The Bed and Breakfast man

My life in video clips.

This post with thanks to YouTube.

Whenever I walk into someones home, I snoop. Not medicine cabinets or underwear draws, but music collections. Clothes maketh the man I've heard it said, but music often influences the fashion. There is much information to be garnered by a persons taste in music.

I've been going over my music collection recently. Adding a few things to my ipod that I'd missed, replacing scratched cd's, or finding that something I'd been after for ages was finally available digitally remastered and re released. I've been playing more vinyl too. Searching the net on sites like itunes, and browsing cd and record stores has rekindled my love of music, (it had started to be something in the background when doing housework) and sparked some memories that had lain dormant for decades.

I started to think back to the time when a boy starts to like music. It's a time before girls become interesting, but prior to experimentation in foreign cheese or art films. I suppose it's very different today, but for me it began with Blondie. I remember what I assume was around 78 or 79 listening to the song on a small battery powered transistor radio with my mate Nick. Although Blondie received a bit of stick for embracing the disco sound, being far more regarded as semi punk/new wave, for me and Nick it was the song that laid the paving at our feet as the journey began. Blondie is still on high rotation at my place.

That and the movie Grease were my main memories before the family up and moved to England in 1979. When we got back in 1984 I realised that there had been a huge amount of good music in Australia which I had missed out on, but England was the foundation for my musical education, and it went a little something like this.

Adam and the Ants had a big impact on me. The whole New Romantic period had a big impact on me. It also had an impact on my mothers make up collection. Between Adam, Duran Duran (and this technologically amazing video), Toyah Wilcox (who popped up on the entertainment channel the other day talking about great moments in entertainment and looking very old),  Altered Images (I only worked out the lyrics to this song a month ago) and Visage, I whiled away my days in an audio, and due to the emergence of the music video, visual euphoria.

A couple of wierd ones made the mix as well.

But as the makeup faded like the careers of so many of those listed, I began to delve into the past and the influences of my favourite bands. The punk era, in retrospect was Adam Ant's finest hour, and I had sadly discovered it a few years after its demise. I delved into the Sex Pistols and a few other Malcolm McLaren proteges, but soon found myself choosing which of the antipodean extremes of music and fashion suited me best. These extremes had passed their heyday in my parents generation, but were still alive and well when I went to Chichester High School for boys. They were, of course, Mods and Rockers.

I went Mod. I preferred the music, the dress, and the majority of my peer group had leanings in that area so I didn't get beaten up by them. Mod sort of fused with Ska and ran from a heavy Jamaican feel through to angry young men railing against society. From the Specials to the North London Invaders who became those seven magnificent nutty boys, Madness (and a very out of tune live version of Johnny the Horse) I found a subculture that spoke to me from my ears to my shoes, and to fulfil the angry young man sector of my teenage angst I employed and enjoyed the social discourse of lyrics by The Jam.

Madness and The Jam I brought home with me to Australia, and I'm glad I did for the saturation was less than adequate back in Old Sydney Town. Not being one to stick to a specific musical genre excluding all else however, I also came back with a great respect for David Bowie, most notably the album Aladdin Sane, and David Sylvian of Japan fame.

The first concert I was taken to back home by my uncle was Elvis Costello at the Sydney Opera House, starting an affair which lasted until another concert a year or two back in Sydney in which he seemed not to really give a care whether it was good for the fans or not. We've made up since, but only based on the quality of his his early work.

I've never really got past about 1986. I tended to stick with what I knew in other formats. Paul Weller after The Jam with the Style Council, then as a solo artist. Madness as they reform and part ways to reform yet again. The only band that I have really got into recently (I mean since 1986, but not actually recently) is The Beautiful South who are basically a revamped Housemartins.

I think there is a fairly even 50/50 proportion in my music collection of stuff that I like because it had something to do with my youth, and stuff that I like because it is actually good music. Being of the generation that saw video almost literally kill the radio star, the visual is sometimes as important as the song.

Other than the New Wave style makeup and less hair, I think I am still the person today that was expressed by the music and videos I've listed. Vaguely flamboyant (New Wave) with a slightly anti disestablishment bent (punk), imbued with a dress sense still based on Mod neatness, and a voyeuristic tendency brought on by associating music with mini movies.

Plus I enjoy music. The worlds most succesful art form.

But don't we all?

Pu de Fudd

I am remiss. Hold me in the sheerest disdain, for I have not publicly welcomed The Acolyte to the world stage.

Congratulations to Mr and Mrs Theologian on the birth of a bouncing baby boy in good health and spirits. My you both survive enjoy the journey.

Mrs A is half way to the day of reckoning, and I find myself disappointed. Every woman is, I suppose, different, and being a gym junkie she has stomach muscles of steel. So at 20 weeks there is little if any obvious physical sign that she is indeed up the duff. Walking through baby shops amongst women who have developed their own gravitational pull, and even achieved small satellite moons in some instances, we are treated with a certain level of disbelief when answering shop assistants on how far along we are.

There is also a lack of obvious baby motion and kicking. No Jackie Chan kung fu fighting adept is this child of mine.

We now have, thanks to the generosity of grandparents to be, a cot that becomes a bed, a tallboy that remains a tallboy, a pram that becomes a stroller and a change table that becomes a drinks cart. I doubt that that is actually the manufacturers intention, but even the shop assistant thought it sounded a good idea when I pointed it out. What else do you ultimately do with a solid timber set of open shelves on wheels once the original purpose is no longer required?

Oh, and the title of the post? Ask a butcher.

Fashion Sense

I have a problem. I think I am either regressing or channelling fashion tips from the western suburbs of Sydney.

It's winter. It's cold. The place we live in is full brick. It's cold. Recently the suburb was listed as one of the top 10 most expensive suburbs in Australia. Therefore I can't afford heating. It's cold. In general people there tend to look at me as if I've come to fix the road or steal their television, and tend to judge you on the badge of your car. But bugger them. It's convenient for work so they're just going to have to put up with me. Especially as I have now bought a flannelette shirt. (As I said, it's cold) I daresay it is the first of its kind in the suburb. I only wear it in lieu of pyjamas around the house on a Sunday but I have worn it once or twice onto the deck to cook my Sunday brekkie in full view of neighbours who I'm sure have ordered bars for their windows.

Despite the cold my other little fashion foray is the t-shirt with the slogan or picture on it. All my life I've been a plain colour man, preferably with collar. But since I got the Guns don't kill t-shirt I've gone a little strange.

I'm sure the reference to republicans and voldemort is taken in an entirely different way by Americans than the republican vs. monarchy debate in Oz, but I think it works.

I still haven't succumbed to plus fours at golf, but I'll keep you posted.

19 ways to keep your sanity

Got this one in an email.

1.  At lunch time, sit in your parked car with sunglasses on and point a hair dryer at passing cars.  See if they slow down.

2.  Page yourself over the intercom. Don't disguise your voice.

3.  Every time someone asks you to do something, ask if they want fries with that.

4.  Put your trash can on your desk and label it "In box".

5.  Put decaf in the coffee maker for three weeks. Once everyone has gotten over their caffeine addictions, switch to espresso.

6.  In the memo field of all your checks, write "For Sexual Favours"

7.  Finish all your sentences with, "In accordance with the prophecy."

8   dont use any punctuation

9.  As often as possible, skip rather than walk.

11. Specify that your drive-through order is "To go."

12. Sing along at the opera.

13. Go to a poetry recital and ask why the poems don't rhyme

14. Put mosquito netting around your cubicle and play tropical sounds all day.

17. When the money comes out the ATM, scream "I won! I won!"

18. When leaving the zoo, start running towards the parking lot, yelling, "Run for your lives - they're loose!"

Bookshop

Not having been invited to the Queens birthday party on the long weekend, I decided to head into town to spend some gift certificates I had been given on my birthday. They were for Kinokuniya, a bookshop I have not patronised often, prefering Dymocks down the road. From memory it seemed pretty big, and I was looking forward to spending some quality browse time while I made my decisions. Perhaps I am abusing a stereotype, but I was under the impression that being a Japanese owned concern it would be run with ruthless efficiency by staff who would immediately know the answer to any question or kill themselves with shame.

Well they certainly were ruthless. I never saw one name badge with Ruth written on it.

I walked in and inhaled. The lulling smell of printed, bound bookiness mingled with the noodle bar on the other side of the escalator. I inhaled again and sadly realised that lack of coffee smell meant that the cafe within the store was closed. Never mind. I would go to lunch immediately I had made my decisions and enjoy my repast all the more for the waiting.

With no sense of urgency I wandered to the left. I wandered until I could wander no more lest I walk through the wall, and began my perusal of the wares which were presented in so many categories. History and philosophy were stacked ceiling high. Student types read Kafka and Churchill side by side. I wanted to use one of those small stool like contraptions with wheels that fold up when you stand on them allowing you a secure platform from which to tease the upper most shelves of their possessions, but all of them were being used as stools by those who would normally have been in the coffee shop, so I kept to the shelves that I could reach.

As I slowly made my way through crime, fantasy, and into literature, I was, by a process not dissimilar to osmosis, beginning to have a feel for what I was looking for. Having taken in the atmosphere I was leaning toward the classics. The raison d'etre for many a modern writer. I hadn't read any real classics in years, and began to hunger for Dickens, Hardy and the ilk. I approached the front desk and interrupted a staff member drinking coffee from a polystyrene cup. I asked where I might find the right section to satisfy my wants.

"What do you mean by classical?", he asked.

Feeling that he may have mistaken me for someone who perhaps had an interest in the architecture of the Parthenon I elaborated.

"Hmmm. That sounds like it would be in the literature section. We don't really have a distinct section for those types of authors. What were you looking for?".

I mentioned David Copperfield, ruminated that I might like to try Tess of the d'Urbervilles, and wondered if I would be more successful in tackling War and Peace than my Grandmother who gave it lacklustre reviews.

For David Copperfield he pointed out that I might try hobbies as that was where magic "how to" books were likely to be kept.

Whilst I understand that Mr Copperfield the magician is a man who has achieved reasonable celebrity, I would have thought that someone working in a bookshop given the context of our conversation would have been a little closer to the mark. The look on my face must have said something to him as he pointed out that there was an information desk and a touch screen computer available for my use.

I decided on the computer. I had little joy with my search for the classics as they were all listed as out of stock. Then I remembered that Bernard Cornwell's third book in the Saxon series should be out and decided to look for that instead. Apparently it was in stock, so I pressed the button that said it would display the map that would show me where to find it. An error message came up on the screen. In Japanese. I pressed one of the three options without a clue as to what it meant, and the program shut down. I could see no icon on the desktop that looked as though it may start the program again, so I decided to rely on the information desk, and it's humanity.

The young bloke behind the counter was leaning back precariously on his chair chatting to another employee who was half heartedly covering books. I asked them the same questions re Dickens and Hardy, and asked if they were aware of the release of the new Bernard Cornwell. In the most helpful manner that had been displayed in the store that entire morning, I spelled Bernard Cornwell three times before he found it.

"It should be in literature." he said. "And the Cornwell stuff is through that wall, two shelves across."

Through that wall two shelves across was the end of crime fiction and the beginning of fantasy. Fantasy as in the genre rather than the staffs state of mind. Strangely enough as I walked passed the crime fiction I found an area chock full of Bernard Cornwell.

Things were beginning to sour, and that to my mind is something that should not happen in a bookshop. To avoid any permanent damage I grabbed the Cornwell and a book on Boudicca, handed over my vouchers, paid the balance and fled to the Australian hotel in the rocks for pizza.

If you're ever at The Australian, try the rocket and prosciutto pizza. It's fantastic.

 

Placards

Once upon a time, not so very long ago in the grand scheme of things, the Catholic Church believed the world to be flat. They believed that the world had been created mere thousands of years ago, in seven days, and that it was bang slap in the centre of the Universe because we were too important in the eyes of God to be anywhere else.

The Church has suffered under Popes in the Middle Ages whose spirituality was questionable, and whose excesses were manifold. The Inquisition is still a byword for ecclesiastic savagery and human depravity through the use of torture and the death of many innocents. The ravaging of the Holy Land during the Crusades, the attempts at ethnic cleansing in the name of God and the burning of "heretics" and "witches" are black scars in it's past that will be visible to the naked eye for millennia.

I must say that some in some instances they would have found support for their views in the scientific community. For example, Aristotle was against the view of heliocentrism, basing his argument on the lack of observable parallax shifts in the stars’ positions as the earth moved in its orbit around the sun. Centuries later modern equipment, and a better idea of how far away the stars are has changed that view, but when Aristotle stated his theories he did so from the perspective of science and threatened no ones health, physical or spiritual.

Don't get me wrong. This is not an attack on the Catholic Church. I have not done enough study in the matter to provide a cohesive argument either way. Also my wife is Catholic and I have a great deal of respect for both her, and for any modern clergy, regardless of sect, who now bear few if any of the less desirable traits of their Holy ancestors. The Catholic Churches recent apology for past sins and faults, although falling short, certainly shows that the modern view held by the Holy See is more forward thinking than say, the Australian Government who refuse to apologise to the stolen generation of indigenous Australians.

No. My point, or perhaps query is this. The Church has weathered many storms over the centuries. It has eaten humble pie admitting that previously strongly held beliefs are at least apocryphal, and at worst laughably ridiculous. But they have remained a dominant religious power through it all and look as if they will carry on along that path. People believe the core message of Jesus even if they have found the Church to be wanting in other areas. It would take a huge shift in the perception of the faithful based on irrefutable information which I think would have to come from one or more members of the Holy Trinity before a paradoxical shift of any significance took place.

So why are there crowds of protesters outside cinemas showing the Da Vinci Code? Why have the Church generated so much publicity for a book that even reasonably small amounts of research can basically discredit, at least insofar as the priory of Sion is concerned? Even the authors of Holy Blood Holy Grail now believe that the list of Grand Masters was pure invention, and they were a major catalyst for the whole idea. And if the tantalising idea of a birth line from Christ, (which I personally believe to be eminently possible, though not from any evidence supplied by Dan Brown), is taken as gospel, if you will pardon the pun, by some directly from the content of the book without any further research, I would suggest that those people are the least likely to be a danger to the Church. And for those who do delve deeper and learn a bit of history and theology, ask some questions about faith and belief systems, I think the protesters should thank the author simply for opening up debate and discussion; bringing the modern Church into focus in ways that it may never have been rather than becoming placard waving public nuisances.

It's just a movie after all.

I'm 37. I'm not old.

Arthur: Old woman!

Dennis: MAN!

Arthur: Man, sorry. What knight lives in that castle over there?

Dennis: I'm 37.

Arthur: What?

Dennis: I'm 37! I'm not old!

Arthur: Well, I can't just call you "man".

Dennis: You could say "Dennis".

Arthur: I didn't know you were called Dennis.

Dennis: Well you didn't bother to find out, did you?

Arthur: I did say I'm sorry about the "old woman", but from behind you looked...

Dennis: What I object to is you automatically treatin' me like an inferior.

Arthur: Well, I am king.

Dennis: Oh, king, eh - very nice. And how'd you get that, then? By exploiting the workers! By hanging on to outdated imperialist dogma which perpetuates the economic and social differences in our society. If there's ever going to be any progress...

That's the problem with getting older. I just don't feel it. But if you turn up at nightclubs and bars inhabited by the young, or those substantially younger than you, you get those funny looks, like you're a dirty old man who should be in his slippers at the old folks home. My birthday on Sunday advanced that theory. Everyone asked me if I was having a nice relaxing day, not if I'd hit the town and was suffering a hangover of gargantuan proportions. Sadly I was in bed rather early, but that was choice, not infirmity. Well maybe a little infirmity, so shut up.

We've started on the nursery. I always thought that meant a place to sell plants, but apparently the literal translation is, "room where your books, computer and guitar used to be, that is now empty and waiting for all the stuff at the baby shop to come off lay by". I'm now surfing the net next to the ironing board.

At babies galore on the weekend I began to learn how much crap is required by small prune like creatures who's existence is primarily focused on your wallet. Prams that become strollers, cots that become beds, change tables that become space shuttles. The baby monitors look interesting. there are the basic walkie talkie types, and then there are the ones that tell you the temperature in Brazil whilst servicing your car. One place we went to in Chatswood was fun. The lady working there spied Mrs A. and said in a sweet shop assistant voice, "Hello". Then she saw me and said, "Well Hello! Ooh I do love a man with a moustache"! She said this while clutching my arm and making suggestive movements. Strangely Mrs A. chose to shop elsewhere.

I bought myself a couple of birthday presents. Although I do try to buy Australian, these items were only for sale via the net in the US.

I bought this t shirt..

And this wax...

Even though the wax had the correct spelling, many other items I looked at in the States didn't. I know that in general America dislikes putting the U after the O in many words, honour, colour etc, but this instance seems to show that they sometimes don't like to put the O in front of the U, making the word mustache instead of moustache. I kind of like the drawn out MOO-starche sound. Then again, Australian accents are probably just as strange to most English speaking nations regardless of spelling. Wearing the t-shirt on my birthday a friend pointed out that if you thought about it, the slogan made a good point when you considered people like Hitler, Stalin and Hussein.  I didn't like her point so I killed her. Actually, I bought her a vodka and orange and let her beat me at pool.

Maybe I am getting old.

The Undead

I've had an ache. It's been there for a year or two, and Mrs A. finally badgered me into going to the doctor. With her being pregnant we see a fair few doctors, so I thought I might as well make a booking. As we only moved into the area around Christmas, seeing a new doctor required that she asked all the questions and poked and prodded all the places. It didn't really worry me as it's the closest to any form of action that I'm getting right now.

With the litigious nature of society, she wanted to be absolutely sure that she was looking into every aspect of possibility insofar as diagnosis was concerned. She thought that the symptoms could be kidneys, lower back problems or hernia. She asked me to pee in a cup. Apparently her coffee cup wasn't what she had in mind. Once we cleared that up I presented her with my specimen. She went to look at it under a microscope. "You can't see that it's three quarters full"? I queried.

Then she sent me to see the undead. The Nosferatu of pathology.

I'm impressed. They really have changed with the times. Movies have you believe that Mummies and Zombies and such are still in mouldy old tombs and mansions in inaccessible mountain regions. But the reality seems to be far different.

Vampires seem to be in some demand. You can't make a booking, and first come best dressed makes for something of a scramble at opening time. Entering the den waiting room was an experience. The smiling assistant had me fill in a couple of forms. Then I sat amongst the hoi polloi waiting my turn. The two mothers with strollers taking up at least half of the available room were very loud. One had a boy, I assume called Lachlan, though I only heard him called Lachy Loo. The other had a girl who I think may have been called Oompsywookumsdarlingpoo. Or something to that effect. Even though I was reading my book, most of my attention was on Lachy Loo. Mumsy wumsy kept up an incessant monologue without actually looking at him once.

"Don't do that Lachy Loo. Leave that nice lady's purse in her handbag Lachy loo. No Lachy Loo, that's a colostomy bag". Yes, some poor old bugger in a dressing gown with said accoutrement had come in, waved knowingly at the receptionist and sat down next to the woman who was next to me. The poor girl tried to sit on my lap. It didn't really worry me as it's the closest to any form of action that I'm getting right now.

Lachy Loo ran amok whilst his annoyingly ineffective mother droned at him without conviction. Then Lachy Loo hit the deck. I'm not sure who tripped the little bastard, but it was beautifully done. The howls would have done a werewolf proud. Then inexplicably, his mother picked him up, dusted him off and handed him a garden gnome to play with. Full size, pottery (or whatever they are made of), funny hat, pipe in mouth, brightly painted garden gnome. Lachy Loo tried to hit people with it, but it was almost as big as he, and far too heavy.

"Yanny der Hearse"?

I was immensely gratified to find that the Vampire on duty did have a surname that would have done her Transylvanian ancestors proud, and an accent to match. She took me out the back, and having scrubbed my neck nice and clean before I came, I was startled to find that she was going to extract my blood via a very modern looking single fang like contraption that she stuck in my arm. She filled three test tube like vials and then wrote my name and date of birth on them. I assume it's for vintage clarification purposes. I wonder if 1969 was a good year.

Puke

Finally Unwired have replaced my faulty modem. Having made me plug it in at three separate suburbs around Sydney to ensure it was the modem and not the user or signal strength that was the problem, they then sent me a new one.... to Chullora.

I have no idea where Chullora is.

The poor bloke they were trying to give it to rang my mobile number on the package and asked where I was. He'd never heard of Marrickville. I rang unwired. They had never heard of me.

But all's well that ends well. Good timing actually.

I've heard it bandied about that there are two ways to win an argument with a woman, and that neither works. So I listened to what she said and waited three months to the day.

Our bathroom is acoustically stunning. The sound of morning sickness swells to orchestral proportions, echoing through the house and announcing to the neighbours that Mrs A. is either bulimic, alcoholic, or about to get much bigger in the middle of her body like a chuppa chup that was put together wrong. Sadly for her it's not the second scenario. Happily for me it's not the first scenario.

Who named it morning sickness? Data that I have gathered over the last three months suggests that in the accurate description department people have been sleeping on the job. Still the reality makes every day and every outing an experience to remember. She could write a book on places to puke, and the relevant expletives to throw at ones partner when ones partner asks meekly if she is all right.

We had the obligatory ultrasound at the obligatory time, and the woman who administered it sounded exactly like a slimmer, higher pitched version of Arnold Schwarzenegger. Mrs A. walked in and laid on the little bed like thing. Mrs Schwarzenegger fiddled with dials and keyboards for a moment, then proceeded to show us grainy black and white photos of the foetus.

During the ultrasound she exclaimed "Ya. Loog at ze bootiful beby. I luff zis job ven I see ze bootiful beby".

A few weeks later we went to the Royal North Shore Hospital to be interviewed by the midwife. She asked all the pertinent questions, like did either of us have syphilis. I answered by claiming that I was Napoleon. Mrs A. tried to calm her by saying that she probably thought we were a little strange.

"No", she said, "I see a lot of people".

"Are they with us now"? I asked.

My Father was a father, and his before him etc etc, so I think I should do OK.

Late November or early December will prove me right or wrong.

Moe

Ladies and Gentlemen,

After a period of Karmic realignment, which involved a drunken Irish comic, a clean out of my wardrobe, and having my brakes fail whilst crossing Parramatta road at Annandale, I stand before you shriven, exfoliated, and asking for money.

Well, not so much asking for money as requesting you think on participating in a charity event which I intend to be a part of this coming November. I am getting in early so as to recruit as many people as possible.

The event is Movember, wherein participants shave at the end of October, and are sponsored by family, friends and workmates to grow a moustache for the month of November, the funds raised being donated to researching a cure for prostate cancer.

There is good info here and here. I will officially start badgering any people over the next few months who can either grow sub nasal facial hair in appropriate quantities, or just want to be a part of the fun and donate some money for a good cause, and register as large a team as possible come September. Hopefully some of us will be able to make it to one of the gala parties held at the conclusion of the event.

I must say here and now that I do not intend to shave myself and have approached the organisers of the event explaining the conundrum of removing what is essentially my membership criteria for the Handlebar Club. I received and email from the Movember team agreeing that organising people to participate would be more than acceptable.

So anyone who is interested in being part of the fun, willing to do a bit of footwork getting sponsorship from their mates, drop me an email to

handlebar.moe@gmail.

I don't care if you are from Sydney, somewhere else in Australia or overseas. My team will be open to anyone who wishes to participate, and can send their final funds raised in some fashion or another so they can be handed over at the end of the event.

Frankly, I think it's about time that the moustache was given its rightful place in society once more. And if men's health can benefit from the re emergence of a fashion icon, and we can all get a little drunk in the process, what's not to love?

email me NOW.