Suckers!

The Seersucker Social from Brandon Bloch on Vimeo.

The Seersucker Social returns to Washington DC on June 4. It's a fund-raising event from the whimsically named DC outfit Dandies & Quaintrelles. I watched video from last year's event online with radiant envy last year - have you ever seen anything more gorgeous? Summer, spectacular estates, prissy vintage outfits, delicious picnics and cocktails, and, of course, bikes. This year I won't be watching from afar...

PS Between this video and my newfound Heathers obsession, not to mention my daily ride past the McIlwraith club in Auchenflower, I reckon croquet is ripe for a comeback.

Shootin the shit with Hunter S

This is pretty old, but still fun. A fresh faced Conan O'Brien tried for years to get Hunter S Thompson to appear on his show, but Hunter would only agree to an interview if Conan came to him. And if they had hard liquor. And guns. Maybe he was bluffing, but Conan showed up with a film crew.

The great Dr Gonzo seems appropriately baked in this clip; almost like a cariacature of Johnny Depp's potrayal of him in Fear & Loathing. Besuited butlers add to the surreal sight, and there's a crazy moment where the safety guy pushes Hunter's whiskey out of the way of the machine gun he's lining up.

At the drive-in

If having your surname bastardised into an adjective is a sign of having made it, congratulations Daz. This is the most Hanlonian adventure put to film yet. It features a derelict old drive-in theatre, a devious adventure, a mum-napping and some smoulderingly masculine soldering and hacksawing. And speaking of bastards, there's even a cantankerous cameo from Bob Ellis.

It's the brand spanking new video for "Butterfly Bones", from Darren Hanlon's latest album I Will Love You At All. Directed by regular Daz collaborator, Natalie Van Den Dungen, it's a lovingly-shot tribute to a country town and a forgotten but no less fascinating institution. You might recognise faces like Rhys Muldoon, Tina Bursill, Jess Tovey and Bec Rigby. You might love lines like "when one year ends and another begins / and the sky is a shower of sparks / with your skinny-girl arms with their hairs on their ends / like exclamation marks". You might just be a Bob Ellis completist. There's something for everyone. Check it out.

Daz is going to put some words up here about the experience of making the video at the old West-View in Dubbo. When the site came up for sale late last year there was a small flurry of excitement that someone might get it going again. You can join a Facebook group to support the reopening of the drive-in, but I think what may really be needed here is someone with a shit-ton of money and a nostalgic streak. According to the agents, the site hasn't been purchased yet...

Darren Hanlon will tour nationally over the next few weeks - check the dates here.

Summer salt

And this time next week
When planes find their feet
We'll dive and somersault
In the brine, the summer salt
Tasting sun on our skins
Sweet split watermelon grins
Sand, sea, sky - each a line
Fish in paper, lemon, wine
New tanlines will cross backs
Roadtrip mixtapes in stacks
And the flip flop beat songs
Of what you call flip flops
...and I call thongs.

Under the weather

The bridge on Saturday

So you might have heard things are a little soggy here in St George. All the water from the flooding further north in Queensland is making its way down the river system, and the Balonne River is swelling. The river is expected to peak on the weekend at 14 metres or higher, which would apparently see 80% of the town affected (that could mean inundation of houses or just backyards). It's looking likely the water levels will exceed March 2010's "once in a century" flooding in town. Then, the river rose to 13.39m and spilled across the Terrace, the street which runs alongside the river. A number of homes were inundated along the Terrace.

Saturday January 1

Some people had only moved back into their flood-damaged homes a few of weeks ago. Now they're again building levee banks and sandbagging in an attempt to resist the floods. Three days ago, on Saturday, the river was just level with the bridge and creeping into the riverside parkland. It seemed funny to see playground equipment in puddles and picnic tables surrounded by water. Today levels reached 12m. You can't get within a coupl of blocks of the bridge for all the water - streets leading to both ends of the Terrace are closed off.

The Terrace at Barlee Street, today

There's an overload of information - constant updates on ABC Radio, news coverage on TV and updates from the Bureau of Meteorology online. Rumours are swirling and everyone has a different opinion on what will happen. The floods last year ended up peaking at a lower level than the dire predictions, so many people I've spoken to are sceptical that these floods will be any worse. Others are packing up their stuff and filling sandbags. No one really knows what will happen, and while we are fortunate to have time to prepare (unlike those up north) it's hard to know what to prepare for. Mum wants to move our piano to higher ground; Dad reckons it's a storm in a teacup.

The hospital was evacuated today, the nursing home will be evacuated in the morning. The state primary school has been sandbagged. Nearby Dirranbandi is expected to be isolated for a month. All day the sky stutters with choppers - both news crews and emergency services. The SES are running a ferry service for people who live on the other side of the river, whose access to their work and supplies from town have been cut off with the bridge. Almost all other routes into town are also cut - so we haven't seen many fresh vegies for a while. Meanwhile all the grapes that are being harvested at the moment look like sitting in storage here for some time. I've even heard a rumour that one grape farmer whose vines are in a lowset area has been sending out his pickers in a boat.

Humid days have built into electrical storms the last couple of nights, and there are rumours of big rain coming tomorrow night or Thursday. Last night the power was cut off and the entire town was in blackout until the early hours of morning - hence no posts yesterday! I was driving back into town around 8.30 as the streetlights, and every other light in town, suddenly clapped out. It was quite eerie. It's really something, though, to watch a storm roll in amidst pitch blackness - a blanket of cloud extinguishing the stars one by one.

But for now life goes on as usual - albeit with a lot more traffic along the Terrace as the locals go stickybeaking! Marauding kids swim in what was once the riverside ampitheatre; a family sit watching fishing lines where there was grass a few days ago. And we wait.

The Climber

Her virtues have been the subject of previous accolades here, but I really am bursting with pride at the amazing job my sister has landed straight after graduating from uni. It's not luck; she worked really hard to reach this point. Nor should we be suprised - her talents have always been easy to spot.

Case in point, the real reason for the breaking of a blogging silence. I give you, my sister, the poetic prodigy - and one of her finest works, just unearthed from the piles of debris in our shared childhood bedroom in St George. I believe it dates to around 1998.

The Climber

I’m an expert tree climber
I’ve climbed every tree there is, that is except
The tree in my back yard
That to climb is rather hard.
All my goals lie in that tree
And the ultimate wish for me
Would be to climb that tree!
I’ve wanted to climb it since I was three,
That rotten rascal of a tree.
And though I try with all my might,
It always seems to win the fight!
One day on November 2nd
The tree seemed more and more to beckon me to climb the far apart branches,
Although I didn’t have many chances.
I ventured up in my teddy socks and climbing shoes,
(I’m going to win not lose)
And navy T-shirt and shorts
(This is like climbing the playground fort)
Apart from that I was rather bare
Except of course for my PINK underwear!
Still on the ground I jumped as high as I thought I could,
And to my amazement felt solid wood!
I reached up high for the next branch.
“At last,” I thought, “I’ve got a chance!”
Although that chance was rather slim
I hung on for dear life to that limb
So that’s how i got to the top of the tree
Just the branches, leaves, trunk and me!
When suddenly at the tip top
I thought that I ought to stop
I moved around to find a place to rest,
I thought to myself this is the BEST!
But I felt uncomfortable, I felt stiff,
It got me thinking – what if?
Undoing mum’s knots that are safe as locks,
I pull off my favourite teddy bear socks.
As I lie there longer and longer,
My courage is getting stronger and stronger!
The heat is IMMENSE!
But no offense!
I think what the heck,
I feel the tight collar crawling up my neck
And, oh, I am so cool,
But I feel like a fool.
In my singlet pink,
Oh, I need a DRINK
And then.....

My toes are curling,
I’m losing my grip,
I’m feeling wobbly,
I’m starting to slip.
My shorts are caught
The denim starts to rip,
A stick catches my zipper,
And Zziipppppp!
I’ve been dacked by a tree!!
Yes, you heard correctly, yes, ME!
I climb down that mongrel tree
As fast as my legs can carry me
I run flat across the back yard
I run as hard as hard as hard,
I don’t care about the neighbours staring
I just care about what I’m wearing.
I am practically bare
Except of course for my PINK UNDERWEAR!!

---

Does anyone else think this would make for an exceptional children's book?

Dondero's van

The lovely Darren Hanlon has been in New York for the last couple of weeks and it’s been great to spend a bit of time with him. Through Daz I was also lucky enough to meet a bunch of great folks, including singer-songwriter David Dondero. Dondero deadpans wry, often sarcastic, fables collected like tumbleweeds from all corners of America. Fitting, as he’s a man of no fixed address; Kerouac with a guitar and a sense of humour. His latest album # Zero With a Bullet is really something, you should check it out.

Daz and Dondero are kindred spirits – both love the road and the adventures it brings. So it was a thrill to cop a back seat in Dondero’s van on a quick Saturday trip upstate. Dondero had to pick up some merch in New Paltz so offered to give Darren and I a ride to a gig in Woodstock. Naturally when travelling with musicians there’s no shortage of options for the stereo, and we had a particularly meta moment when Daz put on a song by Justice Of The Unicorns called “Dondero’s Van”. In vain have I trawled the internet to try to share this slice of musical madness with you, but to no avail. It’s a very simple song, delivered in Rusty's trademark creaky warble. (UPDATE: you can hear the song online here. Thanks Tom!)

Hey there Mr Sound Man
I’d bet you my life
You were in a band
Hey there Peter Fonda
Hey there Sasha Grey
Could you drive Dondero’s van?

From there it gets a little Dr Seuss for the chorus, detailing all the places the van will go.

Through the darkest night
Through construction sites

Et cetera. The van we were in wasn’t the actual van of the song though. The eponymous van was a monstous 15 seat Dodge Maxi that rumbled down many a highway, and I think Dondero regrets letting it go. At any rate driving through upstate New York on a gorgeous October day is one of life’s great pleasures, whatever vehicle you’re in. The Catskills rose before us like blue-grey smoke on the horizon, while a blazing patchwork of autumn leaves blurred past us.


Earlier, after fish tacos we strolled New Paltz’s winding backstreets. Rummaging for CDs and vinyl in the Team Love store room, Dondero found one of his old guitars, so we sat in the yet-to-be-opened store and had an impromptu jam session. The acoustics were kind of amazing in this empty old wooden room, unhung paintings leaning against the walls and curious passersby peeping in the windows. Sitting cross-legged on floorboards always brings out that kindergarten story-time impulse to just sit and listen in wonder, and it doesn’t hurt when you’re in the company of two incredible song-writers making up ballads about each other on the spot.

Hanging around musicians has been a lesson in creativity. Writing is such a solitary pursuit, but observing musicians, while there’s still a lot of writing that is done alone, the process is so much more collaborative. One band/project bleeds into another as all these random interpersonal links come into play – you’re on tour so you’re couch-surfing with guys from a band you met through another musician you’ve toured with, you’re working on songs and videos with people you’ve met through your music... You can meet a girl on the subway who knows your songs and that night she’s performing with you... There’s always something to be made or tweaked, an instrument to try, people to meet, an old record to listen to and learn from. It’s inspiring.


In that spirit it’s my great pleasure to direct you toward a song Dondero recorded with Darren and Rusty from Justice of the Unicorns. At first it seems a pretty straight cover of the Beatles’ “Here Comes The Sun”. Except that the lyrics have been rewritten from the perspective of a vampire. It’s a cute idea, particularly given that they rushed to finish it before Halloween. And it’s pretty clever.

Here comes the sun
I’d must make haste back to my coffin
Here comes the sun
If I stay here my skin will burn
Here comes the sun
I’d better run
It’s all right...

You can download the song here (via Largehearted Boy).

Playing dress-ups

Well, it's only taken me half the week to recover, but I've been hanging to post about my first Halloween. In Australia it's a holiday that's only observed by a handful of candy-greedy kids and uni students looking for yet another excuse to party, particularly in slutty costumes. Here in the States, though, Halloween is a big deal. More than a few people have told me it's their favourite holiday, more precious to them even than Christmas. And now I get it. I'm sure for children it's a magical occasion - the costumes, parties, and forcing strangers to give you treats. But for big kids it's a night where the bars are alive with drunken monsters, historical characters and pop culture icons, all united by a camraderie that is equal parts nostalgia and the chance to pretend to be someone else. A chance to wear your Marvel-comics obsession or ironic sense of humour on your sleeve. And your back. And your head.

It's so hard to pick a favourite costume of the night (and I'm here I mean Saturday night, though Sunday was the actual day of Halloween and the hectic parade through West Village), but I think mine was a merry band of muppets we kept bumping into as we bar crawled through the Lower East Side. There was a Swedish Chef, a chicken, Gonzo, Fozzie, Ralph, Beaker, Kermit and two yip-yip-yip-yip aliens. I'm not sure if all of them made their own costumes, but this lass dressed as Kermit made that amazing headpiece herself from fabric and a bike helmet. Well played.

Inspector Gadget was another well-executed costume that scored extra points for being one of my absolute favourite childhood cartoons. On that note, sadly I didn't see a Danger Mouse. But I did see a number of Kenny Powers (cf newfound Eastbound & Down obsession, get on board people!)... and high-fived every one of them. "You're fuckin out!"

There was a Ron Burgundy (Anchorman), a number of Kim Jong Ils, a very impressive Che Guevara T-shirt (the guy made himself up as Che and put a cardboard shirt around his head), and a heroin addict with a syringe dangling from his arm. He said it made saying no to beggars on the street much more entertaining. There was an awful lot of goose-pimpled female flesh on show in the inevitable slutty-(insert character here) costumes, so it was nice to see the objectification balance redressed occasionally. For example, there was a giant cock-and-balls sighted. And there was this guy (stilts and top hat sadly cropped out):

Everybody on the L train was trying so hard not to look. NB bare bottoms on the subway = not hygienic for anyone

A mini-trend was social media themed costumes. My friend went as the "sad FourSquare mayor" which is something I do not understand but proved a hit for more social-media savvy New Yorkers. At one point she had 10 people "checked in" to her and I believe it was the highlight of her night. For Twitter fans there was a great Fail Whale, and my favourite of all was an ostensibly uncostumed guy who was Mark Zuckerberg. He was even handing out business cards that said "I'm CEO, bitch". (You have seen The Social Network by now, right?)

Then there are those costumes that are just plain cute. Like French Toast here....

I opted for warmth and an excuse to smoke by dressing as Margot Tenenbaum. Unfortunately many people didn't get it because I struggled to maintain the requisite surly expression because I was having too much fun! I wish it could be Halloween every weekend..

Ever vigilant, ever true

So you come home after a long day of fighting crime and kicking evil villain arse and all you wanna do is kick back and eat fish fingers and maybe watch some Gossip Girl, but what's this? When you put on your x-ray specs to see what's in the fridge, not only is the left lens cracked but you can still see that you're out of liquid courage and your supplies of instant force-field are all but gone. Not only that, but your favourite cape has an icky stain, and you know how hard it is to clear up kryptonite marks. The final blow? You can't find a single pair of tights that aren't laddered. What's a superhero to do?

Glad you asked. It's time to visit the Brooklyn Superhero Supply Co.

It's pretty self-explanatory: if you're a superhero in need of supplies, this is where you need to be. There are sections for outfitting (where you can pick up tights and capes), secret identity kits ("strive to be boring!"), gadgets and supplies (from tins of bravery to invisible weapons and x-ray specs), maps and more. Awesomely, there's a cape-testing station where you can trial the aerodynamics of your purchase, surrounded by electric fans.

I loved the public service poster "Stop Sidekick Misuse" (from S.I.S.S.Y - Superheroes in Support of Sidekicks, Yeah!) which had handy tips for not exploiting your right hand man (or woman. Or... creature). For example - don't practice x-ray vision on your sidekick! Or make your sidekick walk your dog! After all, sidekicks are heroes too!

To make a purchase is the biggest production of all. You must place your items inside a vault, and they are then sent up to the office via ropes and pulleys. Meanwhile, you are required to recite the vow of heroism:

THE VOW OF HEROISM
To be spoken aloud:
I [your full name], also known as [your superhero name], promise always to use my superpowers for good.
I promise that I will use the items I've purchased here today safely and in the name of justice.
I promise to remain ever vigilant, ever true.

Cute right? I was happy to play along. But be warned - should you ever find yourself reciting the vow of heroism at the Brooklyn Superhero Supply Co, and you fail to display an appropriate level of gusto, you will be asked to raise your voice so that everyone in the store stops and stares.

The best part of the store is hidden behind a door secreted away behind these shelves:

Yes, like all the movies you loved as a child, you can swing aside the shelves to reveal a hidden room. And it's here that the real magic happens - 826NYC's writing workshops for kids aged 6-18. Because of course, this hilarious store is brought to you by Dave Eggers and co, in the name of improving kids' lives through the written word. So if you wanna find a great gift for someone or just indulge your inner hero, check out some of the cool stuff online. Just quietly, my birthday's in a few weeks and I'm particularly partial to the maps.... "Where there is inaccurate mapping, vigilance wanes."

So what's your superhero name?

She's apples

It was a gorgeous autumn Sunday to get out of the city and see some of the New York state (and New Jersey) countryside. Fall is in full swing and the colours of the leaves are just amazing! When my friends organised to go apple-picking, I assumed it would be a quiet little farm and we'd be frolicking in the mud, surrounded by trees loaded with apples. In actual fact the farm (orchard slash winery) was packed with people, a band was playing, all kinds of food were on offer and while you could buy a bag to pick apples into, they had signs up saying there were very few apples on the trees...

And they weren't kidding! It was quite a mission just to spot an apple, and some potentially dangerous (particularly given the sangria on offer) tree-climing ensued. But in the end we harvested enough for an apple pie or two...

Seriously. Look at this countryside. They really do have red barns here.

The life aquatic

On a whim, decided on a Monday jaunt to Coney Island. The New York Aquarium has been there on the boardwalk since the 1950s but it's all pretty modern, with outdoor enclosures for seals, penguins, otters and walrus as well as all the usual fish, sharks, rays, etc.

There's something otherworldly about aquariums. All these winding dark passages, glowing eerily with blue light from the tanks - these walls of thick glass like windows onto another planet. Jellyfish that seem to glow fluorescently in the dark, anemones like alien life forms.

While the past few days' explorations have been soundtracked by folk music, there's something about aquariums - the artificial light, the jarring strangeness - that calls for electronic music, and the Chemical Brothers' Further worked a treat. "Another World", indeed. One of my favourite memories of San Francisco was these parties they'd have once a month at the natural history museum (which included a planetarium and aquarium), when they'd keep it open late at night, serve cocktails and have DJs. It was nuts.


Here in New York though it was very much a Monday afternoon, and I felt like Gulliver among the swarms of kids on school excursions. I think my favourite part was the walrus feature. They have such funny faces, like whiskery fat old men, and seem to leer at you cheesily. Plus they're absolutely enormous, and yet they flip and slide through the water effortlessly. This one was quite the showman, speeding toward us from the far side of the tank and then somersaulting right down the glass, so the kids could stare into his eyes, squealing all the while...

First days in BK

So after the thrilling chaos of East Village, on Friday I moved into a sublet in Brooklyn's Williamsburg for the next three weeks. My sweet new roommate is some kind of musical savant - when I first met her and she said she was learning to play the accordion, I was a little concerned. But the reality of hearing her practice in the next room, accompanied on saw (!) by her friend who's also a painter and web-designer (and great cook), has been that life suddenly feels like a slightly more ghetto version of Amelie. Surrounded by such creative people, it feels like a luxury to stay home and write on a Saturday night rather than brave the bars of the city.

Fairy lights are strung around my open window, the sounds of life and traffic filtering up from Graham Avenue three floors below. The subway that connects us here so easily to Manhattan, the L train, is shut down for maintenance all weekend, so that's been a good incentive to spend more time exploring this new hood.


This morning brought an expedition to the farmers market at McCarren Park, about ten minutes' walk away, after a great coffee from hipster hive Variety. It's weird, great espresso is so taken for granted in Australia that it's kinda funny to see people go ape for it here. Anyway, it's sunbright summery this weekend and the market was even better than expected, bountiful with seasonal produce from the area - apples, sugary plums, bright radishes, jars of honey and bouquets of flowers. I heaved home some huge bunches of beets and monster carrots, which I can't wait to roast, along with organic yoghurt, coriander (we call it cilantro here, posh eh?) and a generous handful of my new discovery, concord grapes. They're round and blue-black like muscats but soft and syrupy sweet inside.

In what can only be a great omen for my new neighbourhood, I actually bumped into someone I know (well, who I've met once) at the market, and later we met up for french toast and bloody marys at Harefield Road, which I suspect could become my local. After that we had coffee and delicious delicacies from Fortunato Brothers, a classic Italian-style pasticceria that serves amazing cannoli, a rainbow of gelato flavours, and is home to a lazy fat cat called Rocky.

Williamsburg is this crazy mix of old Italians and young creatives. A shop over the road which I thought sold funeral ornaments also sells brick-oven-baked bread. The community is reportedly still recovering from the death of an old woman who would get up at 3am every day to make fresh mozzarella and sell it from her doorway. The streets aren't as green as the Village but you just know most the homes have gardens hidden out back. Brick facades laced with fire escapes, bikes everywhere. Expect more details - particularly on food and cocktails! - but I reckon I'm on a winner here.

She's gone country

There’s something really invigorating about spending time in a tiny, tightknit community where everyone knows each other. As an out-of-towner you’re afforded almost celebrity status. People welcome you into their homes, talk to you like they’ve known you forever. Even if you don’t know people, it doesn’t take long to work out friends you have in common from boarding school or uni days.

Everyone’s at the pub on a Friday night after a long week; footy blaring on the TV, the girls from down the road playing guitar and various mates joining in on guest vocals, rounds being shouted, rollies being bummed, kids busting moves on what passes for a dancefloor. You can detour through the park on the three-block walk home, throw yourself down a dewy slippery dip and then dissect the night over bacon and toast and tea in someone’s kitchen. By the time you wake up, the night’s gossip has already filtered out to the rest of the district.

I’ve waxed lyrical before about the joys of bush races, but now I can happily report that even without ponies their fun is hardly diminished. Days of deluge in the lead up to the Morven races meant that the track was too wet for actual racing, but that didn’t deter a turnout of a few hundred people. Little kids raced around in baby akubras and handcrafted belts with their names embossed across their bottoms; hopped up on sugar, charred sausages and the novelty of seeing more people than they might in months.

Everyone was still in their races finery and the fashions of the field were still hotly contested. It can be a lucrative sideline, and so even at the most remote race meets you’ll still spot the odd lass who’s gone all out for sartorial glory. You can tell those who do the FOF circuit by touches above and beyond the standard country races garb – a net glove here, a seamed stocking there, vintage-style tailoring and jaunty pillbox hats with little lace veils... And when it’s your best mate, with hair curled by her mum, who triumphs over a seasoned campaigner like that, the thrill is magnificent.

You’ll never dance like you do in the middle of a crowd of rum-sozzled revellers of all ages, to music you don’t even like blasted from hired speakers on the back of a truck – people reeling and careening around you like a carnival ride on the verge of falling apart. And you’ll never see as many stars as you do sprawled in a swag in the back of a ute, even if you have to do so while listening to Garth Brooks’ greatest hits being blasted by someone else in the carpark.

Fletch and the city

This time next week... I'll be on the plane. New York bound, with nothing more organised than a couch to crash on. It's been coming for so long it feels surreal that the departure point is finally almost here - particularly from my current perch. Manhattan feels like a different planet to the broad, jacaranda-lined streets of the George. Have been reading the sporadic journal from my last trip though, which helps to get into the mood. My first entry, from new year's eve 2008, reads pretty smitten, and I only proceeded to fall further in love:

"New York is incredible, and I’ve barely scratched the surface. People seem to sense that I’m not from around here – could be my willingness to make eye contact, or the squealing at the snow, or constant grins and disbelief that I’m actually HERE. Everyone on the street is friendly, with a ready smile and the occasional whistle. The doormen all tip their caps as I pass down 86th Street, and the coffee vendors are always up for a chat.

"I arrived in darkness on Sunday night, after a death-defying ride on a shuttle bus from JFK with some similarly white-knuckled fellow passengers. New York roads are a chorus of discordant horns blaring and hand gestures; the clichés were accurate in this respect. En route I chatted with a Norwegian exchange student and her Californian friend, as we picked out the profile of the Empire State Building from the skyline, Manhattan nightlife twinkling into existence around us one bulb at a time...

"New York makes me feel like a child, in the best possible way. Everything is slightly dreamlike, in that I’m constantly surrounded by things I’ve seen before, suddenly made real. There are echoes of déjà vu everywhere, and not just from my current Gossip Girl obsession (the Met steps are still under construction, and it was too cold to attempt a yoghurt there anyway), but an entire lifetime of films and pop culture.

"No sooner had I reached Central Park than I was met by a squirrel - delightfully exotic to me, but I suspect more dime-a-dozen here than possums are at home. I passed a children’s playground and soon found myself on the running track around Jacqui Onassis Reservoir. Of course at this point I could no more put a name to the body of water than I could join the joggers, but with my iPod on what proved to be a mostly fortuitous shuffle, I followed the path around.

"There were ducks and picture-book rushes and the whole scene was quite picturesque, my runny nose aside. That familiar sensation of starring in a life-changing montage in the film of my life began to kick in... and then "Khe Sanh" came on. It changed the mood a little, but by clinging to lines like the last plane outta Sydney’s almost gone, I got through it. Soon enough the crisis had passed (gloves negate one’s control of the iPod clickwheel, you see) and I was on Fifth Avenue...."

Coasting

All families have their own shorthand of shared memories, private terminologies and in-jokes. In my family one of those tiny sayings that signifies something much bigger is "you're standing by the water's edge...".

It refers to a Family Circus cartoon that must have run some time in the early 90s - my attempts to find it online have thus far proved futile. In the cartoon, the mother says the words "you're standing by the water's edge..." and each of the kids visualises the scene based on what they've seen of the world. The littlest kid imagines a puddle, the next one a pond, then a river, and finally the eldest kid imagines an ocean.

The cartoon was duly clipped from the newspaper, yellowed and curled under a fridge magnet, and was even trotted out in photocopied form for boarding school care packages from Mum. But most of all the words became a mantra of reassurance from Mum whenever we were on the brink of some kind of change in life, and feeling a bit scared about what the future held. A reminder that whatever insecurities you feel, there's a whole world of opportunity there for you to conquer. From a school swimming carnival, to boarding school homesickness, to starting uni and then moving to Sydney... each time the scope was grander, the water's edge stretched further. Now I don't even need Mum to say the words; they just pop into my head.


Standing at the water's edge can be nerve-wracking, but with these times of change there also comes a dropping-away of commitments and a sense of freedom that I can only imagine becomes increasingly rarer into adulthood. In fact I'd say the past few months, waiting to get to this point, have been more difficult than the actual leap into the unknown. To switch metaphors, until the water's edge was in sight, it has sometimes felt like pedalling painfully uphill.

Having finally finished the climb, the downhill leg is exhilarating. Suddenly things are moving of their own accord, as time marches on toward a no-longer distant date of departure. Goodbyes are suddenly for real, packing is becoming a priority... There's no need to pedal now - I'm coasting. All that's left is to kick up my heels, feel the wind in my hair and enjoy the ride.

I don't belong here

Not entirely sure why, but I love this photo. I like the composition, but mainly I think it was the incongruity of the bags of rubbish just off the designer boutique drag of William Street. As I scruffily loped through Paddington's back lanes in between gallery stops yesterday, passing pearl-strung and poodle-pouffed women and meticiously disheveled fashionistas, my mental soundtrack was stuck on that haunting children's choir cover of Radiohead's "Creep"*. I don't belong here....

I will make exceptions, however, for the London's outstanding beer garden.


Main Paddington drawcards were Blender and the Australian Centre for Photography. ACP is currently decked with exhibitions of fashion photography, my favourite being "Zeitgeist Becomes Form", a retrospective of German fashion photography from 1945-1995. It's just delicious - from Helmut Newton's cinematic dramatics, to Jürgen Teller's raw androgynes and unconventional shapes. Lots of glorious black-and-white shots, ranging from graphic modish images from the 60s to Ellen von Unwerth's decadent sapphic tableaux. Amidst the monochrome, pops of saturated colour by the likes of Chico Bialas and Christian von Albensleben were even more compelling. I think these shots above by von Albensleben were my favourite - who knew the trots could be so glamorous? And the dive is such a perfect visual moment.

Just down the road, plenty of people were making the best of a sunny winter Saturday at the Paddington Reservoir Gardens. So many quiet nooks to read and picnic, it's a really lovely space that's at once historical, industrial, natural and peaceful.

*The choir cover of "Creep" can be heard in the trailer for The Social Network, aka the movie about Facebook that has inexplicably been made (in related WTFs, Justin Timberlake is involved). The whole thing is so ripe for satire it was only a matter of time before the parodies began to roll in, like The Video Website.

Road less travelled

I Ran The Wrong Way is one of the Surry Hills shops we visited as part of Small Stories Big Picture on the weekend. I figured it deserved its own post since it's such a treasure trove of random goodness - or, as it describes itself, "a trader of good finds".


The owner, Mel, describes herself as a "professional fossicker". She loves nothing more than hunting high and low for special, storied items for the shop. And ain't that the dream - making a living from doing the thing you love most?! From handmade pencils and stationary, to vintage suitcases, old cameras, organic skincare, niche books and wooden toys - you could find anything here, so long as its origins are ethical, sustainable and locally created or free trade.

Mel was also one of the organisers of Small Stories Big Picture - I tip my hat to you, ma'm. When I emailed to apply to take part, and asked if I could blog about it, she not only said yes - she had actually heard of the blog!

When I asked where the shop's name came from, Mel said it came from the way she approaches life. Less about wilfully going the wrong way, than being open to different ways of reaching your destination. Not unlike a certain great poem....

I Ran The Wrong Way is at 378 Cleveland Street, and well worth a visit...

Small stories, big picture

A couple weeks ago, Alison and I applied to be part of Small Stories Big Picture - an initiative as part of Sydney Design to encourage people to explore the hidden design gems of Surry Hills. Over 250 people applied to spend a Saturday with a bike, a LOMO camera and a passport of destinations to visit. We were lucky enough to make the cut, and BYO'd bikes and got a fish-eye camera to share for the day. It was so pretty, and I love that it has a fish on it:


Our journey started at Metalab, a gallery and workshop tucked in Fitzroy Place, a laneway off Crown Street just opposite Bill's. As the name suggests, the focus is on all things metallic, and they even run classes where you can learn to make jewellery.


Object Gallery on Bourke Street has a very colourful shop on the ground floor, and some really interesting exhibitions upstairs. First you hit an exhibition where nine different artists had to create something around theme "blue". Blue the colour, blue the feeling, something borrowed something blue, etc. Then up another level, were these amazing little magnifying viewers you could look through to see a tiny photo of an artist's workspace.


Reverse Garbage is a Sydney institution, making bulk industrial refuse available for artists to play with and students to decorate their sharehouses. RG now lives in Taylor Square.


Koskela was tucked away upstairs on Campbell Street, a place we'd never have found ourselves. It's a gorgeous space full of covetable furniture, homewares, light fittings, books, gardening bits and bobs and kids' toys. The emphasis is on sustainability, often reclaimed materials and Australian-designed and made products.

Spring Court is a teeny little shop that sells French sneakers and rad desert boots.

We stopped for a much needed coffee and late breakfast at Bang Bang cafe on Reservoir St... Owner Alan is an ex-DJ, and his background shows through in both the design (giant illustrations of headphones on the white walls) and a Brit-influenced menu that includes the likes of bacon butties and black puddings. Some bastard just beat me to the last rosti-filled, pancetta-topped breakfast stack, but my avocado, tomato and basil on toast was simple but deliciously tasty, and by all accounts the buttie is a beauty.


At this point we realised getting to all 24 destinations was going to be an epic mission, so we narrowed it down to the places we just had to see. Published Art on Mary Street has an eye-popping selection of art and design related books... I'd barely walked in the door before I found a book just about bike culture and design. Heaven!


We looped around Elizabeth Street and came up Cleveland to I Ran The Wrong Way (which is getting a post all its own) and Bird Textile. Bird is one of those places I've been passing on the bus for three years; always intrigued by the well-dressed bike they keep outside on the pavement, but never managed to actually go into the shop. They have a lovely range of eco-friendly fabrics and buttons (and clothes, bags, upholstery) in earthy greens and reds, with bold prints I'd say are a bit Japanese-influenced.


After Bird we went off map to David Met Nicole (another post in itself) then back up to Crown Street to Collector (clothes, homewares) and Paper2 (which titillated my current fetish for rubber stamps - and can you imagine anything more luxurious than having personalised stationery printed?).


We handed in our camera and finished the day with a cheeky pint amid the beer-garden plantlife and paper lanterns of the Beresford. It was the kind of sunbright, balmy Sydney winter Saturday that leaves you wondering why anyone would want to live anywhere else. It was so fun to be part of Small Stories Big Picture, but it's not over yet! There will be two more Saturdays of people shooting on LOMOs, and the resulting images will be on show at the Beresford over the coming weeks. There will be a party there to celebrate the full installation on August 18. See you there?