, linen napkins, and cupcakes with lavender icing, beautiful crystal goblets to drink home-made lemonade out of, and a posy of tea-roses that i'd cut in my garden for you to take home with you. strawberries and dainty sandwiches, light chocolate eclairs and finally cheese with grapes and sliced pears.

i would give you my copy of wuthering heights, with the pencil underlinings still in it from my year 12.

aleks

i've known aleks long-time. he's a vegetarian so i would cook him some beautiful eggplant no-meat moussaka. and give him a book of charlie brown comic strips. i'd tell him i'm lucy and he's charlie, but that he's loveable and a hero, and a far nicer character than lucy.

another outspoken female (AOF)
i'm hoping AOF would join me for a full-on repast of beautiful mushroom soup, not cream of, but in a gorgeous clear consomme, and not button mushrooms but wonderful, spindly little shitakke numbers. this would be followed by some sort of roast, like even a boar - and we could make like obelix and eat a whole haunch each. no, really, i'm not even sure if AOF is a big meat-eater - we are in we do chew our food together - but somehow, i just fancy she would like this. we would follow this with lovely espresso and some gorgeous handmade chocolates that look like you can't even eat them.

i'd also give AOF one of my favourite books - doris brett's eating the underworld. not sure why, it just feels right.

audrey apple
we would have a big icecream each, as many flavours as we wanted, and stand there, licking them, and laughing as drips coursed down towards our fingers. i'd tell audrey off for biting off the end of her cone, and then go and get her another serviette.

davyjonesoverlocker - ELAINE
elaine is a gun scrabble player. she beat me so soundly, that i'm not sure i'd ask her for a game when she came over for dinner. but i'd cook her something lovely - perhaps my very simple schnitter and mash with a salad. we would certainly drink something strong and i'd ask her about her cats, and her knitting and sewing ventures. i'd confess i'm hopeless with a needle, and i'd ask her about other bloggers but she would be discreet.

dxxxx

i would take d-stah to soul mama. and we could look at the ocean and talk about how much has happened since we were last at soulmama. this time, i would secretly hope that she would have a drink with me. but if not, we would have a coffee and i'd watch her open my present - a copy of an autobiography of jane fonda. just for fun.

fluffy

for fluffy i would make wonton soup using the wonton maker she so very kindly mailed me in the post, i have never forgotten this kindness. this is fluffy. she is so so kind.

groverjonesgroverjones is a sweetheart who pops in very occasionally with a supportive and understanding comment. i'm not sure what i'd feed him, but i think we would drink beer. i would ask him about his badnd history, and tell him about my brother's band history. i would tell him about my fantasy to be in a band, and though it's not a strong or serious one, i think it would be fun as hell.

perhaps we'd eat a whole bunch of marinated, baked chicken wings. with salad. and steamed rice.

oh, yes.

hell

for sherriff i would line up the following:

1. a laphroaig scotch (double) from the distillery in scotland's isle of islay, of which i am proud owner of exactly one square metre of dirt.

2. naguib mahfouz's cairo trilogy (Palace Walk, Palace of Desire, Sugar Street)

3. a plate of my spaghetti marinara

4. the water-method man, by john irving

5. a beer - ASAHI dry.

6. a yusuf ali translation of the quran.

then i would get all luke rheinhart on him and make him roll for his prize. and fate would take care of the rest.

i blogged myself (BEVIS)
for BEVIS i would make a birthday cake in the shape of robin, with green icing and everything, licorice eyes, and piped cream.

BEVIS is a long-time friend, and he is dear to me. we have been through the ins and outs of blogdom and he is constant, sensitive and a true gentleman.

i'm not craig

i'm not craig would be sat down at the dining table, given a glass of very fine red wine, either a peppery rochford cabernet blend, and a haunch of lamb cooked with rosemary infused oil.

INC would also be presented with a special-edition, hand-written- self-published release of my bad poetry.

INC is a good guy, and i really like him. he and i are also sharing the moving of house stresses that come with boxes, packing tape, and how to best organise the fucking inventory.

ladycrackerland

i was lucky enough to be invited to lc's hens night. for LC i would serve fine champagne, perhaps a chandon, and some delicate little hors-d'oeuvres. i would have made them myself from my quaint little retro book which tells how to make anchovy butter, and asparagus rolls. if LC didn't like these morsels of goodness, then i would rustle up a nice salade nicoise, and we'd just keep drinking champagne. she would have brought her wedding album, and i'd show her mine, and then we might go out dancing.

leeanne
leanne is someone who hasn't posted for years, but we had what i still think is the best exchange i've ever had on here, not discounting some early cotton interactions. she was passionate about poetry, i was stating that prose is the go. it was the only exchange we really ever had. but i still keep checking in on her because she has some mysterious link to gianluca di milano, a favourite and debonair gentleman blogger who has also seemed to disappear into the ether.

magical_mmagical_m has been around since the heady early days, when we used to all be friends and compulsively wrote long and heartfelt posts. where i know i used blogging as a crutch, as a panacea to the ills and excesses of my thesis-ing. i would have m_m around and feed her schnitters as well. maybe i'd have her the same day as elaine. hell, maybe i'd have you all around at the same time, and we would feast like gourmands in roman times, for hours, and all be talking at once. i'd ask m_m about fraser on neighbours, and i'd also ask her about her time on tv. and the ads. and the shows. and everything. we'd probably hold hands and jump up and down screaming when we first saw each other. then drink white wine too quickly, and get all over excited.

reasons you will hate me

like many other people, ms fits is where it all started for me. reading about a three-way in a ufo sucked me into this blogging game like nothing else could. i've already had fits describe her fantasy meal with me somewhere on her blog, i'm sure including a divine castello blue, during early q&a, and it finished with her leaving with benicio del toro (from memory) after we all three had a pash on my front door step.

i wouldn't give fits a book, but would hope secretly that she would bring one for me.
ms fits is one of the few bloggers i've met, and she was loverly. and yes, she does pat your arm.

rowena

the lovely miss ro ro is another lady blogger i've met. she and sublime and fluffy and tiny man (who is probably not so tiny any more) came to my place and we tried to have a garden partay with cakes and finger food and champagne. we talked about having a great gatsby party, with everyone suave and glamorous in white, playing croquet and eating cucumber sandwiches, and drinking far too many martinis. it never happened, but i know several people enjoyed the dreaming.

for rowena i would make that party happen. i would make sure the gigi was not present, so she couldn't rub up against rowena and muss her white halter-neck dress. again we would eat dainty something and sweet nothings, and drink champagne, or vodka, or both.

then i would buy rowena's friendship forever by giving her all my hardcore music picture books, like these:

steph

steph is someone who has always been gracious and forgiving. our first meeting, i got in a gang-up situation against her, running with the wolf pack over at fits's i think it was. there were smart-arse comments, but she had the grace to accept my apology and we have been ok ever since. while steph and i don't seem to have much in common, we do in ways that i don't think she knows. but for our night together, i would cook her a chop casserole, with creamy mashed potato, followed by vanilla ice-cream with homemade chocolate self-saucing pudding. we would drink hot milo, and not drink or smoke. we would have a hearty, wholesome fireside chat, toasting our toes like poly flinders. we would wear tracksuit pants with baggy knees, and shapeless jumpers, and possibly beanies. i don't know why, but we would. and she would be ok with it, just to please me. but during the evening she would relax, and feel really comfortable, warm and happy. she would regale me with her stories of mayhem and hilarity and i would marvel at her energy and spirit. she would make me feel old, but then i would probably make her feel young. and it would be all right.

sublime-ation

sub. dear sub. i have met sub too. lucky that i am. for sub i would have her around to play lola. i would get out all mum's sheet music and prepare to sit back and be amazed by her ability to play. just like that. she would say she's rusty and maybe try to get out of it, but i would be a bit pushy, and tell her whatever she plays would be lovely. i would feed her slow-cooked shanks in red wine, again with buttery mashed potato, and the most divine, perfectly-cooked green beans just for colour on the plate. but they would taste damn fine. we would drink red wine i guess. but before that we would have drunk white. or voddy martinis. oooh hoo.

for sub i would give her a brand new copy of the australian government style guide. and also maybe an american one too, and british just for comparison's sake. i know she would be interested.

sugar belle

sugar is an old, dear friend. who really never took off. perhaps her time is yet to come. sugar could do with a bit of a detox meal - a healthy salad, no grits, and some herbal tea, no whisky. i would give her a jean-paul gaultier fashion book on corsets.

the krankiboy chronicles

i would only invite kranki as a way of trying to get his friend the wizard over for a meal. sorry kranki, but you know it's true. i would serve the wizard whatever he wanted, and give him whichever book he so desired out of my collection.

for such is the power of the wizard.

i miss the wizard.

the news and musics from italia

i miss gianluca di milano. he hasn't been around for such a long time. i like to fantasise that this person is actually sasha baron cohen, which would explain his absence recently (success of borat, impregnating wife, etc).

i'd cook him a slap-up bbq. i wouldn't dare try to make anything italiano - he seems like a real mama's boy to me, and might be quite critical of my brodo and pasta. of course we would drinks much and get drunks together so he could flirt with me in real life and ask me, again, to marry him. and i would have to rebuff him, again. but it would all be fun. and clokes would be standing at the bbq, being a little sullen.

tired but generally willing - CHAI

chai is a sweetheart. i would cook him my famous chicken-ball soup. i think he would like it. i'm not sure if chai drinks but we could have some tea. we would gossip alot actually, and we would chat about having daughters, and all that stuff. i would also like to play a real-life game of scrabble with him.

dedicated to i'm not craig, as per an earlier request

INC, luckily for you i have found a helpful little notebook in which i wrote all my bad poetry. so you don't need to wait until the late '80s in my currently crawling-like-a-snail retro look through my diaries.

The titles are exactly what I have written in the notebook. I have had a sense of humour forever.


BAD POEM # 1

You threw me a glance,
And then another.
Soon the rooms were spinning -
Looks and eye-space colliding.
Yet tentative moods would
Encroach, time always
Dying too soon.
Not enough. Never enough.
Fluttering fantasies flying in
My mind. Warm thoughts and
Groin girding notions.
Fabulous fancies of
You and I.
Splendid loving and cautious* caresses.


* Not sure why I used this word here. Perhaps I meant tentative?


But this one following is the one you really wanted. It is truly Bad Poetry.


BAD POEM # 2

Viking-Man, who are you?
Are you a child, fleece for hair?
Forget-me-not eyes and
Huge, Huge feet.
A look slides onto your face.
Pensive eyes, chin in hand,
You look into eternity
Seeking answers for a question
You do not ask.
Go on, I dare you to ask
That question that baroomps* your
Brain.
Look my way, seriously now.
Fully consider me.
Roll me around your tongue.
Chew on me
(Don't spit me out!)
Suck my juice**
Breathe my perfume
Then take the plunge.
Go on. Swallow me.
For I have you.


----------------------

* Baroomps???

** !?!

Sorry people. But it is funny.

Even funnier is that this man is now known to quite a few in the RRR and music community. Including a couple of bloggerettes.

so there you are, INC. i believe you owe me One Bad Poem.

things that happened to me a couple of fridays ago when i did some relief teaching

1. i had to wear a headscarf. i chose to wear it in the most islamic manner possible. for am i not so pious?

2. i had to call in a man for reinforcements, and have two of my grade 3 boys removed. yes, he had a beard and no, he didn't look at me. no wonder, the scarf, the scarf. they work, dear friends. they stop the men from acting upon their baser desires. heck, they stop men from even having baser desires. they probably strike them impotent with one peripheral glance.

did i just write heck?

it's the shadow of the scarf. i can't even swear while i'm writing this post.

3. when they were doing prayers before lunch (it was friday), some boys were headlocking each other and i flapped at them shrieking have some respect for your religion! and had to break up the rumble physically.

4. no one talked to me in the staff room. or should that be scarfroom. they could see right through me. for am i not an infidel?

5. when i arrived and signed in at the office, i said to the women there:

i might need some help with my scarf

she turned around and inspected me. i tried to look pathetic. it wasn't hard.

no, yours is perfect. I'M having a bad scarf day.

[mutual laughter]

6. i went into the ladies bathroom about 6 times to check my scarf. almost every time the knot had slipped around up somewhere near my ear.

7. i look really, really ugly in a scarf.

8. the kids were looking at the photo id i was wearing around my neck.

miss, miss, who's this?

it's me.

silence.

that's me without glasses and not wearing a scarf.

silence and incomprehensible looks.

god knows what they were thinking.

9. the only time, the only time, i had a semblance of control over the class was when i read them the rabbits, by john marsden, ILLUSTRATED BY SHAUN TAN. they got it too.


10. taking the kids out for some sport, i lost half of them between the classroom and the basketball court. they didn't turn up for 15 minutes.

11. i couldn't hear properly cause of the scarf. this was not good.

12. while they were mostly shits with no discipline and absolutely no sense of behaving properly in the classroom, they were also just little kids who struggle to learn in a really disrupted environment, and lots were somalis and i figured maybe they had experienced stuff that made school, and sitting on the mat doing tables, a fairly hard thing to do.