Yes, We Can!

Far be it from me to sound even vaguely critical of the new President of the Western World. I am a fan. I really am.

However, I have been rather puzzled about the curious silence about the fact that he stole his campaign catch-phrase from Bob the Builder. As you can see from the clip, the general vibe is not dissimilar.Is it just too obvious a joke, or was this the the elephant in the room we are all too polite to mention? Surely it's not genuine reverence that is preventing wholesale exploitation of this all-too-obvious source of mockery? That would just be wrong.

A little look on YouTube suggests that the answer may be more prosaic. All of the clips by people that look like they may be trying to use the joke seem to have been withdrawn. The sad little messages left behind suggest that Bob's owners may have been throwing threats of legal action around rather liberally.

I wonder if Hits Entertainment are planning to sue Obama for stealing it in the first place? I hope not. I am sure that The Pres will have asked Bob if he can borrow it first. I think they might be cousins. They do have the same ears.

Comments etc.

By the way, you may have noticed that I have added some little tick boxes down the bottom for reactions. Please use them. I am hoping you can do so without all that signing on palaver that you need to do to leave a comment. Let's face it, most of you are far too sensible and time-poor to do that. It would be nice to know whether anyone out there is looking, though, so tick away, my friends, even if its to bombard me with so many frowns that I have to stop....

Hot?

Hot? I hear you've had a spot of hot weather down there in Melbourne (finally!). Tempted to drive around all night because your car has an air conditioner and your house doesn't? Wishing you got around to installing those fly wire screens? Tripping over old ladies to squish yourself onto the one train in a hundred which is not broken?

Thought this view, taken from my kitchen window on Monday, might help you all to think cool thoughts. Its rather chilly in the North. Quite nice, though.

Gypsy memories

Ms J. sent the e-mail in the afternoon. What happened to Dirty Three, she wondered. Weren't they on the bill? Well, I thought so too, and a quick check on last.fm showed we weren't alone.

It didn't matter. The night had a Saintly Mojo all its own. I was heading to the City from the ragged heart of Footscray when I suddently recollected that Ms J., Southside Supreme, worked in Footscray herself. Lo and behold, instant door-to-door transport and a happy journey in the J-mobile. When we arrive, Ms. J's famous Parking Fairy (bless her little cotton socks) finds us a spot.

We head towards the New Gold Mountain.Only one day till I leave. We wonder about a rendevous in New York. How did I start having such surreal conversations? Maybe it can happen, maybe it can. Hunger diverts to the neighbouring Japanese, Horoki, where my sashimi salad (with daikon, seaweed and a light tangy dressing) proves to be spectacularly good. The Saki Samurai (saki, ice, and a fat wedge of lime)are pretty damn good as well.

JL the Magnificent turns up to find us, and we all head to The Forum. Ms. J. and I discover that A., the waitter that always looked after the CSBM (Children's Service's Branch Mafia) at Nudel, just happens to have been a friend of Ms J's for 20-odd years. The delicate little threads that tie us all together flicker into view in the soft evening light. I ask her to relay our regards.

I collect the tickets at the Box Office, nearly tripping over a member of Blue Ruin in the process, and head on in. JL says that X are making her ears bleed, and heads for the seats at the back. I can't sit down at a gig, though, and head to the standing area with Ms. J. We soon find B., former collegue whose rock pig instincts have snaffled him a great spot against the railing. He is happy to share. X are great, and the bass is making my breast-bone vibrate just the way I like it. There is still at least one bass-player in the world who goes with the open-shirt look. It's good to know. The big vertical spit into the air is also particularly impressive. Not everyone can break the 6-foot barrier with a big gob of slag.

In the break between bands, B. confesses that he started the rumour that Dirty Three were on the bill. Says it serves us right for trusting networking sites and other scurrilous gossip. Meanwhile, JL comes down from her pew and is soon is having deja vu about Ms J's cat, though she has met neither Jane (or the cat) before tonight. Invisible threads are suspected.

The Saints come on, and I finally see Chris Bailey and Ed Kuepper in the same place at the same time. They open with Stranded. Can't get better than that. Chris Bailey keeps berating us all for being stupid enough to pay $60 to hear an album played that we could all listen to at home: ("I hate fucking matinees.Don't worry, it will be over soon.") Ed Kuepper looks earnest, Chris Bailey shows of relentlessly and occasionally remembers to pretend he is not enjoying himself. We yell and scream and coax them out for a great couple of encores, complete with a little diversion into a river deep rendition of River Deep Mountain High. The sweat and beer eases the collective creak of our old arthritic bones, and we dance. Someone even musters a stage dive. Sweet.

Ms J. spots Jimmy G. through the crowd, who was not only with us at RMIT years ago, but also was a primary school with me.

Hello, hello. How are you? Good to see you.

L. is here somewhere, but I can't see him. We walk to a bar off Bourke for a post-gig drink, talking about Otis Redding & Stevie Wonder. KC walks in the door, a face from another time: flashbacks of a party in her tiny Balaclava flat, dancing in a tiny living room.

Hello, hello. How's things? Whatcha up to? Yes, I heard you'd gone.

KC & JL start hatching plans for a Big Day Out. Conversation breaks off suddenly "Neil!". JL has seen a face she used to work with. She doesn't know it's the same Neil that I did my Masters with, and with whom I have shared many a beery chat.

Hello, hello. You know eachother? Can't believe I bumped into you. How's the family? How's the life?

I need to write this down, try and capture it lest the threads stretch and break. I sit down in the State Library this morning to write this blog, and look up Horoki. The review says the name means 'gypsy memories' or 'tastes of the wanderer'. Who knew?

See you soon, Melbourne. Look after yourself. I'll miss you.

Make Love Not War

According to the Sydney Morning Herald, the CIA or some some other spooky U.S. agency (all cats are grey...) have had to get inventive with incentives.

They found themselves in need of a new kind of bribe to get the local warlords on side and chatty. Apparently, they had been relying on the well-tested approach of money. This not only left them with a very low score for imagination and creativity, it also had the problem of rendering itself ineffective in a relatively short period of time.

You see, the thing about money is that it has no inherent value. It is a medium of exchange; nothing more, nothing less. If you are rendered unable to exchange it for anything, you are completely stuffed. Like dead, for example. No shopping opportunities in the after-life, hence the expression 'you can't take it with you'. Example 2: You are an Afghan warlord in a small community whose expenditure of large amounts of money, whether it be on land or livestock, cows or clothes, bongs or bling, will be instantly noticed by your compatriots and peers. In this situation, experience has shown, the prominent display of a new gold watch a month after that mysterious Western fellow has passed through town is so instantly recognised as an 'Example-2-type-situation' that you very quickly find yourself in an 'example-1-type-situation' i.e. dead. Either that, or your mates decide you are a dirty dobbing dog in which case you become 1) very lonely, and 2) cut off from the very source of information that you were hoping to make a nice little earner selling in the first place.

What to do? Create a pay-packet they can consume, use and abuse to their heart's content without anyone complaining. Better still, if someone does see the change in behaviour, suddenly you are not only a warlord, but a stud.

Seems life is hard for an ageing warlord who is into polygamy. Or, more accurately, making life hard gets harder and harder all the time, especially with a stressful war to stay alive in, foreign agents to talk to, etc. Last thing you want is for word to go around the market-place that you are not up to (excuse the pun) meeting your conjugal obligations. The guys might start thinking you are a wuss or something.

The answer? Viagra. The warlord looks south and is proud of what he sees. With any luck the wives benefit as well. No-one beyond the boudoir need ever know, and if they hear anything, its likely to make your macho reputation go up, rather than down. That's the plan, anyway. Suddenly half the village is walking around grinning like idiots. With just a smidge of swagger. And maybe, just maybe, the little kids grow up, surrounded by a little less frustration and anger and a little more satisfaction, and a little more belief in humans' ability to bring each other joy, every now and again.

I know, I know. I am being flippant. One can't assume that your average middle-aged warlord will spend their new-found 'wealth' either wisely or kindly. By the same token, I am sure that the women in question are perfectly capable of generating their own joy if and when they need to, one way or another. In the scheme of things, though, its gotta beat trafficking in narcotics, weapons, or nuclear isotopes.

I like to think they include a complimentary Barry White CD.

Getting a bit fruity.

Once upon a time, I belonged to a novel workshopping group that was one of the lovely little green shoots that sprang out of the fertile ground of RMIT's Professional Writing and Editing course. 

In the few years since that group ceased, two of the four of us have had new work published. Pretty good average, I reckon.

Adam Ford's new book of poetry 'The Third Fruit' has just been published by Picaro Press. Although I haven't got hold of a copy myself yet, I am sure it will live up to the stellar standards of his previous work. More info at his website. Stay tuned for launch details.

Last year, another member of that little cohort, Caroline Hamilton, published Consumed, (ABC Books) which was gestating away during that brief period. We even discussed the manuscript occasionally, and not very helpfully, when we weren't eating and drinking and generally conversing in a not particularly focussed way.  The cover features a particularly fetching looking apple. I am not sure what number fruit that is. You can read an interview with Caroline about the book in the view from here magazine.

I find them all very impressive. I find my short story workshopping group, which is still going strong, even more impressive. But that's a story for another day....

Happy New Year, everyone. May it be full of joy.