um. so the really weird thing was that while sitting in the sussex street food centre eating our bowls of happy chef noodles, which are of course the tastiest noodles in sydney, one of the happy chefs went on dinner break and showed up at the next table with a bag of mcdonalds.
Monthly Archives: August 2003
do fried capers make everything better? sprinkled liberally over the tender and bloody veal and mash at dinner, they were crunchy little muthas bursting with flava.
the mother’s last supper before winging it back to singapore tomorrow. i feel like i’ve been eating all day, since leftover rhubarb-strawberry-pear-apple crumble with 56% minimum fat cream at eight this morning.
the sister has a week before heading back to new york and there are still many many meals out there left to conquer. “if we live like hobbits for the next week, we’ll be able to fit it all in,” she says. this does not mean we will neglect our foot hygiene, only that we should have three meals before noon. of course.
the setting: the gaelic club, where the floor is always sticky. an extremely self-conscious “band” called the kills is artfully jerking itself about on stage. they are tiresome to begin with and then quickly yet gradually improve and then possibly become tiresome again. i lose track. there are many many studded belts in the room, the most i’ve seen gathered in a single location, except for the accessories rack at sportsgirl.
but we are really here to see hot hot heat. there are many enthusiastic girls up front, one group with ziggy stardust haircuts and sharp tailoring and another in netting and stripy knits. nellie has learnt all the lyrics by heart and is ready to go woo as required. hot hot heat play like a cartoon band, with struttin’ and tight jeans and sweat exploding out of hair like a fireworks display, and as nellie says, all the members look like duckie. which is untrue because there is the bass player who has a rockstar thing going and manages to keep his big north american rock hair perfectly bouffant through the night (where “night” is an efficient forty-five minute set).
who doesn’t like bass players?
broadband rawks. as does creamy polenta porridge with mint leaf slivers and stewed strawberries.
oh momentous moment. i have an adsl connection, finally. i don’t actually have a computer right now, but that’s another story.
ahhh… evan dando. having seen him play twice before in the last several years or so — once a poppy lemonheads type show, then a solo amplified accoustic thing where he wore like, a metallica tshirt — i saw the scariest show last night in which, with a scruffy rocking young band he played a scruffy rocking set (and then a seamless accoustic medley in the middle) but sang without joy. the last time i saw him he was american golden boy with gentle smile. last night he was gaunt of face and hunched and bony. but it’s the music that matters right? his voice is second only to eddie’s. next cd purchase: baby i’m bored… and the avril lavigne album (!).