All About My Mommy

My Mother is number three in a line of four extremely bodacious girls born to a boisterous publican dame and an ornery Native American stud, who slicked an unconscionable amount of pomade through his quiff, before disappearing into the wilds for days at a time.

Childhood was grim and dysfunctional, but laughably so, the sisters say, who nowadays nip out to the local Indian reservation for a spot of conservative gambling and a prime rib dinner at the buffet.

My Mother liked the Big Bopper best and her spastic dances with her sister Sally to Chantilly Lace are remembered wincingly.

After a year on the wharf as a young adult, my Mother came to love the Oregon Coast and the harmonies of the ocean and the betwixing schlorne of neighbouring mermaids migrating from the Yucatan Peninsula. “Ecchi Wa-Quiche-Arumba.” She would answer in response to one of their obtuse queries.

Together with my father, a carpenter, obscure airplane enthusiast and later, club golfer, they produced three, fine upstanding citizens. I came last in the litter. My sister was eleven when I was born. My brother was eight. Basically I was a complete afterthought.

An addiction to clam chowder left my Mother strung out and feverish, hospitalised in a rehabilitation centre forcing my sister to raise me through my stark infancy (I later learned my mother simply worked nights).

Happy Birthday to the woman in my life that has been, next to my sister, deeply fond of me the longest. Mom.

Sometimes I would accompany my Mother to the neighbours for ceramics night. Me, a 7 year-old boy, in a room full of suburban housewives. I was in seventh heaven. We made Christmas decorations. Two charming pieces, a glittering snowman and a raccoon, have become a bone of contention between my Mother and I as to who the true artist is, to me the craftsmanship is obvious, eventually forcing me to move to Australia when she refused to admit that I was the responsible party.

The neat thing about my mother is that she is considerably older than me but she actually looks a few years younger (I am sure Paul Auster would have a field day with this one).

So yeah, Happy Birthday Mommy (from eight days ago). I am a piece of shit. Mom, I love you. . I can’t sing it strong enough. The Pavement Wowee Zowee re-release should be arriving in your mailbox shortly. Fight this Generation… Fight this Generation… Sing it Mom: Fight this Generation! Who loves ya baby

Ballbreaker (or Kid Rock ain't got nothing on me)

Gazing into the mirror earlier I couldn’t help but notice how well my follicles were in order. Upon closer inspection however, I spotted a moist beige swathe, the consistency of mudmask, glazing my fringe. I sniffed the substance that was now present on my fingers. I was relieved to discover that the substance was odourless and according to my way of thinking eliminated the possibility of birdshit in my hair. Chances are it was the hummus that I had for lunch, but I still don’t know for sure, nor do I know how it got there, but I am yet to wash my hair or inform De Campo, so it’s of little concern to me now.

The Evelyn, normally a place of rancid comings and goings was strangely beautiful on Friday night. During the Ramps ripping set, I drifted off into a reverie of which there were many cinnamon rolls, golden chariots and bluebirds. I returned to the present right as Joe leaped off the stage like ‘The Superfly’ to take me out. Later I lost my balance on the dance floor and lay there writhing in a puddle of my own effluvium.

The after party back here was extraordinarily debauched. It was like Studio 54 all over again. Toby and Suze had just returned from the UK. They were straight hitched and we were missing them loads and feeling super hot and we celebrated like heck. They partook in the journey to the end of the night and so on and so forth. We played basketball at 9.30am. Then we got hot and consequently got thirsty. Armed with supplies back at the gaffe, the cork was popped in doors on accident. It was that kind of morning.

I played vinyl like it was no tomorrow and truly there wasn’t. Kirsty and Fiona paid us an awesomely fun visit and we swooned in the sun. Fiona I called at 10am urging her to come over and drink champers with us. She said she would love to, but she shouldn't - she's pregnant. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. What news! Well it turns out it was Olivia's sister who happens to have the same name and who's number is listed right below the other Fiona on the same sheet next to the telephone.

Sobriety has been very rewarding ever since, even more so than Little Miss Sunshine, which we saw yesterday. It was OK.

And forever the deer shall run

As a boy, I would often join my parents on excursions to the Oregon Coast. Since the only way to get there was over a mountain, we would sometimes see wildlife ducking into the pines from the window of our van. Once my mother thought she saw an injured deer in a distant field. Dad pulled over, we got out and walked to the edge of the field. There the deer lie on its back, its right leg mangled, a compound fracture exposing the anklebone somehow leaving the hoof just hanging there. Dad said on account of there being no flies the deer hadn’t been dead long. For years the cruel sight of the dangling hoof haunted me, but in 2004, my memory changed, the hoof healed better than before and the deer's splendid stride was fully restored thanks to the thousand beautiful tones and bionic hip-shattering rhythms emanating from Deerhoof’s The Runner Four, a CD capturing a band prophylactically penetrated by jazz and perverted by pop with a sweetly poised, profoundly absurd Japanese girl getting her quips stalked and mimicked by guitars spicier than Wasabi, Runners Four was like a Kinks’ allergy administered with an explosive dose of NOW heaven. A true force of nature, it remains the most mind-blowing guitar album I have heard this century.

Searing stuff

I believe I was the only person wearing shorts at the birthday party on Saturday. No disrespect, Frances. The beer garden at the Standard gets really crowded, especially on bright, sunny days. It was a bright, sunny day and I wore shorts so sue me.

Delightful to see people like James and Miranda, who I haven’t seen since Pookie T. I copped a feel of Miranda’s belly the current home of a happy lil’ person, who’s lease is up in like 10 days. The firmness of Miranda’s area is quite foreign to me and thumbing through my history of touch, perhaps it most closely resembles the rear cartilage of a wombat.

A peculiar game called I Spy was played and I am not even sure if it qualifies as a game — more like a gam or a ga. How it works is someone thinks of an object and your only hint is its first letter and the fact it is located within the visual vicinity. I was a naturally good player, quite gifted really. Gavin and Jane’s two young daughters, despite their extensive experience playing I Spy did not control the game nearly as much as everyone expected. There were regarded as early favourites but there was some disappointment when they did not live up to their expectations.

Polly and I had Flywheel t-shirts on, although I came wearing mine, it’s yellow; and hers’ she had in her bag, which she put on, a green one, in an attempt to show me up. A vote on what colour t-shirt was better went to me hands-down. I did not feel good about winning the vote so unanimously, but the truth hurts sometimes, just like love does, as the Nazareth song goes.

David and Annabel were dressed as Robert De Niro and JoBeth Williams in the Deer Hunter. Searing stuff.

Later that night, a contingent of painters, writers and rockers led by F to the J to the G came over and offered gardening advice and irreverent humour. Stephen had a premonition he had been in our house before with the guy from the Pansy Division. It left him in the grips of a very interesting séance that was intense viewing for all.

De Campo is effusive in the praise for the burgers I barbequed last night. I think she likes me. They tasted to me like someone else had made them that’s how good they were. I managed to fire the barbeque up, cook and round-up condiments in the time it takes to play Pavement’s Brighten the Corners in its entirety.

There was a quite gust out there so I put on a lightweight jacket; the sun was shining and while the burgers fried I read a story on Diane von Furstenberg, interesting at first and then growing impatient and skipping to read all the dish about her flings of legend. Would you believe Ryan O’ Neal, circa Love Story? Seriously who didn’t he do it too.

Leadhead

I lost the plot mid-way through when Henry’s head pops off (incidentally replaced by alien boy head, his kid, a strange creature his equally strange, yet normal-looking girlfriend gave birth to although that’s neither here nor there. Sitting next to Jesse James Shepherd at the time, the smooth operator in the vivid synth outfit Sir, who then said “good message for birth control” to which I giggled lightly), drops from a second-storey window, hits the street, retrieved by Mexican boy who smuggles head in his arms (much to the unspecific chagrin of a toothless weathered wino, gasping from a nearby bench) and after a brisk walk through a much deserted streetscape, delivered to a hairy hotel concierge who sneaks boy and said head into a dark, mechanical room where a Harry Dean Stanton-type, working on some ominous piece of machinery, takes head in hand and armed with hand drill begins putting hole in head, the contents of which gradually revealed in a slim, cylindrical object that is inserted into the sinister machine and turned on — once in motion machine shows assembly line of #2 pencils, a concept of which made absolutely no sense to me whatsoever. So I’m thinking head of lead, Lead Head, what’s the expression…I didn’t know. My brain had long departed the scene.

When the movie ended I explained how the scene lost me and Jesse exclaimed, “Eraserhead!”

Lost Highway

If you don’t go to The Tote tonight, you’re a poor excuse for a man, you are a non-entity. Sub-human scum.

I’m going to the David Lynch Retrospective at Cinemateque. Should be fun. They’re showing Eraserhead and Lost Highway. I saw the former many years ago at Cinema 21 in NW Portland. I went with this guy who once exuberantly declared I was the devil during a despicable teenage drunk. The movie was one of the last times we ever spoke to each other. Not that words were exchanged afterwards – our tongues were tied. He probably walked me to my car and said Goodbye Satan.

Lost Highway was a recent anniversary gift from someone who feels strongly enough about me to get me Lost Highway as a gift for our anniversary. I haven’t watched it yet, I actually got in trouble for not watching it the other night and I told her I have been saving myself until I am married. A little joke. Tonight I will be deflowered by a thirty foot tall Bill Pullman. I have been waiting for this moment for quite some time. Meanwhile she'll be at The Tote.

Today is hump day and it’s out of control. The dance card is chock full. Shooting at Unarmed Men are playing for five measly dollars. I think they make real head-banger music that belies their shorthair and bubbly personalities.

De Campo works downtown and therefore has interesting lunch experiences. About the most exotic detail I can think of is the bain-marie, which I have referenced to death (most recent: September 29) or the fact the sausage rolls have doubled in size at the Tramline Cafe. I get the worst service there. The guy in leather sandals calls me mate flagrantly and I am ready to say why don’t you cut your toenails. The sausage rolls are so hot that by the time I get them back to work and let them cool they are soggy as all get out and barely edible, so it’s not pleasant and I am $2.50 out of pocket. Meanwhile at the back of some laneway in the city de Campo’s drinking Thai lager and stuffing hot beef into her voluptuous gob!