Shuffle all songs

When the clock ticked over midnight on Saturday night, I realised I’d been here in New York for a month. Somehow in that time I had been too full of everything else – tacos, adventures, beer, music, sunshine, love, gelati, excitement, biking, culture – to write anything down or to listen to my ipod. On Saturday night, after a few drinks with friends old and new, I did both. This is what I scrawled joyfully on the train back to my boyfriend’s place.

I’ve been so loved up since arrival I had to walk the streets alone – the chapels oozing stained glass light, the LES scenesters hanging out of dive bar windows, the cigarettes stubbed in 4^th street gutters – to feel the hunger, the need to write. And this is why I came to this city. To race to unknown subway stops, giving tourists directions I’m 79% certain of. To sit next to a dude passionately air-drumming along to his ipod in a newsboy cap on the F train at one in the morning. To feel so far from home I’m somehow at home. When each day brings so much unexpectedness, the only suitable soundtrack is to ‘shuffle all songs’. The downtown streets of Manhattan are bleeding rainbow flags and there is so much love in the air – with the gay marriage bill passed last night and the rest of Pride weekend to play out... It was so lovely to see the streets erupt with trashy disco music and gorgeous men holding each other up in their elation down Christopher Street. “Now we can be just as miserable as you straight couples!”, rejoiced one couple. “Goin to the chapel and we’re, gonna get ma-a-arried,” sang another celebrating dyke duo. And, as is the nature of this ever-changing, ever-transient city, I felt like I’d contributed to this landmark leap forward somehow, just by being here.

Putting yourself out there

Sam de Brito is a polarising writer. He irritates a few people I know, but I’ve always enjoyed his candour even when I don’t agree with his opinions. Sure, his manly man blog for the Sydney Morning Herald, All Men Are Liars, is often provocative. But he’s thoughtful and analyses his research, which is more than I can say for his female counterpart, and he’s less prone to maul the english language than her too. (This amazing piece from Pedestrian says it all - and yet I can’t stop reading her blog to see what Carrie Sadshaw cliché she massacres next. I believe this is called schadenfreude.)

Perhaps the biggest love/hate sticking point people have with de Brito is the extent to which he’s always injected himself into his writing. Whether he’s self-deprecating, self-flagellating or just self-defeating, de Brito never shies away from drawing lessons or just laughs from his own experiences and mistakes.

Anyway, I was happy for Sam when he wrote about finding the love of his life, their whirlwind romance and having a daughter together. There was a noticeable settling and softening in his work – he seemed to embrace the shift in perception that comes naturally with welcoming a child into the world. A year later, though, he’s enduring a break-up which is all the more exposed because of how much he’d written about it previously. After he announced that his partner had moved out, there were actually commenters parroting back gushings de Brito had written in the flush of his new love. I'm sure that paled in comparison to not being able to see his daughter every day, but still. Ouch.

From a writer’s and a lover’s perspective, there’s the rub. So many people will advise you to “write what you know”, and you can never bring something to life on the page as well as when you’ve lived it. So do you write that experience – and there are few things more inspiring than the early rush of love – or is it just tempting fate to put yourself out there?

If it’s a matter of being “sure”, how long should you wait? Can you ever really be assured that you’re set for the long haul and things won’t go tits-up? And how much great art would we have missed out on – songs, paintings, poetry, novels – if every lovestruck joe resisted the impulse to shout his joy from the metaphorical rooftops? (On a side note, I would love to see someone do research into who famous love poems were about/for, and whether the relationships worked out.)

Taking the pretension of art out of the equation, you can bring this debate back to something as simple and accessible as social media. When – if ever – is the right time to put your relationship out there on Facebook? What level of wall-to-wall contact should you maintain with your paramour? Is there anything creepier than couples, who might even live together, constantly mooning over each other on their virtual walls? Personally I think it’s a bit gauche to have my relationship status broadcast on Facebook. But I can’t deny that a big part of that personal rule is my utter revulsion at the idea of how it would feel if it were my own break-up broadcast with the zig-zag split heart on all my friends’ news feeds.

Another facet of this question has been on my mind as well. What are the rules, the etiquette, for writing about your ex after a relationship has ended? Not so much the sadness or even bitterness that can come after a relationship – that should never be aired publicly. But what about poignant and happy memories? If I were to write about the first time I told my someone that I loved him, for example, do I have the right to share that? The memory, the moment, does not belong to me alone.

Memories are part of the murky grey zone of relationships’ shared property. What are the rules for the division of those assets when the partnership dissolves? Can you – should you – ask permission for broadcasting rights to a private moment? Or can you assume that you breach no covenant in rehashing your own experience of a situation that in all possibility was experienced, or is remembered, entirely differently by the other party? When you hook up with a writer (or stand-up comic, or indeed a two-bit blogger, or anyone with a social media account), do you surrender your rights to privacy? And if so, why would anyone ever hook up with a writer?!

Certainly it seems more dignified, respectful and safe to simply leave such things in the past. Or, as a lawyer might advise, switch to fiction and change enough details that the ex-partner has no grounds for defamation. But even then, that party could still recognise themself in print. Like LA-based TV writer Hilary Winston, who had the unpleasant experience of learning that she and her ex held rather different perspectives on their relationship when she picked up his novel in a bookstore and found herself referred to as the “fat-assed girlfriend”. Having now published and sold the film rights to My Boyfriend Wrote A Book About Me, clearly she responded in kind.

What do you think about writers putting themself – and their relationships – out there? How would you feel if your ex wrote a book about you?

Welcome

"Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you've got about a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of, babies—God damn it, you've got to be kind."

- Kurt Vonnegut, from God Bless You, Dr Rosewater

Big love, little love

You know what else rolled around again blindingly fast? Valentine's Day. I want to rail against it, but that just seems kinda lazy. (Which isn't to say I haven't whinged about Valentine's Day for most of my life).

I'm still really proud of the post I wrote for Valentine's Day last year. And I still think that the best antidote to the consumerist bullshit of this hackneyed Hallmark holiday is to think about the people and things, both grand and simple, that you love. Even if it's not a reciprocal relationship - like the way I feel right now about my bike Baby Blue parked here bathed in sunshine in my new room, like a work of art - just the act of loving can be energising, inspiring, and grounding all at once.

I feel so loved right now. Considering my current state could be generously termed "bohemian" - or more dramatically, "destitute" - it's purely through the kindness of my amazing family and friends that I'm now sitting at the biggest desk I've ever had, job-searching in between long swims and bike rides and yoga with my sister, and day-dreaming about getting back to New York.

And then that city's a whole other love affair in itself. It's frustrating that that big love feels so far away, and for so trivial a reason as money. But just knowing that it's there waiting, and how good it will feel to be back there, will be enough to make the days fly by. That, and all the little everyday love moments: laughs with old friends, tumbleturns, cooking in other peoples' kitchens, baby giggles, backyard cricket, swapping well-loved books, frangipani on the summer air, the crackle of vinyl, cat stretches, and coasting down hills on a baby blue bike with spokey dokes. Each day its own little love letter.

Hope you found lots to love this Valentine's Day - and every day.

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.

Monkey business

Hard to believe it's been a whole year since this little guy first joined us. Especially when I think back to the teeny tiny fragile little bundle who arrived so early - compared to one-year-old Louis, who seems fatter each time I see him. His teeth are coming through at the moment, so his smile looks a little different every few days. It's a smile that gets a lot of use. This kid knows how to work a crowd. It was pretty tough trying to squeeze in a birthday cuddle with him today, all his doting grandparents and aunties and uncles did not want to give him up!

If I knew any other babies to buy presents for, I would totally rip off the amazing book Louis' auntie Carol found for him: M is for Metal. It's an alphabet book of Dr Seussian rhymes, with the common theme of hairy hard rock. From Akka Dakka to Zeppelin, via Gene's tongue and groupies, this book is genius. And it's Aussie! Created by music writer Barry Divola and artist Paul McNeil, you can have a sneak peek flip-through here. My favourite was:

S is for Stones
That just keep on rolling
Most of their fans
Have now switched to
Lawn bowling

Anyway, being unemployed I had little money for presents but lots of time on my hands, so I made the birthday cake. Regular readers will know of my obsession with kids' birthday cakes of the old Women's Weekly stable, but believe it or not they've never done a monkey (Louis' spirit animal).

Luckily all my time spent procrastinating on recipe blogs paid off and I remembered Smitten Kitchen's monkey cake. Deb made a delicious two-layer banana cake with chocolate and buttercream frosting. I didn't really tweak the recipe, except to use half a cup less sugar in the cake and to add some gratuitous smarties. As my friend Reboot wisely said, "Smarties are a must for any one-year-old's cake! Just because they might choke on them doesn't mean we can't pick them off and eat them! Also don't be afraid to cover it with 30-something candles - always a good challenge for the blower regardless of age!"

Meanwhile I have a whole book of Party Animals, cakes decorated like various adorable wildlife, and there are at least six I am dying to try. Starting with the ice-cream cake echidna, with TeeVee Snack spines and a coat of Ice-Magic. So if you know of any little kids with birthdays coming up, or even big kids, who might be up for some novelty cake action: holla!

This is my church

These clear, crisp mornings, fall chilling into winter, the sky so blue it’s painful. Coffee steaming in hand. Fingers jammed in coat pockets. The light is strong and golden and strains through red and orange leaves like so much stained glass; trees reach to each other from opposite sides of the street and I don’t feel like such an atheist. Forget the Sistine Chapel. This is my cathedral. This is what I believe in.

Photobooth

You guys, Halloween is the BEST.

Queen of hearts

While I was back in my hometown I spent a lot of time with my Nanna - we got into a daily routine of coffee and cards. I'd walk over to her place, occasionally with takeaway coffees or a sweet treat, but usually she'd provide some baked goodness from her ever-prepared freezer. We'd make small talk over instant coffee for a while - she was always a woman of few words - but it was all just delaying the inevitable. Because what she loved most of all about this routine was playing euchre. More specifically, beating me at euchre. I got one up on her a few times, but for the most part she dominated. And chat came easier once our hands were busy with the cards; trash talk, gossip, even jokes.

At one point I asked her if she'd ever had a bicycle, and she remembered the first time she'd ridden one. She grew up on a property and was completely at home on horses, but her first bike seemed an alien contraption and she was much less confident in its saddle. She managed to get the hang of it, riding around the yard, and was just starting to enjoy it when she realised she didn't know how to stop.... so she rode into the wall of the house.

Last week I spoke to her on the phone - she in a St George hospital bed, me looking out the window at the Brooklyn moon. It was too tiring for her to talk for long, but she assured me she was feeling better, and asked if I'd found someone to play cards with in America. I promised I'd keep looking for a euchre partner, and we agreed to speak soon. Maybe it was the distance yawning impossible between us, but we managed to say out loud the words we'd just said silently for so long: I love you.

I'm gonna miss her a lot.

Mermaid avenue

When researching Coney Island before my visit, there was one vague image that bubbled up from the vault of memory. I recalled a music video Supergrass did a few years ago, around the time of their Road To Rouen album, which featured archival and current footage of women dressed as mermaids and doing beautiful underwater dances.

Now, Coney Island does have an annual Mermaid Parade. Held at the height of summer, a sea of floats, vintage vehicles and costumed acolytes parade from Surf Avenue onto the Boardwalk. Each year there's a celebrity Queen Mermaid and King Neptune - this year Lou Reed was King Neptune!

But this is the video I was thinking of, for the song "Low C", and it's actually from a place in Florida called Weeki Wachee Springs. It's about all you can ask for from a music vid - almost more of a mini documentary, and it's a gorgeous complement to the song:



Amazing, right? Apparently Weeki Wachee spring is so deep no one's ever found the bottom. In the late 1940s an ex-Navy bloke called Newt Perry decided to set up a roadside attraction there off Highway 19, building an underwater theatre into the limestone and recruiting pretty girls to be mermaids, smiling and performing aquatic ballets, breathing oxygen sucked from hidden air hoses.

In those days, cars were few. When the girls heard a car coming, they ran to the road in their bathing suits to beckon drivers into the parking lot, just like sirens of ancient lore lured sailors to their sides. Then they jumped into the spring to perform.

Excuse me, I just need to check out flights to Florida....

Supergrass are one of those bands that never seemed to really get their due. They made some of the most memorable pop tunes of the nineties and naughties - grab a copy of their tenth birthday retrospective, Supergrass Is 10, and you'll be suprised just how many of their songs you know and love. Sure, they kicked off their career with two of the most quintessential songs of the Britpop explosion - "Caught By The Fuzz" and "Alright". But they went on to scale pop highs across a range of genres - glam, funk, fuzzy punk, blue-eyed soul, and more than a few nods to T-Rex and Slade. All illuminated by a sheer enthusiasm that's especially evident in the crowd-singalong joie de vivre of "Pumping on Your Stereo":

Life is a cigarette / You smoke til the end

The split-personality swoon and stomp of "Moving" is probably my favourite, though there's a magnetic melancholy about their 2005 Beatlesesque reinvention on Road To Rouen. There's a world-weariness permeating that album that probably isn't unconnected to the band's personal issues at the time. They released one more album, broke with their label EMI and were supposedly working on a seventh record called Release The Drones when they announced they were calling it a day in April this year. RIP, Supergrass. I'll never forget seeing them play Brisbane's Arena in 2004, one of the best gigs I've ever seen, complete with an encore cover of Neil Young's "The Loner".

Big Red rides again...

...c/o Stumble.Stop.Repeat.

Yo mama

Cutest. Baby. Ever.

Festival of leaving...

A pain in the arse

I posted earlier in the week about Christopher Hitchens' writing about his cancer diagnosis, which resonated particularly with me because a colleague - who is much more than just a colleague - has also been processing similar news over the past couple of months.

Jonty is a dear friend, a much respected mentor and all round good chap - he's one of the people I will miss most when I leave my job. He's cut from the dapper cloth of classic journalistic archetype - ever with a hat on his head, a fag on his lip and a story to tell. He has a seemingly endless store of hilarious anecdotes from his various past incarnations as a choirboy, a punk, and of course a globe-trotting hack. He's a voracious reader, a lover of music, an unabashed baccanalian when it comes to good food and drink. Above all he is a magnificent writer, and he is truly kind and generous in sharing both that talent and advice for aspiring journalists.

In that spirit, he is writing about his experiences with cancer, from diagnosis to treatment, for Crikey's health blog Croakey. It's called "A pain in the arse: A diary about living with cancer". He only pitched the idea to Croakey yesterday so I was suprised to see his first instalment posted today.

"I’m a journalist and writing is how I make my living so the mechanics of sitting down in front of a screen and marshalling my thoughts is the best way for me to feel normal."

He plays with a bittersweet allegory coined by a journalist he admired, James Cameron, who wrote a final column called "A pain in the neck" before he died of an inoperable tumour. Cameron described our lives as like sentences, and his diagnosis was a semi-colon before the final full-stop of death.

"As cancer patients go, I’m one of the lucky ones. The odds are vastly in my favour. I’ve had my own first semi-colon, but I’m looking forward to many more sub-ordinate clauses before my full stop hoves into view."

He also writes about the difficulty of telling people about his illness - working out who to tell, how to tell, the strange role reversal of often having to console people after delivering the news. It is a confronting read, unsentimental and very honest. I think it's a really brave and generous thing he is doing, sharing a journey that so many will unfortunately face, raising awareness and of course encouraging people to be vigilant about their health and not wait for the symptoms to get checked out.

"So you’ll indulge me, I hope, if I write about myself for the next few weeks and months. Journalists are supposed to write about other people and the word “I” ought to be anathema for any self-respecting hack, but this is a part of my treatment that I can control. It’s cathartic for me – and if anyone reading this finds something they can identify with or provides them with a little comfort (or gives them a giggle – the urge for a bit of black humour has never been far away these past months), then I’ll have done a good job."

Oh, sister

Delighted to read Lucy Kippist's yarn for The Punch today about siblings, because now I have a vaguely journalistic hook for a post I've wanted to write for a while now: about how magnificent my sister is. Today she promised she'd be down to Sydney one last time (she lives in Brisbane) to help me say goodbye to this city, and I'm beyond stoked.

Lucy's piece in turn was inspired by Bryony Gordon's column for the UK Telegraph, which draws on shocking research that says having a sister is good for your health. Bryony found this counter to her own family's experience, citing her assaults on her sister and brother's health, both mental and physical.

When a person says that someone is "like a sister to me" I think, "What? She steals your clothes and blames everything on you?" But I wouldn't have my siblings any other way. Whether they'd say the same about me is another column entirely.

I like the way Lucy examines the sibling relationship by birth order, concluding that older siblings have it hardest. Umm, obviously! We eldest are the testing groud for nervy first-time parents, overcompensating for their lack of know-how. Our every milestone breaks new ground; our every teenaged claw for freedom is like a surge from the trenches in a world war one movie. Every youthful indiscretion is punished with an iron fist; but, on the flip side, every success brings a new wave of adulation.

Being four years younger, generally more intelligent and less socially retarded than me, and being drop-dead gorgeous, it has always be uncomfortably easy to be jealous of Elle (see - even her name is supermodelly). It doesn't help when C-grade indie rockstars I am convinced are my soulmate proceed to go gaga over her rather than me (sorry, I know I should be over this by now). But then she will slay me with a pearl of wisdom beyond her years, or a small golden moment of thoughtful kindess, and I can only feel honoured to share her bloodlines.

My sister is the best for more reasons than I can list. Because she has been giving her older sister life advice for years; because she lets me borrow her clothes when they fit; because she never forgets a birthday or an occasion and gives the best presents; because she sees the best in people and situations; because she is always open to life's random moments of excitement; because she has a seriously oddball sense of humour; and because she somehow still looks up to me even when she is a million times the person I am.

She's finally graduating from uni this year after a long hard slog at law and journalism, and I couldn't be prouder of the person she's grown into. I can't wait to see what amazing things she does with the next chapter of her life.

Monsterchef

There can be few greater pleasures in life than planning and making an epic, delicious meal and sharing it with some fantastic people (and a little splash of wine). The best home cook I've ever had the joy of wearing an apron with happened to be in Sydney for a few days, so we decided to take our time putting together a three course meal for eight people. Kate is a much more adventurous and ambitious cook than I am, but we were pleasantly suprised by how smoothly the whole process ran.

We prepared everything in reverse order. First we put together the desserts: Kate pitted ruby red fresh cherries, doused them with amaretto and topped them with crushed biscuits and almond meal for a delicious crumble, while I chopped chocolate croissants into an artery-assaulting bread-and-butter pudding. Then we prepped the various elements of the individual beef wellingtons, assembled them and left them to chill while we parboiled potatoes we'd later fry to serve with the wellies. Finally Kate handmade ravioli in wonton wrappers, with a spinach, ricotta and goat's fetta filling, while I threw together a rocket, pear, avocado and blue cheese salad. The ravioli only needed to cook in boiling water for about 30 seconds, and we served them with a sauce of two punnets of cherry tomatoes reduced down with olive oil and thyme.

The best beef wellingtons you will ever eat (serves 8):

Caramelise three brown onions over a low heat with a heap of butter and some sherry if you have it. Meanwhile, chop six big mushrooms (stems removed) into thick slices and marinate with six tablespoons of olive oil, some fresh thyme and fresh rosemary. Wilt 2-3 bunches of english spinach and set it aside to cool. Fry up the mushrooms with any marinade they haven't absorbed. Chop/crumble about 200g nice stinky blue cheese (we used Stilton). For each person you'll have a round little steak, cut nice and thick - eye fillet would be ideal, we used a New York cut scotch fillet cos we're pov - seal these quickly in a hot pan.

Lay out a sheet of filo pastry for each wellie... cut it into as big a circle as you can manage, then cut out some corners to make a cross. Layer some spinach, blue cheese, caramelised onion, mushrooms, steak and more spinach, then fold in the flaps and seal up the package. Flip it upside down onto a greased oven tray, brush with a beaten egg, and do some pastry art on the top if you're feeling fancy. Bung them in the freezer for a good hour or so, so the wellies hang together when they go into the oven. They need to cook for about 45-50 minutes at 180 degrees, give them another egg wash first and, you might want to blast them at higher heat for the first 10 minutes. Let them rest for a few minutes before you serve them. They'll be steaming little bombs of cheesy goodness, and hopefully your meat will still be just pink. Mmmmmmmm...

If you prefer a more professional recipe, here's our source!

The choc croissant pudding was super easy to make, and when it finally came out of the oven our judgement may have been sedated by a reasonable quantity of vino and two other courses, but it was possibly the most delicious thing ever. Slice up about three chocolate croissants (they can be a day or two old), arrange them in a greased pudding bowl, and pour over a quick custard of 130g caster sugar, three eggs, 3/4 cup of milk and 1/2 cup of cream. Cover with plastic and let it sit for a good few hours, then bake at 180 degrees for about half an hour. It will be totally soft and gooey and with just the right amount of chocolate surprises...

Om nom nom

Girls' dinner @ Toko. Everything was perfect. Japanese food is always so immaculately presented. If you go, make sure you have the mushroom skewers, and this sweet potato.


And, of course, anything soft shell crab.

Gonna miss these ladies baaad.

Hello Dolly...

Meet Princess Shazza. I know it sounds like a name I would bestow, but honestly the Women's Weekly Birthday Cake Cookbook beat me to it. This cookbook is the stuff of legend - if you didn't have one of these cakes at a childhood birthday party, as an Aussie kid that's solid grounds for claiming child abuse. Personally my favourite was the train cake, but as previously mentioned the typewriter was pretty special.

I had decided to make a suitably embarrassing cake to celebrate Alison's birthday for the thousandth time at a girls' dinner, and Reboot kindly faxed me the recipe when I couldn't find it online. The instructions are endearingly specific, calling for 50-odd pink marshmallows and 20-odd white; as well as feathers, lengths of ribbon and silk flowers. Personally I like to add small custom touches like the bows, and even though the doll had to become legless for the cause (perhaps an omen of what was to come for her consumers) I couldn't bear to part with her red stillettoes, and attached them to her hand as though she was a lass who'd had a big day at the races.


The whole process was a wonderful adventure for a Saturday, and based on reactions around Surry Hills as I carried Princess Shazza into the restaurant (we had to take a cab, as public transport isn't quite what she's used to) perhaps there's a side career to be had in making nostalgic childhood birthday cakes for post-ironic hipsters....

Heartbreaker

My sweet-faced young colleague Miss Al
Is a remarkable bike-loving gal
Pass her on The Heartbreaker
You’ll think you’ve met yer maker
Happy 25 mate! Give em hell!

Like a fat kid loves...

Mini cupcake. Maxi happiness. (Gazebo's rose sangria may have been a contributing factor, also).