Brad Pitt is Australian

The cafe that gives me my morning brew has a rack of magazines that I stare at blankly as I wait for my cup to be handed over. The covers are populated by "beautiful" people whose names are only vaguely familiar, and faces even less so. I often wonder in those idle, morning-bleary moments who the hell these people are, and why they're so damned interesting. At least now I have a little background on one regular visitor to the rag wrappers: Brad Pitt.

Turns out Brad's Australian. Our Brad. Not only that, he's a painter-turned-boxer. Since Ali stopped making the news several decades ago, I hadn't thought pugilists were terribly feited by the press, but it turns out I'm wrong. He's watching me from the magazine stand every damn day! Who'd have thought an Aussie tradesman would make into the red carpet brigade? Then again, there is the Melbourne plumber*, Eric Bana, as well. It could be the front of a trend. Maybe I should start being friendlier to the bastard carpenter who wakes us up from next door at 6:30am every Saturday morning.

Congratulations on your gold medal, Brad. Angelina must be very proud.


*I'd always thought that Eric Bana had been a plumber, but I did a bit of a search to confirm it, only to find he wasn't a tradie at all. But why let so-called "facts" change my story?


A more sensible view on the Commonwealth Games from The Age, thanks to my curly-headed pal at Wandering at Large.

Whither you, Wati?

What the hell is Wati doing? She's wandering all over the place, indecisive and aimless. Quite unlike her brother Larry.



They say she's heading south, but who knows where she'll end up?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The the more I browse the Bureau of Meteorology site, the more intriguing things I find. As well as radar images which show you exactly when you should be getting the washing in, there are looped satellite images (particularly good for cyclone watching) and an archive of static ones of significant events. The Cyclone Inigo shot is well worth a look, as well as the pictures of the bushfires that swept through Canberra and many other places in 2003.

There's even an educational module which explains weather concepts, interpreting weather maps and forecasts, how forecasts are made and so on. And have you ever wondered what a grazier's alert is? You can either find the answer here, or email them the question and receive the informative and courteous reply that I did when I asked.

Paint Me Pink and Colour Me Wriggly!

An exciting email just arrived: I won a double pass to see Peter Carey speak. Just as distracting as the fact that it's an unexpected chance to see a writing demi-god is that it's in City Hall's Ithaca Auditorium. The one with the cool dome and neoclassical twiddly bits. Put me down for two serves of beside myself!

It Wawms My Haht

Good old Macquarie Dictionary. I'd never paid much attention to the phonetic details after each of its entries before, but just minutes ago I noticed that it lists only the Australian pronounciations. Hardly surprising for the national dictionary, I suppose, but no less gratifying for that. Barbecue is listed as being pronounced bahbəkyū. Note, no "rrrrr" sound to be seen. Not sure how to say c-a-r-t-o-n? I have it here in black and white that the correct way is kahtən.

I love you, Macquarie.

For Cheryl's Benefit

In the spirit of keeping lunches intact, a post to shift the doughnut burger.

I've been meaning to post these pictures for a while. With the exception of the people pile (which is near the Victoria Markets), they're all taken in a lane in Melbourne, across Flinders Street from Federation Square. Hosier Lane, I think it's called. The whole lane is covered in an amazing array of stencilling, like the frenzied work of an acid-damaged decorator who just inherited a paint factory. As I enjoyed a nice cup of tea and sit down in the Fed Square foyer that afternoon, I watched as a steady stream of photographers browsed up and down marvelling at the show.

The authorities, in their wisdom, spoke of painting all of this over to nice-ify the city for the Commonwealth Games. Silly authorities. This lane illustrates much of what makes Melbourne so appealing: colour, culture, grottiness, visual interest, a lack of sterility. A quirky sense of fun and a comforting sense of confidence. This is a very good thing. Brisbane once had a hint of it, but swept it aside in favour of shiny steel and glass, clean surfaces and a cultural lobotomy. Clean places like Hosier Lane up and all you have left is shitty weather, traffic congestion and Moomba.





There were a great deal more than those I've shown here; these are just the ones I've gotten around to running through Photoshop. Perhaps finishing the effort will be a worthwhile study avoidance exercise.

Hosier Lane links

State of Flux
More images of the lane

Our Colourful Underbelly
Article from The Age. Melbourne is the stencil art capital of the world, apparently.

CLEAN
Installation in Hosier Lane for the duration of the Games

Geoff Crompton
Hosier Lane contributor

Baconicide

Cheryl posted this on her Live Journal, and it was so impressive I just had to share it.

What the hell is it, I hear you shriek? Why, it's a doughnut burger, of course. A meat patty, cheese, two slices of bacon, but not on one of those dull old bread buns, no, no!.... it's on a glazed doughnut. I'm sure I don't need to tell you its country of origin. The manufacturer says that it's a bargain, because it's a meal and dessert all in one. Genius.

This gourmet delight comes in at 1000 calories; to put that into perspective, that's equivalent to ten tablespoons of butter. It's a less messy form of suicide than a shotgun and cheaper too, not to mention being much more enjoyable because it involves bacon.

If they'd been around one hundred years ago the history of Antarctic exploration would read very differently; Scott may have made it to the pole, for one.

Miss Thropy, First Name "Anne"

I don’t doubt that you—you babe in the woods, you—think it would be a splendid thing indeed to be so engaging as to acquire yourself a twitter of eager admirers. I’m loath to callously swat away such quaintly misguided notions but I believe it will be kinder in the long run.

The Suburban Safari Glee Club* rebuked me yesterday—rebuked, if you please!—for my inattention to the betterment of their lives of late. And so it is my obligation to put the world right. (See what a vexed blessing this renown is?)

As attentive readers will have deduced, my absence from your screens has been a result of my having commenced study. It’s been quite taxing, far more so than I’d anticipated. Annoyingly, I seem to be something of a delicate flower, and come over with an attack of the vapours whenever I’m called upon to leave the house more than a couple of times a week. My corporeal self appears programmed for regular nana naps and general leisure. Not that university has interrupted this habit entirely; I indulged in a little horizontality by the lake on campus yesterday. Sadly, I had inadvertently stretched out in the path of spray from the fountain in the middle—I could just feel the cryptosporidium burrowing into my skin—and so didn’t actually manage any quality zeds. Some of the vile lake water landed on my lips, for heaven’s sake!

Yesterday marked the beginning of the writing subject. It was a welcome relief because, just between you and I, I’ve been finding the French a little tiresome, so have been concerned that the whole “Hey! Let’s go get a degree!” trip was ill considered. I knew I was on solid ground when the lecturer quoted Don Watson, Stephen Fry and William Lutz. I sat even higher in my nylon-covered chair as she served a rich smorgasbord of the style of bureaucratese I have rammed down my throat every day at work, and labelled them “Wank Words”. Alright! As the minutes skipped on she sliced and diced word crime upon word crime, many of which have had my fingers itching for the red pen over the years; I wriggled in my seat, silently gasping yes! Yes! YES!! There may well be a place for me in the world after all.

Following the lecture I laid eyes on my tutorial group for the first time. This brought an unwelcome fact to my attention once again: when forced to view people at close range I feel a strong surge of misanthropy. I don’t much like them. Camels are lovely at a distance: graceful, noble, endearing. Altogether very nice. Up close they’re ugly, bristly, threatening, have big yellow teeth and give off a foul stench. So too, humanity from afar wells my heart with fellow feeling and compassion, but once within earshot the majority of people give me the screeching irrits within around half an hour. It shames me to admit it, but it is so. (Says a lot about my suitability for working in human services, eh?) People, like communism, are a superb concept, one I support whole-heartedly… just so long as they stay Over There.

As I say, I take no joy in seeing this in myself, but as our tutorial wore on I felt my heart grow leaden at the thought of having to interact with these people for an entire semester. My chest tightened. My jaw clenched. My eyes flicked involuntarily towards the door.

Some salvation came in the form of the tutor. I’d heard tell of the unrestrained dottiness of academics, and I’m delighted to find some truth in it. What an interesting man! 5 words, stand up, try to open window, sit down. Stand up. Sit down. Shift plastic bag one inch to the left. 12 words. Stand up. Sit down. Shift bag. 6 words. Stand up, go to door, discuss whether or not to shut it, sit down, leaving door open. Stand up, attempt to open window, shut door, attempt to open window, sit down. Shift bag. Explain that language can never be reality because, by its nature, it can only ever convey via metaphor. A tree is not a tree, that is to say, “tree” is not “a tree” because “tree” is a word and not a tree. Does everyone understand? Blank looks all round. Shifts bag. Opens door.

I suppose I’m not painting a very flattering picture, but in fact I liked him very much. I did understand that “tree” is not a tree; I‘ve got a print of Magritte’s pipe, y'know. I was just too tired and too full of disdain for the class to be arsed saying so. I was hot. I wanted my lunch. I wanted the window open. I shouldn’t have worn jeans on a 32-degree day. Maybe if I wear a cool, breezy skirt next week my heart will open, I’ll embrace the other hungry minds in the group and together we can gorge ourselves on knowledge along this next exciting leg of our life journeys, growing as writers, flourishing as people and forging unbreakable bonds of friendship along the way. But I fucking doubt it.