Archive | November, 2010

DAY 81: Losing in the National Klop Championships

20 Nov

What's everyone laughing at?

DIDN’T rank too highly in this wee log-hurling sport invented by woodsmen on the Finnish-Russian border (allegedly), but better luck next year, eh?

DAY 80: Hanging on, on a Harley

19 Nov
I DEVELOPED a bit of a thing for bikers in my teens when I happened across a picture of Sonny Barger, the head honcho of the Hells Angels’ notorious Oakland chapter .

Sonny had one of those boyish faces that suggested mischief rather than ultraviolence – or maybe a bit of both – but I was particularly drawn to the tattoo on his forearm. When I blew up the picture on a photocopier, it looked to be some kind of abstract creature: I could just make out an evil eye and a beak. I’d been looking for a design for my first tattoo, and this was perfect. There may even have been some substitute father stuff going on. There usually was.

This was the photo I blew up x 1000.

I spent months honing this image until I’d turned it into a motif fit for permanent disfiguration… but I made a last-minute swerve after being handed some literature by a couple of cult members in Birmingham’s Bullring shopping centre, in which it predicted the human race would be barcoded with the mark of the devil and sent packing to hell.

One barcode and several years later, I saw more pictures of Sonny (he sports a tracheotomy hole these days) and realised that the mystical creature on his arm was actually a rather pedestrian cross. So thank god I got the barcode, eh?

It's a cross!

Anyway, my pillion experience has been limited to hoony Japanese models, so I decide to book myself in for a bit of HD Old Lady treatment right here in Melbourne – without the customary train pulling. Andy, of Andy’s Harley Rides and Tours, has been riding for 40 years and is a tough old boot. He meets me outside Southern Cross Station and straps me carefully into a helmet and heavy leather jacket… and quickly it transpires that this is indeed the life.

Ah, the smell of the bay and the wind in your teeth. Bolte Bridge rips the spit from my mouth and the snot from my nose, but I cling on like a koala and gamely swallow flies. Once in the Domain Tunnel, I hear echoing screams and howls of engines that you’re not privy to on four wheels. “They’re just jealous,” yells Andy, as the odd tool in a car tries to block our passage between them. Andy regularly guns the throttle to give a ferocious roar – not for effect, as I initially suspected, but to let ’em know we’re passing.

Albert Park nearly knocks my sunnies off as we hit 90. My back aches from tensing and my feet are cramping in my efforts to keep my leg away from the piping hot exhaust, but Andy assures me this passes with practice, and it doesn’t stop me grinning like the village idiot.

Cruising down St Kilda’s Acland Street, I’m glad there isn’t a big ‘Andy’s Harley Tours’ plastered on the side of the bike, as hopefully that means we’re turning heads for the right reasons. It’s a beautiful evening for a ride, with the kite surfers hooning around the wave tops and the smell of seafood in the air. I catch the train home with a face covered in grime.

Keeper? Yeah. Great for those core muscles.

DAY 79: Turning my head into a Girl’s World

18 Nov

I wasn't allowed a Girl's World. SO unfair.

THE smell of hair mousse still takes me back to being 13 years old, so I keep a can in the bathroom cabinet to occasionally sputter some into my hand and reminisce.

My first stabs at makeup at that age were with an entirely red palette. Red eye shadow (provoking the inevitable “You look ill” from Mum), red-orange lipstick and red blush. Well… It might have been that eye shadow again.

A year later, I bleached my hair and went for red lips with liquid eyeliner and mascara… and that’s what I’ve been doing ever since.

Behind the times or what? I’ve never so much as dusted on a bronzer or plucked stray hairs out of my pastel lip gloss on a windswept day.

Today I find a makeover site called www.taaz.com, and for anyone who ever had a Girls World styling head, you’re going to find this waaaaay cool. You upload a clear picture of your visage and then drag dots to fit the points of your features. Done. Now it’s time to colour in.

Before.

I decide to go for a Pamela Anderson look, to go the whole hog. At each step of choosing a colour from a spectrum wheel, I’m told which cosmetics company provides the shade (Cover Girl, Clinique, all the biggies), and for how much. You can even click to order. Or you can ignore and just turn yourself into a drag queen.

You can plump lips, whiten teeth and wig up, but let’s not be silly. I go for pecan foundation, lashings of bronzer, and line my lips with a darker hue. Dated, I know. But at least only one decade too late.

Add gloss. Add more gloss.  Now bronze. Now go out and find a footballer.

After.

Keeper? If only to marvel at how I suddenly look like I’m great at gobbies.

DAY 78: Going to the Rock Chicks exhibition

17 Nov
Little Pattie Amphlett. She looks very much like cousin Chrissie here, no?

THE name made me give a little gag, but the Rock Chicks exhibition itself (at Melbourne’s Art Centre) was very good.

Chrissie Amphlett's frock. I almost touched myself.

A TV Week 'Queen of Pop' award. Is it entirely a coincidence that it looks like an upside down vagina?

Keeper? I’ve been twice now! That’s enough.

DAY 77: Checking out Station Pier

16 Nov

Tch. They've built it on a slope!

HAVING learned about the history of Station Pier on Day 63 at the Museum of Immigration, I decided to go and have a look at the thing itself. You know it – it’s the pier in Port Phillip Bay that the Spirit of Tasmania leaves from. The original Railway Pier was built in the 1850s, but was restructured as Station Pier in the 1920s.

By the way, Port Melbourne in the morning is awesome, no matter what you think of the locals…

How good's my camera, though?

Keeper? Yes.

DAY 76: Creating a ‘Quit Smoking or Die, Fool’ plan

15 Nov

I've always wanted to be able to do that - flick a cigger in and out of my mouth.

I DON’T really like cigarettes; I mean I’m a bit princess-y about them. I feel obliged to scrub my fingers and brush my teeth after every one during the day, while during bouts of evening faggery I chew gum. If I really loved them I’d want to roll around in their nicotiney badness, and to hell with the brassy tone they give my highlights.

Ah, but the packaging is so crisp and the filters so pure. The neat, snowy casing, perfectly packed to regulation density, rolled pertly between your thumb and forefinger. Each virgin cigarette perches delicately between your lips, checked gingerly by the tip of the tongue. Yes, still there.

It doesn’t help that I’ve only just discovered Ice Chill (of death); the latest line by Marlboro. They’ve made them especially for us Australians, so it seems churlish not to smoke them… although if you were a cynic you might compare them to Marlboro Ice Blast (Singapore), Marlboro Cold Mint (Spain), Marlboro White Menthol (UK) or Marlboro Ice Fresh (Brunei). I’ve always been a menthol smoker – it’s way classy – but these take the minty biscuit. One inhalation ushers in cleansing, Arctic winds that refresh and stimulate the dusty recesses of your maw and light up your brain like a Christmas tree.

But basically, now that I’m really enjoying life, I’m going to be right pissed off if it’s cut short. That Dead-By-Thirty deal I had going with myself… it’s had its day. So here’s the plan of action.

1. Hypnotise: Didn’t work with the “only two glasses of red wine after six o’clock” ruse way back when, but apparently asking for help with total abstinence is much easier. I’m booked in for next week.

2. Allocate all existing smokes to filthy smokers: And that’s a lot of smokes, as I buy a pack whenever I’m stressed and then “quit” and leave them at home. Anyone want 80 packs of slightly soiled menthols? Oh.

3. Visualise: Recall, if you will, the self-flagellation smoking of morning three of a bender; singed lungs; Dot Cotton from EastEnders’ pursed lips; faggy fingers… Ugh, right?

4. Erect a Jar of Stench: I’m going to fish that olive jar out of the rubbish and fill it with the soggy fag butts lazing around outside my front door. And lukewarm water. This will sit on my desk.

5. Reward: Tricky, this one. I’m already rewarding myself for no booze with unlimited cake. Masturbation’s not convenient at work, and all my money’s going on the new adventures every day. I’ll have a think about what the reward might be.

You might notice, I’ve made an acronym. All good self-help plans have an acronym. Mine is ‘H. A. V. E. R.’ , as in “havering to you” in The Proclaimers’ paean to persistence, ‘500 Miles’. Would have been better if it was ‘S.T.U.B.’ or ‘A.S.H.’ but people are paid millions of dollars to come up with those sorts of things, while I’m just sat here on the train losing my shit with my internet connection.

Keeper? The quitting, yeah. Not the ciggers.

PS:
Marlboros were originally marketed at women (“mild as May“)… which is why when Philip Morris wanted to branch the smokos out to men, they had to go down the ultra macho Malboro Man route, to overcompensate.

There's an awful lot of framing of the crotch going on here. He's also kind of a swastika shape.

They’re better than eating olives at keeping your lipstick on, though, which is why Marlboros started life in the 1920s with a bright red filter, so that ladies didn’t leave unsightly lippie marks on them.

DAY 75: Volunteering with the local steam train fanciers

14 Nov

I'll get the ol' girl up and running in no time.

THE Victorian Goldfields steam train route is visible from my house, and there’s something pupil-dilating about legging it down to the tracks when the smoke comes over the trees and watching the black, huffing engine approach dead-on; like staring down a raging bull.

The 1880s-built railway is totally run by volunteers (compare its $2.5k government grant to the $10 million awarded to Belgrave’s Puffing Billy) and its line of entertainment is not yet as legendary as that of Bellarine’s Blues Train (see Day 18), but it’s a charmer all right.

I’ve decided to volunteer regularly for a bit of whatever – chain-gang work, litter duty, getting in the way in the engine cab – and I’m interviewed by Trish on the train as we trundle first class to Maldon, which is obviously the best interview ever. After rising through the ranks of guard, signalman and fireman, you can eventually work up to engine driver, which I’m pretty excited about, so Trish takes me up to the cab to meet Barry; a top chap who drives freight trains as his day job. He gets me pulling the whistle immediately (a touch too long, if the hands clamped to ears at Maldon station are anything to go by) and doesn’t scoff at my driver aspirations.

The smell of steam is heady as we wait for the engine to gulp down water from what’s essentially a giant tap. A bit of water bubbles up by Barry’s foot, down by the fuel valve, which apparently isn’t supposed to happen.

“It’ll iron his strides for him,” one engineer notes pragmatically.

“He’ll have an accident in his strides if it lets go,” hoots another.

Catherine is also in the cab. Her dad’s an enthusiast who has built to-scale models of trains and used to factor all family holidays around locomotives. She’s finally succumbed to the passion herself.

“I wish I had a passion,” says Trish wistfully. “With these guys you can tell… it’s love.”

Keeper? Yep, they’ll put me to work on the chain-gang in a coupla weeks.

DAY 74: Looking after a real life child

13 Nov

I HAVEN’T given anyone my undivided attention since 1989. I got away with it in my teens because I was troubled, in my twenties because I was a writ-err, and in my thirties because Gen Y 2.0 came along, with handsets for hands. It certainly won’t be tolerated by a child, though; hence my avoidance of them.

I’ve agreed to take Tiger-Jane, aged three, to the Melbourne Museum while her mum gads about doing her job… but anxiety sets in as I take the train down. What if I need to write things down/get out my computer/obsess quietly over some issue? And the irritation that trots beside me every day like a devoted spaniel… can it be outrun by a three year old on a sugar high?

We’re meeting in the café, so I scoff down a piece of cake before TJ sees it and then watch Nicole like a hawk to see what parent-y tactics she is employing. When Nicole leaves, TJ sets up a wail, with real tears, I’m impressed to note. Proper mothers look on as I pat the child beseechingly on the arm and promise her that we’ll see as many dinosaurs as she likes; not having the slightest idea if there are any.

Fortunately, the first specimen we come across is the skeleton of Phar Lap, which looks a bit like a dinosaur to the untrained eye. (How gruesome: “Phar Lap reunion: see his skeleton on display next to his hide”.) After perusing this spectacle, we set off at a cracking pace – no time to take in exhibits on 19th century working class Melbourne, Koori voices, or textile designers, apparently, but we do press some buttons. The one thing that does slow up my young charge is a tableau of policemen taking an Aboriginal child away from its mother. I’m terrified TJ’ll make a connection and start wailing for her own mother again, but instead she asks sombre questions about the scenario.

Eventually, the lure of the spotty biscuit, which I promised her on completion, reaches mystical, holy grail proportions, and we can put it off no longer. I have no idea how to buckle TJ into this unfathomable pushchair, seemingly designed specifically to get its wheels caught in toilet doors, so she gamely agrees just to balance as we head out in the rain. “Hey, lady,” she snaps, whenever we hit a bump.

A misty reunion with Mum (hers) and an explosion of chocolate follows, but I’ll stop writing now if that’s okay; I’m starting to sound like columnist for a Sunday magazine.

Thank you for a lovely day, lady.

Keeper? Her mum wanted her back.

DAY 73: Seeking ANGER MANAGEMENT

12 Nov

MY rage is as perilously close to the surface as a fart in a bath; liable to pop and ruin the mood at any second.

I don’t often take it out on other people, although on the occasions I have I count myself very lucky they haven’t clobbered me back – with the exception of one high-spirited street brawl, where they did. But any inanimate objects around me get what for, and have done since I was a child – which was awkward, as I was an animatist and afterwards I’d have to go around patting and apologising to skirting boards and brutally biro-stabbed maths books.

My seething disappointment almost got me arrested at 18 when I vandalised a phone box in a lather because I couldn’t get it to work. Instead, the police asked my mother to come and get me. What does a girl have to do to get taken seriously? I’m pretty sure if I was a bloke I would have been banged up by now, and I’m pretty sure I’d crumble like a fondant fancy after just one day in jail.

My temperament’s way better in my thirties, but still, my shaking-fist-at-sky moments are bugging me, so I decide to seek out help online through a number of anger management forums.

They’re highly strung places, unsurprisingly. Logging onto the first, one guy is indulging in a thinly disguised brag about giving someone a beating the night before – lingering lovingly on every blow.

“You are retarded and an alcoholic,” comes a terse reply. “A R-E-T-A-R-D. Glad I could help.”

Jeez, I hope that respondent doesn’t step up to help me.

“The symptoms you describe sound as though they’re at the high-functioning end of autism,” says ‘Candid’ on one board after I describe my ish-ewes. Isn’t calling someone autistic the new ADD though? Gets bandied around an awful lot.

Jeff, on another board, advises me to come up with a code word that non-inanimate objects can hiss at me when I get riled up. This, he reckons, is better than the ever-inflammatory “calm down”… but I have a sneaking suspicion someone using a codeword on me might have the exact same effect. Maybe I’ll mutter a quiet prayer for the person, as 12-step help groups recommend.

For the inanimate objects problem… well, first off I’m going to try and not take things so personally – if the printer gets jammed, for example, realistically it’s not doing it just to wind me up – and secondly I’m going to stick money in a swear box for every ladypart I list at the top of my lungs. The money has to go to charity, otherwise I’d just be lining my own pockets.

Some forum posters suggest an all-natural hypoglycemic diet – basically no sugar or caffeine, and eating as close to real, untreated food as possible – which I have noticed works, but really sucks. I’ve also sent off for a rock salt crystal lamp, which floods a room with negative ions when all the positive ions from electrical appliances and looming storms (looming storms send me particularly nutso) are getting you all wound up.

There’s free anger management counselling available at Psych Resources. It’s all about listening to what your anger has to say (other than “That’d be about right, you absolute %$#ing %#$@!” and other quaint Basil Fawltyisms). There are a series of questions to help you find your “unique emotional truth”, and you can then post this truth at the end, which I do.

Keeper? Yes.

Hey – I asked people what calming code word(s) they’d come up with, and they said: “bunnies”, “puppies”, “boobies”, “take the day off work”, “easy, tiger”, “rotary engine”, “aaaagaadoodoodoo”, “you are right I am wrong”, “serenity now”… What would you suggest? Comment below. (Please.)

DAY 72: Learning tolerance at Crown Casino

11 Nov


THERE are scads of bars in the Crown Entertainment Complex. My mission is to sit through three songs from a live act in three such bars. I’ve collected the set lists, to prove I did it.


BAR 1: Tangerine
Against the gallop and kerching of pokies, Chunky Jam are ripping through their set.
1. Proud Mary – Creedence Clearwater Revival
2. Brown Eyed Girl – Van Morrison
3. Superstition – Stevie Wonder

Bar 2: Atrium
This bar opens out into the games room. It’s a big joint, but weirdly I can smell Calvin Klein’s CK One all the way through it. Are they pumping it through the vents? Anyway, Stuart Wyatt is tinkling the ivories of the grand piano, in an extravagantly floral fashion.
1. Still the One – Shania Twain
2. Fame … no … I know this one … I’d Rather Be a Hammer? … Gah! Too abstract. Next!
3. It’s some kind of early ’80s theme tune … I’m picturing a horse galloping across fields, or possibly a dog … WAIT!! It’s Eternal Flame by the Bangles. Phew.

Bar 3: JJ’s
This bar’s heaps classier than it sounds, but the seat of the grand piano is vacant. Not my fault, nor my problem. Mission: accomplished.

Keeper? Actually, yes. I find it hard to resist a fountain sweeping down alongside a black marble staircase.

← Older Entries
Newer Entries →