Feelin' Groovy on a wet weekend...

I enjoyed my weekend immensely.

I rediscovered the craft of cookery, honing a delicious pumpkin soup and the king of all beef stroganoffs from some simple, market-purchased ingredients.

I hung with some funny friends from work on Saturday and we cackled like crows for hours.

I saw Cody Chessnutt with Chrissy on Saturday night and we felt the vibe, though others didn't. More about the actual gig another time - but as we were leaving, a boob-tubed girl gave Chris a very approving once over and then clocked me and gave me a nod of appreciation. I shot her a smile that said 'Yeah, he's alright, my mazer'.

Later that night when my feet were about to fall off, Chris carried me some of the way (and got heckled to 'give her one from us' by some lads) and then ran around the streets of St Kilda like the lanky streak of piss that he is, searching for the car, which we'd parked somewhere in a labyrinth of tree-lined streets. I sat on a rock waiting for him to bring the car round when he found it. Yes indeed - he's alright, my mazer.

We sat with tea and treats in front of Eurovision* and the gas heater on Sunday eve, tired and content, with the rain gently drumming on the roof.

Today, I am sitting at my desk, doing no work, reflecting that all my friends are correct and present (after a phone call from a long lostie and an email this morning from another), I've won my bids on ebay for two old 80s keyboards (I will know whether this is a good or bad thing when I get around to paying my plastic off in a year's time or so), and life could be so much worse than it is. No - I'll put it another, better way - life is grand.

*On Eurovision:

Boo hiss to the winning entry Finland - their entry stank of undercover Christian cheese-metal, and the costumes looked like cast offs from Lord of the Rings.
Russia, France, Ireland all stuck to the formula of forgettable big ballads (that'll find their way onto ads, no doubt), while Romania and Malta went for Eurotrash dance pop. YAWN. There was a hell of a lot of YAWN this year, unfortunately.
Bosnia-Herzigovina's entry was the only well crafted, properly arranged song in the whole competition, and while I know that's not what it's about any more, I felt a bit sorry that they didn't win.
The UK entry was, as predicted, cloyingly kitsch and awful, but at least entertaining and far more listenable than the Streets. And, as usual, their countrymen went for that cheese ticket when it came to voting, bigging up the novelty factor they love so much (as their music charts attest).
Lithuania's effort was a very effective piss-take, and made us laugh out loud.

Eurovision fever

I've come into the possession of a copy of the official Eurovision CD (aptly enough from the same source who lent me 'One Night in Paris' - he's a very useful supplier of pop cultural detritus), which I'm listening to to relieve some Friday morning ennui at work in between bidding for an 80s Casio synth on ebay and eating some Coles pikelets at my desk.

Without the visuals it's even more disturbing! I prefer the countries with the balls to sing in their native tongue - and there's a fair number of them this year. My current faves are Spain and Bosnia Herzigovina. Will I be watching, tonight? You bet!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*If any of you Europeans who read my blog (well, the current count is one - my cousin) DARE to reveal the result before I've had the opportunity to live through the whole satisfying 'nil point/douze point' voting saga, I will be cross.

Hare Krishnas and Art for lunch

Chrissy and I just had a lovely lunch meeting. We went to Crossways for a quick, cheap plate of vegetable slops and some porridgey but delicious dessert, then strolled through what I think is the Block Arcade to a quaint, pokey little shop I enjoy trawling through called Anonymous Posh. It has heaps of vintage hats and coats and trinkets set in a room the size of a closet. We found this lovely girl - very much in keeping with her surrounds - manning the desk. She'd been scrawling a letter to her long distance love in Sydney. She showed us her artwork and put us both on side by telling me I had the perfect bob and Chrissy that he looked 'dashing' in a hat he tried on. We liked her.

Gold Mine

I'm really chuffed that the two Tassie miners are safe and well, but I'll admit I spent the last few days in the lead up to their rescue knowing, just knowing, that I'd end up being sick of the whole bloody thing.

Sick of hearing the words 'heroes' and 'mateship' being mouthed by botoxed cadavers like Richard Wilkins, that smug, fat idiot Mike Munro and finance analyst turned self styled man of the people, "Kochie". Sick of pushy, loudmouth reporters shoving mics in the faces of the miners' very young children and forcing them to emote for the cameras before they'd even been rescued ('Liam! Liam! are you going to give daddy a hug!?'). Sick of hearing the opinions of bystanders and 'locals' on high rotation. I barely watch the TV, yet I knew there would be no escape from the headlines at the train station, the banners on the internet, the utter saturation coverage of the whole saga, from every. exhausting. angle.

I wearily accepted that before long I'd be trying to avoid soliloquies by sickeningly smarmy commentators like Andrew Bolt in the Herald Sun 'thanking God' for their survival. In his horrid little column he talks about a rescuer 'getting down on his knees... as in prayer' to relay the news that the miners were alive. I'm sorry, but I don't need a cynical opportunist like Bolt using a genuinely happy piece of news to shove whatever ideology he's peddling (in this case the usual Bolt blend of conservative Christian family/Aussie mateship values) down my throat. I'll admit I'm a hardened cynic who will always think the worst of our media and government, but I do sometimes like to be pleasantly surprised. So why oh why did it have to unfold exactly the way I predicted... nay, worse!

The two miners are gearing up to earn squillions for their story, and I don't begrudge them that at all - but isn't that letting the mining company, which sent them down there even after a safety scare last year*, get out of jail free? As usual, our publicity mad society is driven by the notion that stories are there to be bought, and if you haven't got a story, fuck off. The family of the miner who died certainly don't have a bankable, feel-good story to tell - so how will they feel with the measly pay-out they'll be getting, given that his mates will be in clover courtesy of Eddie McGuire et al? Eddie's a clever businessman. He's made all the right noises, praising those 'working class heroes' and putting a tab on the bar at the local pub - but only because he can hear the coffers filling up with all that lovely advertising money he'll be getting when the miners cut him an exclusive deal!

There's something quite sickening about the mine owners being able to dodge their responsibility to their employees courtesy of the story-hungry media. They've even become quasi-celebrities by virtue of media coverage and interviews. It's pretty disgusting. They should have to pay for their failure to ensure that the mine was safe in the first place. The media, by throwing millions at the miners in pursuit of a hot spot exclusive, are allowing them to escape that responsibility. 'Chequebook Journalism' used to be an unwelcome perjorative in press circles. Now there's nary a tisk about it. It's all part of the process.

*The unfortunate, late Richard Carleton, with whom I rarely agreed when he was alive, was the only media person who actually drew public attention to the role of the mining company in all of this. He died shortly afterward, but in death he's less cadaverous than the rest of the media parasites still circling.

there's a little song going around and around in my head. it's making me smile, and keeping me sane, as music often does.

If this is the face of Australian 'indie' music....

...shoot me now.

Chris and I went to the Corner Hotel on Friday night to see The Grates. Never has a more apt moniker for a band been conceived, for grate they bleedin' well did.

We were cajoled into going along by Chris's friend, Eko (aka 'the King' and the titular character of this post), and acquiesced in the spirit of 'a good night out at the Corner'. Our feet instantly froze when we remembered that King, for all his charming attributes, is guilty of the guillotine-able crime of liking James Blunt. In fact, such is his legend as a fan of the bland and MOR that Chrissy has in the past plundered King's CD collection to make a joke mix CD for me.

Anyway, the tickets had been bought, and we were stuck with them if we were to save regal egos and preserve good feelings.... or were we? Well, yes we were, because I failed in my 11th hour bid to off them at work and on this here blog (but not on ebay where I am very possibly blackbanned for offering Franz Ferdinand tix, then rescinding my offer, then offering them again - a dark crime in webworld).

So there we are at the gig. We chat to Eko and his equally-good-music-shunning friends, who are pumped to the max but with backs turned to the stage and clutching Jagermeisters. When the Grates come on we do what all decent gig-going folk do and shuffle to a possie where we (or at least, gangly Chris) can see them.

They bounce onto the balloon and shiny foil lined stage. Our little lead singer friend pogoes around tirelessly, stopping between kiddie-punk songs like the schoolyard chant '19 20 20' to deliver seamless, Play School hostess banter with the audience. Now, it might be that Chris and I hated it because I am a grizzled old-timer who likes to hear some smash-the-state polemic (or at the very least a bit of angst), and Chris is an ex Tool gig stage diver turned Sigur Ros listening aural aesthete - but it could also be that the Grates sucked. They were incessantly upbeat and their nursery-rhyme shouty shouty handclappy pop would have left the sardonic Punters Club audience of long ago absolutely cold. As it did me. Surrounded by lyric-mouthing drones who whooped and cheered every time our giggling girly hostess made some cringingly, cloyingly cute remarks about losing pink hats or hating people from Perth, Chris and I started to see red. Why was it that nobody else did? It was like being at some religious convention or cult!









And that was what really got me - there is something sinister about JJJ-feted, styled-within-an-inch-of-their-eyeballs bands like The Grates. Firstly, they can't handle heckles. It's clear from their stage-managed, cutesy banter and demeanour that they are not used to hearing "I want to see you fall over and bleed!"... though perhaps this sort of running commentary (delivered from the lips of a rather tanked punter in a red checked shirt who shall remain nameless) should probably really only be reserved for the truly vile (paedophiles and the like) rather than harmless bad musos.

Secondly, and more importantly, they arrive on the scene complete with slick (consultant-developed) web site and unerringly enthusiastic, air-punching fan base intact. How does that happen without some huge push from above by a record company mastermind or some other shadowy svengali? It doesn't. Their DIY look is as carefully crafted as the overproduced pop over at FOX or NOVA - and sonically even less palatable. I hate to say it but I'd rather listen to James Blunt.