Extraordinary Wrap-Up

Rode bikes out to Old Scotch Church and admired the scenery along the way.



My sis got married at this church in 1984, the same year the Minutemen released Double Nickels on a Dime. There’s some beautiful fur trappers buried there.































“What are those?” she asked pointing to a large patch of stuff.

“I don’t know...I ain’t a damn farmer."

We stayed at Asian Salad Guy's after the wild Flipper concert. De Campo took this shot the next morning as we wandered toward Hawthorn Street in SE Portland for a slice of whatnot.

Asian Salad Guy


















Steppenwolf performed at the Oregon State Fair and they were total crap I don’t need to tell you anymore. Interesting sidenote: my cousin’s niece who has a twin gets drum lessons from Steppenwolf’s now drummer, a talented guy who knows his way around a cowbell.

Still at the fair, I befriended several goats and kept stepping in their filth. I still had manure on my shoe when we got our stuff together the next day and loaded our things into the truck and headed for the beach.





No fronting, the burgers at my parent's local are wicked. De Campi has a Helvetia hat she picked up the last time she was here that is frayed from constant use. She went to buy another one, but they didn’t have any, so she bought the shirt which they did have instead. It fits her real nice as you can see in this photo I just took.

Hey ask her what the best burger in the world tastes like and she’ll say it tastes like a Helvetia one does. My Dad used to carpool with a guy who had eaten two of their jumbo burgers in one sitting. Ugh. Ugh, you say? Uh-huh.








The front cover of the Muddy Spurs' posthumous outing.

The last handful are pictures I'm too tired to name, other than to say they were taken in Portland around MusicFest NW, and in Idaho. All photos in this entry were taken by De Campo unless otherwise noted.

Grizzly Boy

Dude, so like, I woke up, totally dishevelled, squinting like hell, had a total meltdown when I realised the car was due back yesterday, so I shook De Campo, said get your things, baby, we gotta roll like a scene out of Badlands, hopped in the convertible blasted the soundsystem up to high heavens like Dick Dreyfuss in American Graffiti and proceeded to go like hell down the interstate as if racing furiously would alter the fact the car was 24 hours late, heading into the airport lot, saw a car turned upside down on the divider, continued on to the Hertz end where my brother and his wife were already awaiting us. "Hey I thought that was you back there," Dirk sniggered. I hugged the crap out of him and legged it into the office, told the dude at the counter my situation and he was like 'don't worry about it'. Next thing you know it's before lunch and I’m sucking down cans of Coors in the parking lot of a Motel 6 in Grants Pass, Oregon like they’re frigging Coca-Cola.

Jet boat cruise on the Rogue River that afternoon. The wildlife roll call:

4 bald eagles
6 river otters
1 deer
7 osprey (two of which had fish in their mouths, one of whom dived into the water before , prompting the river guide to chime: ‘you don’t see that everyday!’)



In Winston, Oregon the next day we came face to face with a hungry grizzly and the camera shook from the absolute danger/life-threatening nearness!



HOLY DOGSBREATH!

Ashland, Oregon

Ashland, Oregon, site of my dishevelled enrollment in the journalism program at Southern Oregon University from 1994-1997 was the next stop on our whirlwind tour.

Here I reunited with my old housemates Scott and Terry. Had arranged to meet Scott on the deck at the old Rogue Ale brewery. Figuring I'd recognise the guy even though it's been ten years I was strangely drawn to a guy in RayBan wayfarers with his hairdo superglued into devil horns. It was the longest few seconds I've experienced in my entire life. The guy I was fixated on may have even snapped his fingers a few times. Scott showed up subsequently, accompanied by his wife Lisa, who instantly reverted back to calling me Shaner in her own sweet way like I had never left at all.

They had a newborn baby with them and a Boxer. I met them both, the baby and the boxer, the boxer from the back of scott's truck parked under the bridge. The dog suffers from such an extensive underbite that it used to use its lower lip to fling food into the air until scott came to the conclusion that that was no way for a dog to live and designed a food pedestal for him (Scott's a carpenter).

Terry I've known for ages. We played basketball at Mt Hood Community College together from 1991-1993. After that he moved to Ashland and I moved home to my parents, disaffected and riddled with angst, before joining him there in the beginning of '94.

These days Terry lives comfortably in a suburb north of Ashland with his Mexican wife and the beautiful Guatamalen girl they recently adopted.

We partied until we were violently ill. The food of choice were Jalapeno pancakes and a slimier version of Oysters Rockefeller than the ones we had in Monterey. Food was washed down with local Rogue Ale's Nutbrown Nectar, several tall Snakebites and several rounds from a ridiculous sushi place that pumped death metal and specialised in mojitos.

Scott and Terry said my technique of combining a box of macaroni and cheese with a can of chili is now available in stores, I told them that that's great but the original idea came from a guy I went to high school with who had this amazing knack of combining those unexpected ingredients into a delicious late night snack.

Ashland is a really pretty city. I arrived there in '94 a total tragedy and left with some of the polish of the man that I am today.

The Redwoods

Exited Frisco spectacularly via the Golden Gate fuelled on French Toast and a Dead set live from the Oklahoma State Fair in ‘72. Nearly ran out of gas at the point where the wine country ends and the artichoke farms begin, managed to gas up at a remote outpost where I rather severely needed to use the toilet of which there was only one and happened to time it perfectly as the second I opened the door a whole throng of people were waiting. Almost left the seat up by mistake, until I saw that the person next in line was a woman, who happened to be of tremendous girth, and I quickly corrected myself and she cried ‘what a gent!’ which was kind. I then went out and traded places with De Campo who badly needed to go and she didn’t return for a very long time, I was quite concerned, turns out she was waiting for the lady to conclude her business, so when she came out De Campo was a little frightened and she hasn’t been the same since. Somehow I feel like I contributed to her state by putting the seat down like I‘m an accessory to the fact or something.




Didn’t get to our cabin in the Redwoods until after dark and the place was deserted save for a silhouette inside Cabin A craning for a better look at the latest arrivals. We drove down to check out our cabin, situated in a row of other equally cute ones. No note or indication of what to do whatsoever. We walked back up where we came and found the office. The sign on the door said SORRY. We tried the general store next to the highway. ‘After hours try Cabin A’ it said on the door . We got back in the car and drove to Cabin A. The room was lit by the blue light from a TV. A man with a porn moustache took his time getting to the door. “The key…is under the mat,” he drawled. I don’t think he had any pants on.



“Do you know where we can get something to eat at this time?” asked De Campo.

He mumbled about two restaurannts, both of which he couldn't, not for the life of him remember the name of, I figured he was on the grass. We ended up going to the place where the directions made the most sense to us, down the road a quarter of a mile, located opposite the world’s largest Paul Bunyan (lumberjack du jour) we even got a picture of the big feller the next day in case you didn't believe me.

San Francisco

Witnessed a car accident, poor Asian girl, she's fine, but upset with herself, the guy she hit was such a jerk, Indonesian food was great, after that we saw a band and they sucked!

No Manatees

Bypassed Clint’s Carmel for Steinbeck’s Monterey. Chagrined at the unappetizing bear claws inside the Otter Inn’s highly-touted, complimentary gift baskets.

About 9pm, strolled from arse end of Cannery Row to some harbourside restaurant with an open sign we could see flashing from the public toilets on the other side of the wharf. Shoveled Oysters Rockefeller and crab-stuffed prawns into our mouths, both items doused in decadent Hollandaise, while sea lions commenced their noisy nocturnal patrol of the pier, a good thirty of them shocking us with their outstanding bleats echoing across the bay.

Monterey Aquarium next day onlookers pressed up against the glass for the 10.30am otter feed. “You otter be there,” said a fanatic from Otterville, U.S.A. She was a strange, frightful lady reciting her town motto/mantra to a young boy who appeared bemused, annoyed and a little frightened. The otters themselves clowned around with a bucket of clams. Terribly cute.

Then we saw a bunch of other stuff. You name it, we probably saw it, but no Manatees.

The penguins waddled around to the sexy sounds of Paul Simon (a better musical fate the singer/songwriter could not have imagined). His tunes are a good match for these uncoordinated creatures who ready themselves for a dive so ineptly it’s like they’re always doing it for their first time. Deep down I don't believe the penguins appreciate the staff playing Paul Simon 24-7. Surely this is in breach of the 'They Call me Al' Animal Rights Act of 1987, or whenever that torturous number was written.

The Hearst Castle

The movie Big was on TV the next morning at the health resort we were staying at in San Luis Obispo and I watched that with the volume turned all the way up while De Campo took a hot tub in water with a high sulfur content that smelled like a dairy truck full of rotten eggs overturned on the patio. Took a shower during a preternaturally goofy Tom Hanks outburst, he was cackling and carrying on and such; a scene that drove De campo from the serenity of the foul-smelling hot tub into the room yelling at me why had I left the goddam TV on.

Resolved our differences and did a Pilates sesh surrounded by amazing Californian wilderness.

The sun created a sun-dappled effect along the the streets of San Luis Obispo alighting the quaint shopfronts. Ate a giant taco salad for breakfast under an equally giant moosehead, while feng shui sufferers everywhere weeped openly. Raided Leon's Book Shop for a few golden hardbacks on the way to the car. Car was amazingly unticketed despite us overstaying the parking meter by forty minutes. Nice town.

Drove hell for leather into the sun and nearly ran out of gas.

Hearst Castle was way sweet, but my respect for W.R., which couldn't have been lower prior to the excursion, diminished even further due to the grand obsequiousness of the Hearst propaganda machine. The tour guide said Mankiewicz wrote Citizen Kane in a fit of bitterness and rage for being thrown from the premises for being drunk and lacking the ability to hang with the sophisticates. I'm sure he was loaded, but to somehow present Hearst as more dignified and respectable than Mank was laughable and made me want to hurl.
photos by De Campo

Sunset Boulevard - HWY 1

Sunset Blvd on the way to pick up the rental car the next morning I am hit with a robust Mexican aroma I knew I would be unable to live without.



The place was called Cheebos and all their furniture was painted orange. Sat near an actress who was complaining about the quality of her scripts. A robust, cologne-dappled Mexican with a handsome face knew how to push her buttons. “She didn’t even comment on the dress you wore to the Oscars remember?”

Relocated to a bus stop. The sky was pink and blue through my sunglasses and the air smelled of exhaust fumes. After waiting an eternity for the bus, we hailed a cab to Hertz located next to Norms, a diner that I was certain was the one used in Mulholland Drive (it has a creepy laneway and everything) but alas, it wasn’t it.

Waited three hours for the car. Hertz guys needed a foot up the ass. Killed some time driving a replacement back to the hotel to get the bags and up Mulholland Drive for mythological interest. Back at Hertz and pretty bored listening to the guy we were dealing with tell us he was divorced. He said he liked living alone. “I know where everything is and it’s easy to keep clean.” The Hertz restroom was immaculate. He had left reminders on the paper towel dispenser for his employees to wash their hands before going back to work. He drew us a map of Australia by hand. We were genuinely impressed.

Tad nervous about driving U.S. roads (having drove once in eight years), but eventually took to HWY 1 with aplomb and pulled it off without a hitch. Must-be-seen-to-be-believed sea views of misty waves wrapping itself around every beautiful clifftop turn.

Destroyed after a hard day on the road, pulled into a dodgy diner in Guadalupe at nightfall and laid down five bucks for the best Mexican one could ever hope for. The waitress had gold teeth and cooked it up in front of us, while we knocked back Pacificos and listened to the 50s jukebox chime mariachi favourites of yesteryear.

Dire Wolf Skulls and Other Monstrosities

Agreeable flight. No hi-jacking hi-jinx thank goodness. No one tried to convert their miniature bottle of Crown Royal into a miniature molotov cocktail or open a bag of poisonous spiders on the flight crew. Kept alcohol consumption to a minimum. Saucy white chicken deeply undesirable. De Campo dozed while I read voraciously. From LAX to glamorous hotel on Hollywood Boulevard, awesome print of Mick Jagger, Lou Reed and David Bowie hanging above our bed. Adjourned to the pool where buff Sicilians and thonged bubble butt blondes with their mountainous breasts waded in the shallow end with cigarettes in their teeth spouting inanities. Threw down two Ruby Red Absolut and grapefruits observing this monstrous display.

Hailed a cab to The La Brea Tarpits, the stench of freshly laid LA freeway in full effect. Pit itself oddly created by earthquake fissures forcing tar to the surface and trapping many a dinosaur who were either too slow or too dumb to avoid it and many died. More wolf skulls here than anything else. Seems the dogs never learned, always going after the easy prey and never able to appreciate Mammoth meat sinking in the bastard stuff. They’re still recovering bones there, we had a look inside Pit 91 and this Indiana Jones-type held up the femur of a horse and we all cheered behind the glass like gorillas.

Caught the Dan Flavin exhibition next door - always delightful these unexpected visual treats.

What the greats say about this record

“Ball Power Forever!” — Stephen Malkmus

“Pretty Powerful Stuff” — Dirk Moritz

My Favourite T-Shirt

Just kidding.

Or am I?

Frances J Gibson Rocks So Well

She is the Greatest Diva. In Rock. Her Charisma. Is. Electrical.

The Cannanes first five songs last night encapsulated everything I’ve ever wanted from music ever since I heard Woolly Bully after school in second grade, only difference is I’m way more sophisticated these days. They rocked well and truly swell for half a set and then ended with a few numbers that were less fortunate to these ears.

And this, overheard between songs by headliner:
Guy with squinty eye in flak jacket and marvellous tie: “Apparently they made a mistake but I couldn’t hear it.”
Other Guy, feathered hair, Epson pin on his lapel: “Writing it.”

I’m reading Bret Easton Ellis’ Lunar Park, I started it last night after finishing Faulkner’s Sanctuary (“EWW” is all I can say about that one).

(NOW STOP READING IF YOU’RE SENSITIVE TO BESTIAL COERCION).

From page 23, whereby BEE has already reflected on his career book-by-book, its glamorous ascent to its grim (read: hilarious) descent into drugs and debauchery:

(PASSAGE DELETED DUE TO POTENTIAL OFFENSIVENESS)

Foreign Correspondent #1

Since H hasn’t posted here since the mid-80s, I’m posting his emails under the title Foreign Correspondent. I’ll do this until he starts complaining, I electrocute this blog, or move back to Portland. Anyway this is a nice 100 worder:

I am currently reading hands down the most bizarre epic of all time: Moby Dick. I didn't anticipate the first hundred pages being a homo-erotic love fest between the canibal Queequeg and Ishmael. I am about half way through it and can't put it down. It is a wierd intense little fucker that feels non-linear but yet the plot moves straight ahead. I picked it up on a whim as Elizah started reading Harry Potter. I figured Melville had to be the complete antithesis of Rowling. Forget Fyodor and Gogol, no one captures madness quite like Melville. I plan on reading his "Confidence Man" next.

Gentle Turtle Cavern

A black cat crossed my path Friday night. Not that I’m superstitious, but I do wonder sometimes. Saw some good bands, none of whom could hear themselves too well and since Flywheel were the quietest they sounded the best. Spontaneous slumber party took place afterwards, vaguely recall belting out Madonna’s Cherish, among other less memorable selections.

I woke up shattered, but glad to be in North Fitzroy. De Campee thought I had wetted myself, but I hadn't, what a greeting! Huevos at Julio’s with a Cambodia-bound Carla.

Biked into town, arduously, settled in at The Regent (classically handsome), saw a Finnish film that licked.

After the flick, bought some beer in Chinatown, teenage clerk with the disconcerting hands of an old woman (not that an old woman’s hands are disconcerting but they are if a teenager is attached to them). She gave me 60 dollars change for a fifty, a moral quandary ensued. Took it and bought De Campo dumplings with it.

Later that night I forgot to wipe oven cleaner off the roof and ruined the roast. Leaned against kitchen bench and pondered the point of it all. Nibbled on a bit of skin before I tossed it in the bin, keen to savour some flavour and immediately got a stomach ache afterwards. Convalesced on our new couch. Fell asleep watching bad movies. Had a dream I came into the possession of unpublished works by Henry Miller. ‘Gentle turtle cavern’ being the only phrase I can repeat here.

Saw the Hunter S Thompson doco last night. Excellent production with a picaresque gallery of riffraff, from the important (William Buckley, Nick Tosches, Bill Murray) to the self-important (Benicio Del Toro, John Cusack, Sean Penn) to the dear (Johnny Depp, Ralph Steadman).

Jerry Lewis is a total stud and other miscellaneous thoughts

Friday night the action didn’t stop. Aleks and the Ramps delivered one of the shows of the year and I held a shaker for part of it. The afterparty was a bit weird how everyone turned into reptiles and shellfish except Carla (oh my darling hot hot Steve) who was this haloed beacon of light.

I have been wanting to talk about Buster Keaton and Jerry Lewis all week after seeing a smashing double feature on Wednesday, but an inability to write a worthwhile word or two about either of these comedic geniuses had prevented me. Sometimes words don’t cut it. Keaton is a profoundly moving and inventive slapsticker/surrealist. I wonder how long it would last if we shared a flat together. My temperament would probably suit him, though I doubt he'd appreciate my fascination with his deadpan and the subsequent fixation for hours on end. I would fetch his waistcoat and maybe we could go see a Fatty Arbuckle movie together. You know he broke his neck taking a fall in Sherlock Jr? He is a very alluring apparition in this film. See it before you die. It’s absolutely wonderful. He’s a spectacular dreamer and an amazing deliverer of hair-raising stunts.

Second on the bill was Jerry Lewis' The Bellboy. Nowhere near as transcendent as Sherlock Jr. nevertheless it is, to borrow a phrase from my eloquent movie cohort, Jesse Jackson Shepherd ‘a brilliantly executed series of gags’. Jerry Lewis is a total stud.

In other news, chickpeas have secured a place in our weekday meal rotation. A type of salad De Campo makes with zucchini and couscous. I'm not just saying that because she's been unwell either, poor tootsie covered in hives, most recent break-out occuring Saturday night while watching Taxi Driver. She was like what’s happening to me and I was like listen honey a lot of people break out in hives while watching Taxi Driver. It's not that uncommon.

I then considered writing a thesis on Taxi Driver and Punch-Drunk Love: A Study of Great American Loners. It would be fairly excellent.

Shampoos of Glory (or Blades of Redken)

Trouble for friends of de campo who failed to acknowledge her new hairdo on Saturday night are destined to languish in the bottom tier of her thoughts for the better part of an eternity this week. Not a pretty place to be I can attest. A haircut inspired by Rumer Willis deserves more than that, but then that's just me. I'm the kind of guy who knows if someone has shampooed in the last 48 hours and whether they have conditioned or not. It’s a smart tool that I use only sparingly, which means not all the time.

At the Pony on Saturday night New Estate introduced a new song into their repertoire that reminded me of Moonlight Mile, only better. A new look Mid-State Orange brought a snap and a significant crackle to their pop. I was quite impressed with the results of that initiative. In other news, my buttock is well-mended and my left eye has stopped twitching.

Oh and I chortled my through the latest Will Ferrell masterpiece on Friday night. It's called Blades of Glory and it don't matter that the rest of the cast get bum lines, see it on the big-screen for Ferrell and the bawdy musical numbers, which are just superb.

Huh

Huh, what? Pardon? Excuse me? Can you repeat that? Come again. A bit louder. What was that? Once more. You’ll have to speak up, sonny, my eardrums are marinated in sonic deth.

I was at the Dinosaur Jr. concert last night. I SAID I WAS AT THE DINOSAUR JR. CONCERT LAST NIGHT. I SAID...

OZ News & World Report

I threw my back out reaching for a pickle.

To Hell with this Town!

Lunch was cancelled yesterday by AO, he was taking his daughter to the snow. I was fine with that mainly because I didn’t have the available funds (pay comes through tonight) and after a recent cardigan rampage I took some pride in abstaining.

Out of curiosity, I checked my statement this morning and lo and behold there was over a hundred and forty dollars in there! Jubilantly I emailed two colleagues CS and MN (they sit over the partition wall from me, still I chose to email them) and begged them to reconsider lunch even though AO would not be participating. I explained how excited I was to devour a Swan Hotel Chicken Parmagiana but MN had already made plans and CS merely wanted soup from next door.

The soup idea sounded good and I also figured I could buy my tram ticket and mail a postcard.

CS further convinced me to get a bagel, so the plan was to go down to the grocer for the bagel and up to the café for a cup of soup. On the way to the grocer we popped into the café to make sure the soup was a good one, it was, so we went and bought the bagels. I bought mine (.95 cents) and took out one-hundred bucks. The cashier was a bit annoyed and said we have an ATM and I was like I know but it charges me two bucks every time. She said I don’t have a hundred bucks I don’t think. Could you check? She did and she did. CS was next in line and she had picked up some garlic and herb cream cheese that she said I could have free of charge. So far so good.

With a hundred bucks in my pocket I said goodbye to CS and went into the post office to buy my monthly tram ticket and stamp so i could mail the postcard. The total came to $102.90. But I only had a $102.85. The transport shits had raised the prices again. I was totally furious. I bought the ticket and stormed back to the grocer to use the ATM, so I could afford to pay for a postcard and a cup of soup. I bought the stamp and paid the man the five cents extra and then I walked all the way back to work and it wasn’t until I was at my desk that I realised I had forgotten to buy the goddamn soup.

Rambling, Art Swoon

The first part of the weekend was a dalliance with high culture like no other. It wasn’t until Saturday about 4pm, over a plate of quesadillas and nachos at an overpriced restaurant in Fed Square (we had a voucher) that it started its descent into degeneracy. But my, what an opening! De Campo and I attended the Guggenheim show, but before I talk about how good that was how good were The Apartments on Friday night? Brilliant, brilliant set from these Brisbane classics, who never ever played Melbourne until now. I said hi to Peter Milton Walsh after the show and he shook my hand. He was more decent than I expected (doesn’t he come across a little cross in David Nichols’ Go-Betweens’ book? Thought so). I was lame enough to tell PM I didn’t listen to his records anymore, but still was curious what songs were played off what albums and he was courteous enough to tell me! It was a tedious exchange, but that’s my problem — Peter’s an absolute gentleman and I tell you those boys killed. The upshot is I played their albums on Saturday morning before we left to the gallery and they sounded superb. Flame rekindled.

I'll take you on a tour of the Guggenheim show and try not to give anything away. The Rothko was okay, should have stood alone, paled next to the Pollack (Green Silver) which for its diminutive size slayed even the Goliath De Kooning opposite. There was a big painting around the corner that was hot pink and pale butterscotch I liked that one a lot. Pure ecstasy, I said. Next to that was another big one that I found really threatening to my manhood. It was a jagged weird-angled v in blue and green on a white background. “Porn...Bad” I uttered, while De Campo dismissed it with a footy team jersey reference. A room full of optical art from the 70s provided some neat little tricks on the eye and some dead-cool minimalist stuff there as well with white fabric that would have made bitching prog-rock covers.

Dan Flavin’s flouro tubes (pictured) got my sensors dazzling in ways George Lucas can’t. Like a few things in this exhibition Flavin’s flouros were built to specification in Melbourne. The logistical undertaking for this show and the vast quantity of pieces (one work has 14,000 individual pieces) was outstanding.

Around the structure housing Flavin's stuff was Roy Lichtenstein's giant ode to industry, Preparedness, which reminded me of Fritz Lang’s metropolis or those Communist propaganda posters. De Campo said the blue in it reminded her of the colour she sees when she gets an acupuncture needle stuck in her forehead. The Rauschenberg next to Roy's complemented it in the sense of the worker theme but it's not as cool as I wanted my first experience with Rauschenberg to be. I expected Rauschenberg to provide something as sophisticated as his trademark sleek shirt and sweater combo, but this was far too gritty for that.

Gilbert and George, who are like the B-52s of the art world, had two magnificent works perfectly encapsulating the 80s better than anyone else there and they were up against stiff competition. Next to the Lichtenstein, G&G's ‘Waking’ was the biggest picture. Paul MCarthy's Fucked Up is a silicon black rubber sculpture of michael jackson and Bubbles that made me cry it was so sad, I was getting heavily emotional by this stage, but apparently it needs to be appreciated in an art history context because it was made as a reaction to a quite syrupy Jeff Koons MJ and pet chimp sculpture made of precious metal leaves and other fine substances. That one wasn't there. Perhaps I was mourning its absence who knows. Two Koons painting were in the post-POp or whatever you want to call it room next to McArthy and G&G. Much mirth, Koons’ sandwiches were hilariously scrumptious and delightful.

The idea of Rachel Whitebread to plaster cast the negative space of objects is a genius one and one that I appreciated once De campo explained to me what it was. This show features the gnarly cast of her staircase. Very impressive. I liked it. Moving on. De campo found Sarah Anne Johnson’s photography exhibit, juxtaposing models and miniatures on a tree planting excursion in the Canadian wilderness, most inspiring, for me it was a little too LL Bean catalogue. Matthew Barney's lavishly produced Cremaster Cycle is a waste of money, but a pretty good exercise in excess. So pretentious it's funny, but too tedious to bother and our buzz was depleting rapidly as a result.

There are so many wonderful and confronting surprises in the final stretch I hesitate to take you on this tour for fear of spoiling it. It starts slow with a few lesser Mapplethorpes (no bullwhips), then there's an eerie Cindy Sherman of a glamorous face half buried in the marsh surrounded by accessories from her purse including a hand mirror that’s open and showing a terrible, simply monstrous reflection. Needless to say I bought two postcards of works in this room and one by Gregory Crewdson is for H who takes the cake went it comes to sending me creepy postcards, you’re gonna get it you bastard!

Wilco, Sky Blue Sky

Unless your idea of fun is a Hootie and the Blowfish dress-up party, I strongly suggest flushing two Sky Blue Sky tracks ('I Hate it Here' and 'Walken') down the toilet. It’s rare for me to have such an astringent reaction to two numbers, but seriously these songs make me violently ill and threaten to disrupt what is otherwise a fine collection of pearls, ten in total, perhaps Wilco’s prettiest set to date.

Since bringing outlaw country to late-80s suburbia (via Uncle Tupelo, a Wilco pre-cursor), Wilco has mastered many styles rooted in Americana: country, rock, pop, light stuff, dark stuff, classic jams, futuristic jams, and so on. They started out simple, but by their last effort, 2004’s A Ghost is Born, they were turning feral and goddamn if it wasn’t totally exciting. Sky Blue Sky is a stark contrast; its antithesis. They sound tamed and sober. They’ve gone from loud back to quiet, serving up a downbeat sound well-suited to bar closing time. Nice and smooth 70’s soft rock with the occasional dippy lyric. “You feel like singing a song you want other people to sing along/ then just sing what you feel and don’t let anyone say it’s wrong,” sings Tweedy, soporifically summing up the modus operandi. There’s only been a handful of Wilco lyrics that have meant something to me beyond the song and it was mainly stuff off Being There — a good manual for being back in your old neighbourhood and taking up smoking. Subsequent Jeff Tweedy-penned numbers I could appreciate for their cool imagery, but mostly I liked Jeff’s flow (the band has always been good). But when the lyrics lose their ambiguity, you start to notice it, and when it becomes too obvious, or lame (e.g. 'Hate it Here' and 'Walken'), you feel like you’ve been sodomised by one of the Blowfish at a backyard barbecue over a round of Rolling Rock.

The rest of Sky Blue Sky may require a few dates before she loosens up. Guitarist Nels Cline, expected to break all kinds of masturbation records here, shows admirable Tantric restraint. His guitar playing is wonderful and the anonymous sidemen apply pleasant piano, organ and lap steel effects to the cosy surrounds. Cut the crap and it’s a pretty sweet album. Sky Blue Sky has its moment, and it's mostly a mellow one, but a moment it is nevertheless and what else do we have these days, but moments.

The Flywheel of Dads

What I got up to yesterday was kind of interesting. Though it began with a very uninteresting (yet significant) headache. Reporting ahead of schedule to a three o’ clock meeting at an Elwood cafe with a minor celebrity, I quickly scarfed down a vodka tonic to relieve swelling. She meanwhile turned up totally frazzled. We did the interview but she kept worrying about the mobile phone she had just lost on the beach (it was her only way of contacting a former Australian Idol contestant and apparently she needed to be in contact with this person constantly). Also her dog was outside tied to a pole and she kept fearing it would be kidnapped. Nevertheless she provided good value, was terribly cooperative and hardly the brassy tyrant I expected.

Italian restaurants with classic European post-war style are enjoyable eateries. I ordered four plates of fresh seafood for a satisfied party of twelve. My boss said one more plate would have been nice. Did you not have a tiger prawn? I asked. “No, he replied stoically. "I didn’t.”

We quaffed from a 2005 Cabernet Merlot called Annie’s Lane. It was good. I keep wanting to call it Annie’s Lennox (the actual winery might be called Lennox Farm, or I could be imaging the whole thing, I don’t know), seriously buy it if you can find it under $15. I pounded a long black, hailed a cab and caught Flywheel into their second song at The Tote. They have a new drummer now and his name is Greg. Greg has great taste in timepieces and his cool is boundless. The bassist’s wife was sweating his wool jacket hard after the show. He was feeling the love and I was giving it too. Flywheel seriously rocked like Guided by Voices. The whole time I was thinking how great it is to be friends with these guys. They put on one of my favourite shows of the year. There were actually girls screaming.

My Dad got a hole in one today, my Mother tells me. He was inches from a second hole in one on the next hole too. I am so proud of that guy. He’s the Flywheel of Dads.

All a bit creepy

Not a lot going on here, murder in the streets, bullets of rain, harsh winds, foul moods. Not that I mind the weather, in fact I like it, it’s murder I don’t like and the sounds of my colleagues rattling their spoons inside empty yogurt containers, scraping for an agreeable finish to their ridiculous health snack or the smug, smacking sounds they make with their faces afterwards. I am unable to appreciate my new casual knitwear under circumstances such as these.

Braindead, or not

The trouble with finishing a book after a rager is that the brain cells you need to comprehend what you’re reading, many of which are shaky at the best of times, either have died or are waiting at the station to be transferred to the junkyard of after-party detritus. But you persist because you like to read. The novel (I was attempting to read) was Nabokov’s Transparent Things.

It’s a fairly straightforward effort by him, but nevertheless, brain matter does help. What I can recall is that an uncoordinated publishing assistant under mysterious circumstances beds a glamorous, impulsive, frigid femme fatale, and even though she likes him only for his brilliant mind, she subjects him to a series of physical tests accompanied by two beefcake Nordic twins and before you know it the odd couple marry and flit between NY (where they live) and Switzerland, where he applies pressure on an enigmatic novelist named R to finish his damn opus.

Brain dead or not, every sentence is like devouring emphatically fine foody prose replete with marvelous expressions and hilarious adjectives. Just don’t ask me to explain the title because I’ll make something up about pencil shavings and atoms.

Party the night before was rightly bitchin. I was showered with “unexpected” attention and unexpected gifts (two bike bells, OZ mix CDs, tablecloth, countless other goodies), felt very overwhelmed, ate kangaroo shish kebabs, De Campo burned a hole in Catherine’s tights, Matt made a bloody great Pavlova, I fumbled my way through an impromptu speech and tossed vegetables in the air, the shattered capsicum of which Matt used as a dummy to sing The Birthday Party’s Release the Bats (there really is no other way to tackle this).

Woke up, tad bleary, finished TT and contemplated my next choice. I had wanted to read Snugglepot and Cuddlepie next, but then I started on Philip Roth’s Anatomy Lesson (excellent, by the way; much better than The Ghostwriter and Zuckerman Unbound), so I may have to do S&C after this.

Snug and Cud is a beautifully illustrated childrens’ book (wicked banksia man pictured above) written by May Gibbs about a hundred years ago in Western Australia), a gift from Michael & Fiona (also from Western Australia) for becoming citizen of their country. Funnily enough M's mother H — who performed a supremely intoxicating piano recital on Sunday that we were present at — knew May Gibbs' niece and spoke to her on the phone on at least one occasion. She talked like “THI-I-I-S-S-S”. Apparently she had a very deep voice, not sure if Helen was talking about May or the niece. Anyway back to the recital — De Bussy was the subject and it reminded me a little of Gershwin and when I told H this, she busted out a few bars of Rhapsody in Blue. Just divine. Later an angel named Rodrick laid down some Fats Waller voodoo and it was GOOOD (deep mean voice). But then the coffee table shattered, luckily no one was hurt, we barbequed homemade sausage rolls, finished the champagne listening to Thin Lizzy and then scooted home (wasn’t far, we live on the same street as the hosts).

The Australian Possum

A possum dropped by our house the other night, used our premises as a latrine, then beat it, presumably to a groovier happening. It was our first marsupial encounter at home and it reminded me how a visit with Greg Valentine might transpire in this day and age.

Initially tipped off by a small brown pellet which lay on the table where we normally put our drinks. Upon closer examination I found the shape and colour not dissimilar to possum shit. After that we discovered an isolated wet patch on the paved part of the courtyard. This was rather chilling data and De Campo and I both voiced our concern.

Just then we heard a loud crack and tumbling from a high branch in our plum tree the rude article made herself known. Flashing a devilish scowl, she climbed back up, reached a height of roughly three metres and proceeded to relieve herself in a torrential fashion, forcing me to jump back in horror, while De Campo ran inside visibly shaken. The big, brushtail equipped with the biggest ass I’ve ever seen, used the tall branch as a bridge to edge onto the roof. It disappeared over the roofline and even though I didn't see the creature again, I did hear a loud crash but was far too fearful to investigate.

In other news I have been an Australian citizen since last Thursday. More on this later. The blog is a fair bit behind at the moment. The possum encounter happened last Sunday fer goodness sakes.

X, At Home With You

I love the fact that they were on the couch watching The Cosby Show.