Sensational... and it's not over til the fat lady sings!

So the opera was sensational. Fantastic. Brilliant. Amazing.
There aren't really enough epithets to drag out to describe such an occasion.
I loved it. Desperately.
Emma Fraser played Manon, the lead in the Massenet opera of the same name, which was being performed this weekend at the Australian Opera Studio in Midland. Fraser is going to be a star. I have no doubt in my mind. I should have hung around to get her autograph because mark these words it is going to be worth something some day. Her voice is rich, powerful, well-developed and smooth. It was like creamy liquor to the gullet. It was like a gentle siren-song to a sailor at sea. It was like a thousand nightingales had lent the sweetest voices to one beautiful songbird. I was in love with her. I could have listened to her for hours (actually, I did, come to think of it).
It was also great to see some familiar faces from the WAAPA classical voice class among the chorus, including the very talented young tenor Stuart Laing and bass-baritone Duncan Rock.
Anyway, Manon has me all excited about Tristan and Isolde which the WA Opera will be doing in a couple of months. Manon was like a three hour performance. I didn't think my passion for opera was developed enough to bite off an entire five-hour Wagnerian extravaganza like T&I, but now I'm sure I'm ready. I could have easily sat in that auditorium for another couple of hours. (Admittedly, Massenet isn't quite as brusk and violent as Wagner... that's the way the French tackle love as opposed to the Germans).
Also, around the same time as the WAAPA show the Opera Studio is doing it's season of recitals (and then The Magic Flute starring Emma Pearson after that!). So plenty more to see this year!

Red letter week

What a freakin amazing week. So much cool stuff is going on.
A couple of things happened that I can't talk about publically, but I can allude to.
Firstly, this little project I'm working on with Aunty... well I had some talent confirmed this week and let's just say I'm going to get to meet/interview one of my idols.
Secondly, this little day job I have... well there was an opportunity this week for a little, shall we say, upgrade?
Other things that I can talk about more openly:
Dad left for his month's secondment in Singapore this morning. I fell asleep at a mate's house and missed him leaving, which I feel very guilty about... but I doubt Dad was too worried as he shuffled out the door, diplomatic passport in hand. How fkn cool is that?!
His absence also means the dog has been seconded to my DOA's house (Dear Old Aunty, for the uninitiated). So I am rattling around in this enormous house all by myself. I've closed-off his wing of the chateau - I just have to remember to open it up for an airing once a week.
Also excited about my Big-Arts Weekend. Off to the opera in a couple of hours.
AND... very excited to mention... according to the silly counter map thing, in the last 24 hours I've clocked over the 1000 visitors mark for the blog. The map counter has me fascinated. I have no idea who the random Americans, Europeans and Asians are who have from time-to-time popped by for a read. What confounds me even more is the number of hits I get from Alice Springs. That has me stumped.
I'm also excited about getting my tickets to the media ball (THE social event of the year) and the Elton John concert (when I leave for the UK, I think I'll play his song "Daniel" at volume in the departure lounge. Of course, the lyrics would work better if my sister would actually talk to me... let alone wave goodbye to me. Although it has been a mercifully drama/stress-free 18 months and I'm happy enough to remain freezed-out. I'm rambling).
Also have tickets to see John Waters in a non-Playschool-non-costarring-with-Sigrid-Thornton role this coming week. Oh yeah, and some chick from a record label has given me tickets to see Evermore next weekend because I told her I've been a fan of the supporting act (The Hampdens) since day dot.

My big-arts weekend

This weekend is my "big-arts" weekend: Ballet AND opera.
It started last night with the WA Ballet's production of Red Shoes.
Another offering of clumsy tripe from artistic director Simon Dow. He fills the stage with distraction and buffoonery and steers away from the grace and elegance that is meant to characterise this particular form of dance. I'm not a boring traditionalist when it comes to performing arts but for crying out loud I want to see grace, skill and poise, not boys acting drunk on stage.
That said there were some beautiful pas de deux - especially the blatantly homoerotic sequences during the "opening night" scene.
I am sure I am not the only person sighing heavy with relief that this was Dow's last production for the company. This was as disappointing as his Dangerous Liaisons, only with better costuming. I think his lack of ability/originality was betrayed most clearly by the Don Quixote/Midsummer Night's Dream double bill of a few months ago. His effort with Quixote was staid and dull. Chrissie Parrott's choreography for Midsummer, however, is still being raved about. For that production, as with this, the set by Joseph Mecurio and the costuming by Leon Krasenstein were spectacular and original.
Dow has also just hired a miss-match of seven new dancers, which helped greatly to make last night's show appear more like a high school production than a performance by our state's premier/only ballet company. No one seemed truly comfortable on stage together, let alone dancing together.
Still, Red Shoes offers Jacinta Ross a nice and deservedly juicy role for her last show before retirement. (Even if her pregnancy means the choreography is necessarily tame compared to Helpmann's famously spectacular sequences from the old film).
Red Shoes had about three dozen short segues between dance routines that involved clumsy acting and miming, rather than interpretation through dance. The clumsy acting I can handle (hey, I am an opera fan, remember), but the miming just looked ridiculous. Either give the words voice or don't attempt them at all. There is nothing more ridiculous than a boy in a lycra bodysuit pretending to shout at another boy in a lycra bodysuit and the only noise is the percussion section getting sweaty down in the pit.
The WA Symphony played brilliantly, by-the-by. I hate that I can't see them down in the pit when they play His Majesty's. Afterwards my friend Rachel actually asked me what I thought of the production and I pretty much said the above.
"But you're really only here to hear the orchestra anyway," she said. So insightful. At least with the ballet if the dancing leaves something to be desired, there is always the music. (And legs in tights, too. We can't under-sell that).
Tomorrow I am off to see Manon (Massenet's, not Puccini's) at the Australian Opera Studio. It's a fully staged opera with some great young singers but it's three hours with a piano filling-in for an entire orchestra. I'm not sure how that sits with me. I'll let you know.

How am I Who?

Bless them. I have two darling friends who I have held on to from my years in Albany.
One is Kerry - she of the green eyes and burnt incense who (quite rightly) once didn't talk to me for a month because I said she was high maintenance.
The other is Karen - she of the bagpipes and dancer's legs who's former hubby (quite wrongly) came to my place of work and punched me out for having an affair with his wife.
Apart from the fact they are dear friends of mine who I love absolutely and pay nowhere near enough attention, and the fact they live in Albany, they have one other thing in common: Dr Who.
Not just Dr Who, but their opinion of the new Dr Who, David Tennant, in relation to me.
A month or so back Kerry sent me a text message one Saturday night. "The new Dr Who reminds me of you xx", it said.
I figured that was okay. I probably do look a bit like him.


I thought not much more of it until Karen came to stay the weekend before last. We were mooching around an ABC Shop and there was a stand of Daleks and Doctors, etc.
"That new Dr Who reminds me a lot of you," she said?
"Now that's funny, Kerry said the same thing. What is it about him then? Do you think I look like him."
"No he's a wanker."
Dead set. That's what she said.
"The way he treats people and the things he says and the way he says them - he's you!"
I was dumbfounded, but I rang Kerry immediately.
"Darling, that text you sent which said the new Dr Who reminded you of me... why is that? Is it because I look like him?"
"No, not really. It's more his mannerisms and the way he speaks to people," she replied
"You mean he's a wanker. You think I'm a wanker."
"Oh well I wouldn't say it quite like that."
"But I'm a wanker?"
"Well sort of, yes."
(She never forgave me for that high maintenance comment - quite rightly).
My ego requires an occasional character assassination. I like to share them widely in the interests of humility (anyone who read a copy of the Bulletin from about 15 months ago knows what I mean) and it is in this spirit that I share the above.
Well, that and the vain hope that someone cute out there might think the new Dr Who is hot/intelligent/witty and might like to go out with me on the basis that I may actually BE David Tennant's incarnation of the Doctor.

They'll make good on this

I want to tell you about an incestuous little shire hamlet with a dull and colourless history.
Hugging a stretch of bitumen ribbon that ploughs its way through, across and around the Darling Range, are an oddment of service stations and rammed-earth buildings that serve as general stores, stock feeders and nurseries. This is the place I grew up. Or rather, it's the nearest bit of something that resembled civilisation when I was a child. The "village" was about five kilometres from the farm that was my world for the first 19 years of my life.
The only evidence I was ever there (apart from the long memories of the aged among the other long-established district families) is a bit of gold gilt on a primary school honourboard.
The place is Gidgegannup: A hitherto unremarkable centre of almost no interest set deep in the Perth hills on a goat-track of a road between the city and... (is there a name for the bit that isn't city?).
They no longer live on the farm (which sold last year for $1.5million or something site unseen from a buyer on the internet from the Eastern States and is nothing like the amount the olds got for it) but my grandparents are still up there. They're one of the rusted-on set up there. If it weren't for them I would never go to the place.
Gidgegannup is the sort of place where if people failed to get out before the trainline closed down, then they just stayed in-situ and began a breeding program.
Until now Gidgegannup has been fleetingly famous as:
a) the place Dan Hatch left
b) somewhere people drive through
c) somewhere to search for escaped prisoners from Wooroloo Prison
d) somewhere where the main tourist attraction is a slight (three foot) waterfall
e) being the only town in Australia where the local pub is located exactly 5km out of town (it's at the waterfall).
But today everything changed.
Today Australia's most famous touring car driver, Peter Brock, came to his untimely demise on one of the roads in the district.
This may sound callous, but the town will make good on this. And I'm not just talking feeding the media crews and mourners for the next few weeks.
They're just as likely to change the postcode to include an "05" and erect a bloody big sign saying "Brockie died here". They'd be tasteless enough to plant a tree in memoriam. Gidgegannup people are the kind of people to capitalise on this experience.
I know the road in question. I know the place where the rally was happening. So does everyone in the district. I can just here them down at the CWA.
"It's always been a dangerous corner, that one. It'd never happen to a local boy."
"I'd certainly never take that corner at speed. Trap for young players."
"That's nine we've lost on that stretch I can recall."
"Silly man, the camber or the road is out just there... tree roots as well. Honkynuts."
Me personally? This effects me on two levels. Firstly, Brockie was my Dad's absolute hero. He loved him. Idolised him for as long as I can remember. So that's very sad.
Secondly, it's great way to introduce my hometown into the documentary. At least people will think they've heard of the place. (See, I told you Gidge people were the kind to capitalise on it).

I have a problem

And I know you're blowing three note trumps and having coronaries waiting to find out what my problem is, so I'll tell you.
I don't care any more.
It's my day job, you see. I just can't get passionate about it. I thought moving offices would inject a bit of spark into my life, and to some extent it did for a few months. But now I just don't care. I don't care about the people of Melville. I don't care about their bloody railway line and their bloody freeway sound-proofing. I don't care about their university or their foreshore or their amazingly talented children. I just don't care.
Today I did almost nothing. Anything I actually did do, I did under duress.
Melville is a huge paper and I pretty much write and hang it on my own. Even that doesn't test me any more. I leave all the work for the last two days and cram it in so I get that deadline rush. Our opposition paper almost doesn't exist, so there is no spirit of competition - which I really need. (How boring it must be to work for the West?).
All I care about is this film and this book. It consumes all the spare time I have. It's all I think about. (Well, that and the blog). I just don't want to write for the paper any more. I don't want to research for them, I don't want to break news for them. I feel like all that effort is effort I could be channeling into the book, and then the film, when the time comes. I LOVE my six hours at night tapping away at my keyboard. I hate the nearly eight hours a day i spend chained to the Melville Times phone-answering-and-typesetting-service.
I'm also now completely gagging to get to the UK and have a look around and chance my arm over there. But also those plans are as frozen as a snowman's balls while the film and the book happen.
How is it that I can have the paper, the film, the book, occasional casual days at Nova and my other little gigs the powers-that-be don't know about and STILL not feel satisfied?
I honestly wish I could quit work and spend all my time working on the book and the film.
The good news is, at least I know what direction my career now needs to head in. In fact, I've already put my head towards considering what my next project with Aunty might be. I'm also thrilled to finally realise I actually do have the dedication to sit down and write a book. I'm at 12,000 words at the moment. Which isn't a bookload, but it's a fair bit. I'm busy refining it because there are important people (in grey suits, I imagine) who are waiting to see a couple of good solid chapters.
In the meantime... everything moves too slowly for me. Everything.

Thanks 60 Minutes

Hello boys and girls.
Did we all watch 60 Minutes like good little lambs tonight?
Uncle Liam wasn't on tonight, he was too busy getting the stains out of his pants after his warzone debut. (Yeah, Liam... some gigs are tougher than demonising a man with depression as "unfit for office").
Did we all see the report on "why our kids are gay?".
Just so you know, this research about the number of older brothers determining the sexuality of younger brothers is not only 10 YEARS OLD, it has been discredited. The research and the means of gathering the core sample group were flawed. The advertisements only asked for gay people with older brothers in the first place. So there was no control group and the results were fundamentally swayed.
It also touched on crazy theories like handedness and homosexuality which, aside from sounding like a parody Jane Austen novel title, contributed little to the sum total of human knowledge.
The childhood gender non-conformity thing also contributed little to the debate. Every parent and pre-school teacher will be looking at children with new eyes tomorrow morning... separating the homosexuals from the heterosexuals and buying pop-guns for the homos and barbies for the dykes.
The report asked more questions than it answered. Mind you, at least the reporter asked them. But it was slightly irresponsible journalism that did nothing, really, to change the world.
Now if Liam gets shot on assignment, THAT could make the world a better place.

Jihad Jack

A blog acquaintance of mine (philbert83) has touched on this already this week, so I feel like I'm reporting on this a little late. Cest la vie. That doesn't stop me feeling passionately about the "Jihad Jack" decision.
Jack Thomas was the first man jailed under new anti-terror laws and was set free after Victoria’s appeal court quashed his convictions. The reason: interviews conducted by the AFP in Pakistan were inadmissible as evidence.
I nearly choked on my fucking dinner during a conversation with my father over this while watching the news. I have been completely APPALLED by the coverage and by the opinions expressed, not just by the talkback chronies, but the commentators.
The shit that has been said is amazing. People who's kids were killed in the Bali bombings have been wheeled out to express their hurt, grief and outrage. Shock-Jocks lambasted the court over the decision to let Jack free.
But this was my favourite (by Chris Merritt from the Weekend Oz, as rightly attacked by Mediawatch):
Some responsibility must rest with the judges. Why could they not find a reason to protect society from this man?
For fucksake you fucking fucktard! "Find a reason"? "FIND A REASON"???
Dude, seriously. The evidence against him was not gathered voluntarily. God knows what duress he may have been under. God knows what coercion. AND the jury didn't believe he supported Al Qaeda and that was INCLUDING the AFP evidence you fuckstick.
How dare - how DARE - you even consider arbitrarily deciding a man should be incarcerated, should be kept off the streets, should be deprived of his liberty, based on rumour, opinion, heresay and unsubstantiated evidence.
Why the hell would you think that is suitable? This is Australia you c**t and we don't do things that way here. (Well we can now more than we could before, cheers Mr Howard). Our entire legal system is predicated on being innocent until proven guilty. Oh yeah, and that trial by jury thing is kinda important to. Trial by media is seldom in the interests of justice Chris Merritt, et al. You bastards are the kind of rogue operators that give journalists a bad reputation.
Do you think you are providing insightful comment by appealing to the lowest common social opinion? You have an opportunity to lead, not follow, and you blew it. You should be going after the AFP you cockspanks, not demonising a man who has been found innocent.
Consider yourself suitably chastised. Dickwads.

I was a bit upset with someone yesterday

And I emailed this to some friends. It has been edited for legal reasons and to appease the swearing sensitive:

****** ****** is a f**king f**kstick who cant even f**king spell her own name right. you can smell her ***t before she enters the room, such is the smelly ***tness of her smelling f**king ***t. she has two ***ts. the second one is her f**king face. a face that i want to grind into the bitumen with my foot to the back of her head. i want to bash her mincing s**tting body with a street sign until she is people soup on the pavement. i want to watch her get swept up by the city of perth street sweeping machine. i want to watch her smoking-acid blood dribble down the drains so she can poison the fish and give the sewer-rats hepatitis, minge-cholera and crabs. i want to watch her bludgeoned corpse get crushed in the machine and come out as a little cube of flesh and bone, which i will drop into the spoon of a passing junkie in the hope he will jack her up into his arms so she can spend eternity as the splatter-s**t in the gutter of some northbridge back-alley. and then i'll spit on her.

An open letter God

Dear God,
You are a cunt.
You let me into the Garden of Eden, finally pointed out the most amazing/perfect/incredible/delicious/irresistable apple... let me taste it... and then chopped-down the fucking tree.
I loved that tree.
You're a cunt.

Census for August

Reading: I’m counting down to the last pages of Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited. Have thoroughly enjoyed it, even if he did turn the character I was madly in love with into an insane alcoholic.
Watching: Bleak House is the only thing I simply cannot miss, and that’s more about endurance and an anticipated sense of achievement.
Listening: Maria Callas is warbling at me again at the moment. Especially Un Bel Di, from Butterfly.
Downloading: Absolute trash… Pussy Cat Dolls, etc.
Website du jour: National Association of Research and Therapy of Homosexuality (it’s a research thing).
Café: Probably still Exomod, though have most recently been to Rifo’s in Maylands.
Pub: Not doing a lot of this, too busy. Though someone tried to drink me under the table at the Brass Monkey last Friday night.
Club: Too busy for this. Closest I get is a phone call from Lara in London.
Eating: Have discovered pot noodle. Has changed my life and drastically reduced my nutrition.
Drinking: Goon. It’s necessary.
Wearing: A jumper that earned me the nickname “the chocolate lime” with Emma Gant.
Last show: Nabucco, WA Opera.
Next show: Ben Folds with the WA Symphony Orchestra.
Can’t wait ‘til: Ben Folds.
Lately I have been: Doing pots and pots of research for the documentary.
Most recent scoop: The State plans to triple the Coastal Business Centre’s lease to $90kpa and 25 fledging small businesses could be out on their ear.
Most recent purchase: Definitely cannot afford anything.
Want but can’t afford: New digital Dictaphone. Classic 100 Opera box set.
Need but can’t afford: To pay my council and water rates. The former is due tomorrow and the later was due a month ago.
Last nice act: Helped out at Nova this morning because Helen was ill.
Last bad act: May have told Kate she looked like a hooker in her fishnet stockings today.
Bad news: Have been having some health-related problems that require me to be euthanased (or at least knocked-out) so they can have a lil look see inside me.
Good news: I’ve signed some important documents on the most important thing that’s going on for me right now. Oh yeah… met someone nice, too.
Goal: Help finish scripting this thing I’m working on.
How to achieve it: Do what a woman at the ABC tells me.
Yesterday I: Worked and then researched and then read: that’s what my life is these days.
Right now I should be: Researching. Or showering.
Later today I’m: Researching and reading and sleeping.
Tomorrow I’m: Writing some news leads for the paper. May go shopping for Grandma’s birthday present.
General mood: Tired from exhaustion, enthusiastic about life, buoyant about the people in my life.
It would be better if: I were two people, so that I could do everything I need to do.

See Paris die

Yesterday I blogged with sadness that every bastard was in Europe except me. One of those bastards is my darling friend Lara. Lara has since emailled me an open letter to the City of Paris, which I share with you now.

dear paris,

i was in our neighbourhood last week and noticed a few points of interest about you. i do believe there might be a few misconceptions held by the world outside of europe so I, with your blessing of course, would like to put the record straight and share with the rest of the world your true character.

You retain your steadfast position within the political sphere... you have helped formed liberalism, assisted in freedom of speech, and you have even assisted the united states in attain a suitable UN resolution for the latest middle east crisis.
you were the one who vetoed invading iraq and you brought france's poverty to the stage in les mis...all of which are commendable efforts.

however, there are some tarnishes, blemishes ...wait whats the word im looking for... oh yeh... STAINS about your moral character. details are as follows:


firstly, you smell like f***king s**t... i cant tell the difference from the stench of your homeless people and the aroma of your sewage that wafts throughout the underground subways. i would hate to have a fight in the streets of paris... not because im afraid of getting raped and robbed (which is also scary) but because i worry that remaining in the streets for too long and exposed to your fumes, i might catch some airborne venereal disease ... and i dont care if thats not possible... anyhting is possible in paris. michael jackson with his airtight mask and his pet monkey and god knows what other rodents would fit perfectly in your backyard
so take a shower and while you're there, why dont you clean up your act?
city of love? my ass! you are the city of porn you filthy hoe.
you are nothing but a sexual deviant parading half-naked women across magazines and selling them as "stlye mags" which brings me to another point.
paris puts the "le" in style... and that is all.
most of the people are that overweight they cant even fit into the designer labels you sell. hey, theres nothing wrong about being overweight..im australian... the second fattest nation in the world! but we dont go whispering to the world that we are the hub of international fashion do we? no! so stop blabbing to your little european union compatriots at your belgium HQ that you are too cool for school, because you clearly are not.

secondly, get an adequate welfare program for your homeless. the "derelique" campaign aint a fashion trend you idiots. whats made for zoolander, stays in zoolander.

thirdly, mate, im telling you, you love tourists. why? cos we spend our worthless cash on your stupid bread and perfume at la fayette galleries. we bolster your economy. you aint the pound... you're the euro... so lets just put it in perspective hey?

you do to speak english...and dont tell me you dont... ive heard you!
so when i ask... where is the prada section please... or .... where is the metro station please.... dont look at me like i'm coolio or some trashy white girl from jerry springer you f**k. why dont you just tell me so i can spend money and then we can all be happy?
and then you can use that money to get some proper freakin toilets, you diarrhea-ridden cesspool.
i go to paris to get away from indonesia...ive already been there once.. no need for an imminent return. so get rid of those "squat toilets" and lets get physical with hygiene.

the lourve is definitely at the helm... the art is amazing and one of your beauties... but did you notice there's hardly even any french art there??!!! its all italian, greek and egyptian... so dont go around declaring your love for culture and the arts... its not even yours you HACK
your eiffel tour rocks... but the bureau de change sucks... your commission is extravagent you filthy greedy frog eating freaks.
be like london.
work a full week, stop striking....stop protesting over every little thing... and save your shouting for the big things... like better health and education... a cleaner city... and embark on a crusade to be nice people you hapless porn-loving psychos.

love lara.

Now I KNOW I'm missing out.

O, Fortuna!

Sometimes we do something on a whim and it pays off. It becomes one of life's memorable experiences.
I have had many of these moments: I drove to Albany aged 19 and didn't return for four years; I covered a Burns Supper for my paper and took up the bagpipes for two years; I went to a restaurant for dinner and spent three years with the waiter; I filled-in a form at ABC Online thinking little of it and have spent a year avoiding directly answering the question "where do I know you from?".
Well this isn't quite the same scale as any of that... but I did experience something truly amazing.
I spent the afternoon listening to nearly 1000 voices singing brilliant choral pieces by Orff and Verdi.
The WA Symphony Orchestra Chorus was holding a "Big Sing" and people from the community were invited to go along and fill the Perth Concert Hall with their gleeful voices. (Okay, so the Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves isn't exactly gleeful... but you know what I mean). I wrote about it for work and a heap of our papers ran the story. So I'd like to take some of the credit for the enormous turn-out! lol.
It was impressive. The sound was incredible. I am always blown-away by the sound of human voice en masse. I love it.
Earlier this week I saw WA Opera's production of Nabucco (funnily enough!) at His Majesty's Theatre. The sound was awe-inspiring. And here I was, a few days later, listening to nearly 1000 amateurs singing the same piece. I wanted to cry, the emotion it evoked was so strong.
Tenors, sopranos, altos and basses, all together, in unison, in divisio: brilliant.
To hear two pieces of music I love so much, sung so well, by a temporary choir of also-rans, rehearsed for only two hours, was an amazing experience. I wish more people had gone along just to listen. I arrived depressed, I left higher than a castrati.

Every bastard is in Europe except me

And I'm sick of it darlings.
This morning I had a phone call from Lara "Perth's Best Kept Secret" Hyams (or DJ Abortion) from London's most exclusive club, Fabric. She had been dancing to the best progressive set she reckons she had ever heard... and she missed me.
Last week when I called her, because sometimes I too miss her, she was on the Paris underground looking for the station at Bastille.
This morning I had an email from another darling friend, Amy "Don't Tell Anyone I'm In Features" Henderson. She was in the Champagne region of France where she had sampled more of my favourite food group than I dare let myself believe exists. She was fresh back from Munich and Berlin.
Every bastard is in Europe except me.
Now I know my good friends check in on this site from time-to-time, so I'd like to put something on the public record. The following people have promised to move to Europe with me:
Daniel "Dancing Daniel" Baker
Lara "Am I Bovered?" Hyams
Lindsay "Dust?" McPhee
Emma "Thompson's C**t Gazelle" Gant
and Wayne "Antonio" Bennett gets an honorary mention in dispatches on account of the fact he's quite likely to at least leave Australia shortly and could therefore potentially hang out with me at Hilda's Brauhaus.
I'm adding Bill Bryson to the list as well, just because I think he'd be fun to travel with.
Of course, if this documentary hadn't have come-off I would have been in London from last Tuesday (August 15), which had been my intended departure date. Consequently everyone is constantly asking me when I'm leaving.
Let me also put on the public record, I plan to limp over Christmas and head off in the new year. Anyone who wants to come with me... well you're more than welcome. Sharing the adventure is half the fun.

Rallying the troops

Occasionally, I dedicate myself to a cause.
When I was in high school a group of mates and I joined a decent-sized protest on the steps of Parliament House to rally against logging old growth forests.
When I was at my (agricultural) university (in Northam, darlings, where they lynch non-conservatives) I perhaps rather unwisely chose to side with the Maritime Union of Australia over the dockside protests against Patrick Corporation in 1998. While farmers were volunteering to run the wharf themselves, I waswearing pro-MUA t-shirts and pulling finger signs at the scab labour driving blue and yellow Patrick trucks. (Still do, actually).
At various times I have helped further veterans issues (through the RSL, no less), refugee issues and general union clamour.
Oh yeah, and I also marched on the streets of Albany against the War In Iraq (as soon as I'd finished covering the event for the paper).
None of these actions have ever made the slightest difference. I'm too left wing and compassionate to be allowed to taste victory in Howardian Australia. (God I hope history judges that man for the disaster he has been. And if it doesn't, then I'll just have to set to re-writing history - a journalist's privilege).
Anyway, the point is, today I did something for my cause d'jour. Gay marriage rights.
Two years ago today John "Fist Me" Howard placed a Federal ban on same-sex marriage. We're talking about States and Territories being allowed to register civil unions between gay and lesbian couples.
It was used to create division in an already divisive election campaign (oh yeah, and thank God Labor didn't get in because then interest rates would have risen).
So today I attended a rally at the Northbridge Cultural Centre in the city and listened to an hour of fantastic speakers, delivering with eloquence and passion a message to our (notoriously and literally) hard-of-hearing Prime Minister. We want equality. We want access to our basic human rights. We are not sub-human. Marriage is about love not gender.
I was immensely proud of the young people who organised this event. They were passionate in the kind of way I wish Australians were passionate. They were passionate in the way people were passionate in the 60s and 70s. The refused to accept the status quo, the laise fair. They filled me with hope.
Several times I wanted to cry.
Last year I attended the same rally. There were about 50 of us. It wasn't huge but I was proud to be there. This year there must have been at least 300 - most of whom I had never seen before. I was so incredibly proud to be there among them.
After the speeches we marched through the streets of Northbridge.
Afterwards someone told me they didn't think the public paid attention to protests like this any more. They said the public took a dim view of speaking out in this way.
Perhaps he's right. Perhaps that's exactly what is fucking wrong with this country.
It is far too easy for politicians to call protestors radicals. Far too easy for the populous to do nothing.
You can hide behind your white picket fences, should you wish. You can lead your modern Stepford existence. You can close your heart and your ears and believe the propaganda of the Neo Cons.
Or you can dare to think.
Dare to feel.
And dare to speak.
I, for one, will never fucking shut up.