fucken tired and shit.

this time last week… well, see now, i started off saying “last week”, and then it hit me that it was actually two weeks ago. crap. so this time two weeks ago, i was calling ’round likely candidates, trying to give away a spare ticket i had to the v festival.

which is harder than you’d think, even if it was two days out from the darned thing. in the end though, maybe i was just not meant to get rid of it. saturday, as i walked up to the gates, dressed in my best muji shirt, with an on-the-way bourke street bakery lamb-and-harissa sausage roll under my belt, and the scalper with the slimy, solicitous air muttered, “tickets? anyone got tickets to sell?”, i hesitated just a beat too long, and the moment was gone. me and my spare ticket and VIP wristband were sailing through the bagchecks, going it alone.

which, as it turns out, is not a bad way to go. i squeezed down the front of hot hot heat, i trudged to this, that and the other stage on a whim, and when whimsy got too much, i found a shady spot in the grass for myself, my “new yorker” and a quite delicious veggie sandwich which i’d thought to get at bourke street bakery some hours before to save me from having to eat the hodge-podge of stodge that is festival food.

(funny the way you have to go to a big rock show sometimes, to get a quiet moment to yourself.)

i was killing time until the main event, really. to me, that was queens of the stone age. as evening fell, along with a light drizzle, and the beast of a drummer kicked in… OH it was great! you know… when the crowd seizes up, and you feel it in the back of your neck. it was that kind of great, monstrous rock.

and maybe it’s a sign that i’m too old for outdoor rock festivals, but there were not too many moments of greatness that day, inbetween the trudging from stage to stage. duran duran were not great, but then again i was never a duranite back in the day. rosin murphy was pretty great, with her costume changes at each song and her funny, dramatic dance moves, and her funny, wonderful backing singers. smashing pumpkins started off great, with a lilting guitar anda wistful “today is the greatest day i’ve ever known…”, but then three songs in i remembered why i don’t listen at length to the pumpkins. the whining, the whining does not end.

and so (she whines), i left. i beat the mass exodus, and i caught a cab to my palatial bedroom at the vibe hotel in rushcutters bay, where i ordered copious amounts of room service and fell asleep in crisp white linens.

you are thinking, this is strange. why is she off to rock shows, and spending nights in hotels,and where is her kid? but i assure you, there is a perfectly reasonable explanation. the kid had been deposited that morning with her doting aunties and smitten boy cousin for a day (and a night) of belated easter eggs, and vegemite sandwiches, and portuguese cakes, and as little as she could eat of a home-cooked corned beef and white sauce. and i, i had won a prize — the subscription prize, and who ever wins those? — from time out sydney magazine, of festival tickets, and VIP passes (read: clean toilets), and a night in a hotel, and a spankin’ new mobile phone, and spankin’ new phone credit.

(now there’s a moment of greatness right there. although the collective two hours that i spent on the phone with three or four of virgin mobile’s finest offshore call centre personnel, trying to convince them that i really had won a phone off virgin-sponsored competition, and that i hadn’t stolen someone else’s phone whose details were on file as the registered owner of the SIM card, and that they should please, please let me have goddamn access to my account, please… that was really not very great at all.)

but so, i was famished from seven hours of v fest on nothing more than a sausage roll and a veggie sandwich. and so, i ordered up big — so big, i thought, that i was surprised and a little bit embarrassed when the food showed up and they’d only included one set of cutlery.

i had chips, of course, because you must have room service chips, and these were pretty good chips, all crunchy and golden and fat. i ate many of these before i even tasted the duck salad, which i’d ordered out of curiosity, because the description on the menu read: seared duck with lychee, capsicum and watercress salad, with raspberry vinaigrette. the duck was not seasoned, except for the crisp skin, which was, aggressively. the salad was two bitey and mismatched flavours of watercress and capsicum — diced, and in three colours. the lychees strewn over the top seemed mismatched to that, and the raspberry vinaigrette was…um… sour?

fortunately, i got dessert too, because i was hungry at the time. but the vanilla bean ice cream was mostly melted by the time i got to it — it had been delivered sitting atop the warm duck — so i drank that with a spoon, and then i was much too full to have more than a taste of the belgian chocolate mousse.

so i had it for breakfast. rock!

the blue skies and sunny sun on australia day brought them out in droves: buff young blonde things, draped in australian flags, wearing flag stickers on their bumcheek pockets, plastering fake tattoo flags on their faces, sharing the warmth with their flag-emblazoned singlets with “if you don’t love it, leave” printed beneath the southern cross. i don’t know if it was the immigrant in me, but it all made me feel a little uneasy. what do these children think about when they swathe themselves in flags? it goes a little beyond simple, good ol’ USA-style rahrah patriotism, surely. well, maybe not. anyway, we had more important things to think about… like how many minutes it would take us to walk from the ferry to the angie hart show!

yay, angie hart! the whimsy of frente! that i’ve carried around since university brought me and the kid to the steps flanking a little stage in the heart of the rocks. we unpacked our ham sandwich and waited. angie stood alone by the side of the stage as the previous act dismantled and her gear arrived. she looked all adult contemporary rock chick… older. her hair was long and tangled, and her arms were soft, and beneath her billowy blouse, a little pot belly — she has aged as i have! and then her equipment arrived, and her guitarist, and she began to sing and it was just gorgeous. but it was a tough lunchtime crowd, in this little square surrounded by fastfood takeaway: people chatting over cartons of noodles, that man at the table right in front of the stage who kept his face turned away for the entire set.

the kid too was mostly unimpressed. “i don’t like this song,” she said, once the ham had run out. i was not beneath telling her that if she didn’t stick around for the whole performance, then we would not be going to the dorothy the dinosaur show later that afternoon.

but it all went according to plan. the ice creams on sticks, the dinosaur lurching about on stage before going backstage to collapse of heatstroke, the carousel ride, the grande raspberry iced tea frappucino, the ferry back home, the paddle in the pool, the lamb and rosemary sausage in white bread eaten on a picnic rug on the balcony –

hers with tomato sauce; mine with the fancy green peppercorn mustard that i procured at the maille boutique in paris. see, one of us does play at being australian better than the other.

i asked her later what part of the day she liked best, and she replied, “the swimming pool.” tchk.

the cakes they are a-changin’.

i was studying the jewelcase at zumbo when counterboy said, casually, “all the cakes are going.” i guess i’d known this for a couple of weeks, having heard it from the pastryman himself one afternoon — that he’d been working on the new spring menu — but being suddenly confronted with the news that i would not see these familiar cakes again before the week was through, it was a little too much to bear.

my immediate thoughts were, “i shall finally have to try the wheelie good” and “i shall finally have to try the houdini”. but this is the quandary i face every time i go in anyway; it’s just, now there was a deadline. “take the wheelie good,” counterboy said helpfully, “houdini will still be here on the weekend.”

the first question that you might ask yourself is, how does this cake stand up by itself? followed by, how do i eat this? and i can tell you that the entire white-chocolate-coated affair is held securely in place, on its little golden platform, with a dollop of said chocolate. i sliced through its middle — a belt of roughly chopped pistachios and macadamias — and ate it one half at a time.

when i first arrived in australia, in the very late 80s, my favourite after-school, petrol station-snacks were polly waffles and wagon wheels. it was the marshmallow that done it; marshmallows don’t do so well in the moist tropics, and this glut of biscuit-coated marshmallow was all a bit wonderful and new for a marshmallow-deprived immigrant.

but the wheelie good surpasses all fond memories of chocolate-covered jam-marshmallow-biscuit sandwich. sure, the engineering is the same, but the wagon wheel biscuits were never as crisp on the outside, chewy and light in the middle as this pistachio dacquoise. i may never again eat a marshmallow-and-jam confection, but i would not say no to more of this lemon-infused mascarpone creme, with its hidden chunks of stewed apples and apricots.

it looks like a hamster wheel, does it not, this cake?

here’s another story: remember back in february, when i returned from a trip to singapore with a pair of running shoes and an ipod shuffle? the shuffle held one song for months — “take on me” — and then some podcasts, and then i added “punk farm” for the kid… and the shoes were still pristine in their box, until last friday.

yes, i, who do not run, often not even for buses, ran. because, alas, the cake-eating business is a flabby old business. i ran for ten minutes, on a treadmill, and it was awful. and then four days later, i ran again. the second time, i’d finally put together a playlist on my ipod, called, “run run run”. it consists solely of up-tempo you am i and ratcat tunes, and it made a galaxy of difference. pounding along to “flagfall $1.80“, i didn’t even feel the pain so bad.

if you want to see the winter cakes at zumbo, you might have to run too.

i chanced upon this new ride at the mall this afternoon.
i thought you might like to see it too.
don’t it make you smile?

at one point i positioned myself directly behind a narrow shelf so i could surreptitiously photograph a beautiful test-tube filled with beautiful pink dragees. it didn’t work though, because a sales assistant pushed through with a large box of something that she had to stack onto that very shelf i was standing in front of, right at that moment. after she’d returned to the counter, we heard whispers wafting over to us: “…taking photos!”

three seconds later another sales assistant appeared at my side. “what are those pictures for?” she asked, not rudely, but not offhand curiously either.

i paused. and then i shut off my camera. and then i said, “actually, these are for my own amusement, because i found a cockroach in your dragees!”

i handed the tube over, and she might have recoiled. “well. i think i will dispose of these,” she said, reaching for them finally, “and normally, we don’t allow photographs.”

why did i stop listening to spiderbait? this is just great.

i was early for the early train, but just before it pulled up an announcement came through overhead that the next train to arrive would be held at the platform indefinitely because someone had been injured on its platform at the next station. rush hour, everyone got on anyway.

onboard, the driver’s announcement was more informative: we would not be moving because a person had been hit by a train, and we had to wait until the person had been removed. how long does it take to move a person who’s been hit by a train? a bruised person? a person with limbs torn off? (you would have to find and remove the limbs too.) a person puree? i figured i had up to an hour. and i was armed with a book, two nori rolls and a tube of fruit fizzers. but not ten minutes later, we were on our way.

so a bus and two trains later, i had a twilight picnic on a stone bench outside the olympic stadium. murakami open in my lap, beef yakiniku maki followed by one filled with a bright yellow pickle. i still don’t know quite how i feel about murakami. “norwegian wood” reads better than “the wind-up bird chronicles”, but sometimes i think i’m losing something in the translation.

and then it was time. well, almost time. a walk up to the acer arena in the drizzle, to queues and bag searches (unexpectedly, the one thing they ask about is chewing gum), through the turnstyles, into the dark belly where kings of leon is rocking like the seventies.

i started this blog in 2003, after a pearl jam show. given the recent inactivity on this page, it crossed my mind that maybe i’d be ending it after a pearl jam show too. i don’t know. perhaps i’ll feel differently after i get my computer fixed, or maybe a whole new machine — macbook vs mac mini: discuss.

last night. pearl jam. eddie. so good.

tonight, another go.

“tim sent me an interesting website today.”

“…”

“it’s a collection of streaming 80s videos.”

“oh, like music clips?”

“yeah. guess what the first song i picked was.”

“ummMMM. something by duran duran?”

“no, but something remarkably similar.”

“…”

“it was ‘tarzan boy’ by baltimora!”

there followed a brief interlude in which we sang the “oh oh oh-o-oh-o-oh-o-oh-oh oh oh-o” chorus, after which i asked,

“have they got a-ha?”

“i don’t know. i didn’t check.”

but i did. and i played, in this order:
the flame, by cheap trick
take on me, by a-ha
somewhere in my heart, by aztec camera

after which i had to get up and walk away, before i clicked on scritti politti (“oh patti (don’t feel sorry for loverboy)”) or… bonnie tyler (“total eclipse of the heart”).

right now i would like to go to a nice hotel, just me, where there is room service, an in-house DVD library, and a cakeshop next door.

i need to recover from my week away:

—

by the time we get to melbourne, at 3pm on a friday afternoon, we have already been on the road for a couple of days. this means there have already been pies filled with lamb mince in rich brown gravy and pies filled with creme patisserie and syrupy raspberries. in fact, as a testament to the cake frenzy i found myself in on thursday afternoon, the recipt from the bakery reads: 1 beesting, 1 snickerdoodle, 1 raspberry harvest cake, 1 fruit eccle, 1 cup of tea. it wasn’t all for me! i like buying cake for other people!

our brand spankin’ new serviced apartment (complete with stainless steel galley kitchen and villeroy-boch china) is touted as being on the edge of carlton, so i kinda figured we’d be feasting italian every day. however, the reality is a billowy outpost quite a hike away. nevertheless, it is on the tram route straight to the city, so before too long we’re riding into the sunset and reacquainting ourselves with the monstrosity that is federation square

– it’s not as ugly as it used to be –

and having hot soupy noodles in chinatown.

and then what does one do in melbourne on a drizzly friday night, when holidaying with a toddler? one takes the kid back to the hotel, washes her and puts her to bed, puts the boy on babysitting duty before he can arrange to go out drinking with his friend, and then one catches the tram back into the city to see you am i at the forum.

i’d seen the poster as we walked along the twilit streets and thought i’d call up to see if there were still tickets. who knows? who knows if people still go out to see 90s aussie rock? maybe it would be sold out. but it wasn’t. when i rocked up (so to speak), the crowd was like the mid-to-late nineties; comforting, in a way, like so many plaid shirts. the theatre is a gorgeous old building, with a gilded foyer, and a hall full of banquet seating. there are classical sculptures perched over the bar, and the domed ceiling is blue like the evening. i found myself a spot inbetween the dancefloor and the seats, on a step, so i could see.

i last saw you am i, like, in 1998. so long ago. friday night, they sound the same (maybe louder). sound as ever, as it were. tim prefaces every second song with, “you think that’s a corker, wait till you hear this one!” (and it’s true!), and punctuates with windmills. it’s all fun and good until the stupid girls in two groups to my front and back start getting drunk and falling over. on me. repeatedly. and they think it’s funny, and their friends do too. and what the hell is wrong with people these days? well, what is wrong with girls then, because the boys in the group look over my way and smile, and say things like, “would you like to stand in front of me so you can see?” and “i have a spare beer, would you like it?”

even though i turn on my heels right after the final encore, and bypass the merch stand selling footy scarves with YOU AM I woven into various team colours, i miss the last tram and walk for a bit in the rain before a taxi comes by. it’s nice.

the next morning we walk past bakery lane…

…en route to the queen victoria markets, with its aisles upon aisles of fruit and veg, and its warren on delicatessenal delights such as picked octopus and festive sausages (you will see, if you squint, one of these starbusts says “wedding sausage”).

but i resist the lure of the salami, and even the hot kranski with sauerkraut. or any number of continental pastries; this morning the spinach and cheese borek calls to me. it all works out in the end though, because the boy goes back in after his sausage, and reappears with a wedge of kolace: a yeasty base topped with poppyseeds, sugary ground walnuts, sour cherry jam, and soft white cheese. thank you, boy.

come back later. i’ll tell ya all about it.

[ back cover, "apples for jam" ]

last week i bought a new desk ornament: 300gb of space, cleverly hidden in a compact block of industrial plastics. when i say “last week” i mean “thursday night”; around dinnertime, i clicked my mouse on the purchase button, and shortly after lunch on friday, a courier knocked on my door with the parcel in hand. if only all internet shoping could be like this. i bought an external hard drive once, years ago. it was all of 2gb, and cost me $800. so i’m much happier with the new one, which cost less than half that, and which allowed me last night, for the first time ever, to back up my computer (which has been making a disconcerting whirring noise of late). if you live in sydney and would like to pay substantially less than retail for all manner of computer stuff, and have it delivered to you before teatime, you could try shoping here.

this weekend i bought a lovely book of colourful and tasty treats, “apples for jam” by tessa kiros, despite my vow not to buy any more cookbooks ever. having finally decided that i didn’t really need a copy of “falling cloudberries”, i was ambushed by this book. it’s sort-of italian, and the food is photographed on vintage tablecloths or vintage china, and there are kids’ drawings, and a recipe for pudding made of greek yoghurt and condensed milk. and a bookmark of pink satin ribbon. right beside it on the shelf was the next book that i vow not to get: nigel slater‘s “kitchen diaries“, which has none of those things that make “apples for jam” so warm and sparkly, and which reads like what this blog would be if it were better. hem.

next week, fingers crossed, i will be buying a ticket to pearl jam. ridiculous! aren’t we too old to be doing this? (clearly, no, because while i haven’t rushed out and bought the album, i did hand over good money for the latest “rolling stone” with eddie of the cover) i have seen pearl jam five times. in 1995, i slept out overnight on the pavement outside the ticketing booth, showed up late at my newish job the next morning, and watched the band, small as ants, from the nosebleed seats. in 1998, deep in the throes of that job laying out pop magazines, i wrangled my way into three shows, two of them in the moshpit. in 2003, post-rothskilde, there were no more moshpits, and no more pop magazines. the seats weren’t too bad: the band were as big as… large ants. who knows what this year will bring. next week i’ll be sitting here, finger poised on my mouse, hoping the ticketing site doesn’t get shut down by traffic overload, hoping the seats won’t be too crap in an arena twice the size of previous shows — stadium rock!! whatever. there’ll be guitars, and eddie will start singing, and it’ll be really, really good! waarrgh!

in the last week i have been serenaded by michael jackson (“billy jean”), barnsey (“working class man”) and guns ‘n’ roses (“sweet child of mine”, which really does take me away to a special place every time i hear it). last night i heard a great whoop blow in across the water, and when i looked out the window i saw that it was two party boats passing each other, and the drunken revellers were just exchanging hellos. the whoop went on and on, nothing, i suspect, like what the people in the olden days might have imagined when they gave us “passing like ships in the night”.

but tonight, xmas eve, all is quiet. i’ve eaten two bowls of rice and cauliflower, cabbage, eggplant and mince hotpot, drunk a glass of festive pink punch made up of half pink grapfruit juice and half solo, watched the gilmore girls and done a large amount of dishes. now here i sit with a cup of genmaicha and a chocolate covered marzipan bar. it is unlikely i’ll finish it; perhaps i’ll leave it out for santa.

ding dong merrily!