More suburban bliss

Dear All,

Well the next door neighbour who has a home nine times bigger than anyone needs (oh all right, than my place) with rooms that make me worry he’ll ever be able to name let alone furnish or drape them is getting up my nose. As I’ve said before I worry about him or I did until recently when I came home to find him photographing some fireplace in his backyard hacienda. With photographers eternal plane seamless backdrop and all that flashy equipment and lights that turned to midnight after the lightning of each of his endless shots. What’s he doing, a still movie? If that wasn’t enough then what about the company at both the hacienda shoot site and the upstairs room closest to my own pad which had never before been occupied let alone open from my point of view? This was now not only lit with the venetians open but occupied by more than one person and art and furniture. Really, what a show off, displaying like some peacock, trying so obviously to provoke envy. Well I paid him no interest at all, that’ll show him don’t you think?

If this wasn’t enough humiliation then imagine how you’d feel if presented with the opportunity, when your car was about to fall through the next pothole to Korea where even at its mothers breast it would be rejected for poor suspension, faulty steering, malfunctioning ignition, dangerous exhaust leaks and pest infestation, to purchase at a bargain price its younger and much fitter sister (yes she’s pink, or faded red as opposed to her older blue brother). Can’t see the problem? Well perhaps you don’t live in a building (next to a neighbour who has a home nine times…) where in recent times all residents seem to have acquired red cars and even a motor bike of brighter hue than my faded and still three cylinder freak. I mean even my boss, half my age who is selling me this heap has the hide to say he is considering a Mercedes. Not of the E Series necessarily but none the less a step up, not parallel or down in a world where what’s not up is down.

It’s in this frame of mind that I discover that the much anticipated Spring Launch at the Homebush Olympic Village was not, as I had expected, an athletic event like the Hop Step and Jump, but rather an exposition for Bunnings team members of the latest range of product. You Kell and Cat might go to Hamburg or Milan for such displays but I go to the heart of Homebush. One might have expected to see the latest in hi-tek building materials, fixings and finishes to cope with global warming but no, the accent was still heavily on the latest battery powered leaf blower and blokes favourite cordless drills. Not a handy home waste battery disposal unit in sight. Yes there were many gardening displays and potted plants but anyone can grow a plant, just throw a seed in some earth, works every time, at least for some. I seem to be blighted a black thumb. Perhaps if I bathed in white oil?

Anyway, that day, Spring Launch, in mid winter,was prophetically spring like. I wasn’t the only one spooked last Wednesday by the warm, by almost ten degrees, wind that greeted me when I left home. It had us looking for other signs like barking ducks or marching frogs, which might portend the natural disaster like an earthquake or one of those recently popular tidal waves. In the subsequent absence of any such event there seems only Spring Launch to which to attribute this phenomena and the power of Bunnings awes me once more.

Perhaps it’s because I never seemed to get that best set of blocks in Kindy (to the extent that I considered repeating just for the opportunity to bully) or perhaps and more likely, having spent more than twenty years in the game, I no longer lust over the latest power tool. I did warm however to the “tradie” radio product of both Makita and Ryobi whose rep when asked “could it play Michael Jackson”, demonstrated that it was I Pod friendly as I’m not, but perhaps could be. I’m quite happy with my 4C battery powered trannie but was interested in the reps call that the new nickel hydride whatever batteries retain the same level of power from start to conk. My batteries have powered my little nipper er …. for two years now and like the frog in a kettle I was amazed by the improved volume when eventually I changed them.

The best things about Spring Launch were the six hours spent away from the shop with my friends Cyril, Lyn and Megan, whose visiting sister’s modern Holden transported us delightfully though the delight may have been tempered in the case of Cyril and Lyn who had to share the back seat with the immovable baby seat. I enjoyed Cyril’s (he’s from Goa) enthusiasm for half an hour till he became tetchy for a cigarette and we went outdoors where I found a lovely bench like those they used to have in Victorian parks and that can still be found in cartoons and New York sit coms, Perfectly suited to the contours of a tramp I lay down and slept in the sun for the best part of an hour after which I found endless fascination in the changing cloud patterns for another half hour before returning indoors without missing anything of consequence. We were all rewarded with six pack bags in atrocious fluorescent lime (look out secret Santa) for letting reps practise their spiels. Lyn confounded one hyping Solar Garden Lights (who could live without them) asking did they have any that her neighbours could not flog.

Now I must leave you while I dust off the old shotgun to get some money out of the bank for this car. Only two months now until Al and Bob’s big adventure so naturally I wouldn’t want to spend my own money.

Take care

R


The neighbour showing off his flash gear

You see I'm unconcerned

Some nice recession touches:
The veggie patch with goblin scare crows next to the church behind Petersham Town Hall.

The old dunny lane chook run (don't they just) beside Petersham Town Hall

This Real Estate agent is busting its gut to sell this couple something, I’m going to blow up a photo of a nice Muslim couple with their nine kids and maiden aunt, or a Koori couple to stick over their photo. They’ve had more than enough attention I think.

Ulysses Butterfly

Having a good time in Mission Beach, a bit cold at night down to 12, brrrr. but nice days at 26 degrees and sunny blue skies.

More Musings

Dear loved ones,

So Kell, Cat are you among the one in five Australian expats on more than $320,000 per year or at the other equally extreme end of the remaining four. If your not it should a be simple enough matter to climb pyramid style over the other four, kill them if you have to, lets face it the reward is worth it. Unfortunately the prospects back here for, well, backpats I guess, are not so rosy, about A$100,000 and maybe some backpats. I don’t know that I could survive on $100,000 having never had the opportunity to try.

Tony Abbott wants to re introduce fault based divorce, and yes of course, who cares what Tony Abbott wants? At the same time and on the back of the same page of The Herald ‘PM faces stoush over gay marriage’ could lead to an interesting compromise don’t you think? A double bonus for the private investigation industry. I’ve got a camera and time to spare. I’d be happier dodging a gay pat than a hetro boofhead biff.

These enlightenments along with a disjointed obituary for Sweeney, roadie extraordinaire, with 42 years of slog in the rock and roll cause under his belt, (or certainly somewhere below his waist line), have not convinced me that I’ve missed anything these last several weeks when I ignored The Herald ion favour of some good books. ‘The Slap’ “excellent”, ‘A Thousand Splendid Suns’ by Khaled Hosseini who wrote Kite Runner’ “Breathtaking”, ‘A Fortunate Life’ “barely literate but I enjoyed” and a re read of ‘A Fence Around The Cuckoo’ the first part of Ruth Parks autobiography which I have resolved to read annually till I die, or go to New Zealand and find she lied.

There then Face Book, see if you can find this when I’m found dead in flagrante in a closet full of queens. Meanwhile I appreciate all the new friends I have there and delight in their wonderful profiles, full frontals and I look forward, or should that be backward, to a departing, rear view.

Switching topic now for those of you who found continuity in the previous ramblings, I find myself bemused by Bunnings muzak tapes. The playing of music in public places had its origins as I recall in the sixties when department store and office lifts began to be abandoned by human operators who would keep occupants calm with a monotone “third floor ladies hosiery, lampshades and leathegoods. Psychologists discovered that humans in these unnatural conditions behaved better if a low impact audio track were provided. Soon Percy Faith and a bunch of Perry Como cardigan’d crooners began to see their best sales. The mid term arrival of the swinging sixties saw the introduction of ear shredding music as accompaniment to clothes shopping in Carnaby street like boutiques all over the world. Slowly and softly “muzak” became the background to all supermarkets, shopping centres, airports and other collecting points of humanity. Gradually the machines that collected and compiled these tapes abandoned Percy and in their place inserted more radical selections like Dylan’s “Mr Jones” and Hendrix’s “Purple Haze”, works that were always meant to be consumed whilst shopping.

Now that the pop music has become only another piece in the jigsaw that is broadly known as noughties industry the machines main objective is to keep consumers awake and save. Yes money of course not the silly planet. One way to save is to produce home brands of favourite songs that incur none but writing royalties. Artist royalties are payable to the machines themselves. These home brands sound almost perfectly like the original for two good reasons Firstly the consumer likes it and second the machine finds it easier to imitate than to originate. You might be fooled into thinking that’s the ‘Beatles’ doing “Yesterday” but I’m not. Another cost saver is the re mix. Bunnings have recently featured a wonderful Bollywood version of “lets Dance” by David Bowie.

Given that the psychologists have determined this muzak to be such a controlling influence on the population at large does it ever cross your mind, as it does mine, how easily it might be programmed for anarchy and chaos in the lift. I mean would you, Kell, feel comfortable travelling to the thirty ninth floor (marketing and dispatch) of Ernst and Young to the accompaniment of “Anarchy In The UK” or “Rock The Kasbah”? I know that in these difficult economic times when there are many out there bearing grudges that “Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick” convincingly delivered by Ian Dury, not a machine, has the potential to make me nervous amongst so many sticks.

Robert

'The distraction' As promised; Kell

"Don't drop him"

He's Cool

You'll recognise these folk

My drooling best

How did the arriving imigrant feel this morning

A little pink to raise the spirit

Grizzle Grump

Dearest all

BRRRrrrrrr! If I’d known that global warming would be accompanied with this freezing wind I would have taken it seriously.

It’s alright for you of mixed households who can simply call mum, dada or honey but we bachelors have to be prepared to take care ourselves. Take the example of the soap running out. Yes the gradual process as that slippery sliver becomes more and more difficult to pick up from the floor. I, just like you, never remember till after stepping under the shower that this is so. I am prepared though keeping fresh soap on top of the microwave on top of the fridge conveniently located at arms reach from the shower recess. The trouble is with this recently acquired package of ‘Cussons Imperial Leather’, a brand I’ve always been fond of but haven’t used much in recent years. The traditional ‘looking’ cardboard package reminded me of the pleasures of this soap with the attached label that miraculously outlasted the sliver stage. Of course I failed to read the fine print though the pack of four wrapped in that plastic cellophane and the price should have set off alarm bells. ‘Gentle Care, Luxuriously Mild and Gentle’ doesn’t say hollowed, white, odourless and just like any other cheap soap but I now know that’s what it means. To address these deficiencies in such a luxurious brand there is some more packaging. After removing the traditional cardboard we come to almost impenetrable plastic cellophane, maybe polycarbonate shrink wrap that holds this cake prisoner and defies any attempt to penetrate let alone remove without the assistance of tools much sharper than teeth or nails. Power drills and chisels would be handy but aren’t so I usually make do with a combination of a filleting knife and nursing scissors, you know the ones for removing stitchers. To do this of course I am naked and dripping in the kitchen some distance from the shower, fridge and microwave, and in real danger of a self inflicted Psycho type calamity.

What about our adventuring nieces eh. Glastonbury festivals, Trans European work schedules and multi lingual memos sound tres chic. Forties inspired housewarmings and the Lindy hop, well just fab. Within days of your email Cat, Peter Rowsthorne better known as Brett from Kath and Kim learnt this dance and had his professional debut on ‘Can We Help’, a clever little half hour he hosts on ABC before the news Friday nights, so I know the rigours you put yourself through. Oh yes I know you understand rigor too Kell. Glastonbury mud, four day body odour, and failing autos would test anyone’s mettle. ‘Bad Luck” to miss Rolf but if you like I’ll work up a version of “Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport” to Berger paint can accompaniment for when I see you in October. I can’t know whether anyone with horn rim glasses and a beard is told constantly that they look like Rolf Harris. Yes it does upset me, I don’t even die my hair. If I have to look like someone I’d even prefer Bruce Springsteen.

Alice came over, a very delightful change to my Friday night schedule this week, to dine and discuss European voyages. Early evening Thai went down well with a bottle of bubbles and with hindsight we probably didn’t need that take home bottle. It’s so hard to debate the want / need conundrum when a little under the influence. Anyway I was a bit blank at work on Saturday when Bunnings world suddenly swirled with braces of bigwigs and flocks of photographers (mmm that only works if you say it) all behaving very importantly. In the middle of this the chief cretin noticed bags of cement spread across isle 49 and sent a minion who found me to tidy up. Glad to be of service I hoisted the first bag back onto its pallet before noticing the large hole that that was pouring cement into the cuffs of my jeans and my shoes, no not my work shoes, my best walkers which I was wearing for comfort and because on Saturday I don’t have to handle cement bags. Plastic cement bags I might note, what a good idea, pity they don’t use the same stuff Cussons use.

Well that’s enough of my misery I’m sure. Let’s hear some of yours sometime

Love from Aunty

Hugh has neen doing some pretty serious tagging on our foreshore

A spontaneous outpouring of grief, or joy to judge the faces, at Newtown

An apologist for the next photo

More grief, somewhat from left field

They dont seem to give a hoot about michael

Maybe Michale bears some of the responsibility for this