Jackson and The Dawn Father

Everything was comfortably familiar in my local cafe this morning. I was sipping a latte and skimming the newspapers, my face partially hidden under a Yankees cap. Happy in my own company, you might say. All around me a flurry of cooked breakfasts and coffee were being distributed to a swarm of 'yummy mummies' and their blessed little people. But where I'd normally consume the papers whilst keeping one ear open to conversation (as a freelance writer it would be remiss of me to do otherwise) the drone of screeching new borns and incoherent toddlers actually won out today – and in particular, one little man.

So, I was reading the The Age's Opinions page (okay, I was reading the sport section), when one little freckle-faced cherub started churning out a noise so piercing that one particular sentence I was ready became something of an unplanned mantra. The death metal backing of the tot, now harmonised by a couple of like-minded others, was similar to what you'd here late at night on JJJ.

Then, just as my threshold of pain was breached, the noise died down. I glanced over at my nemesis with a ringing in my ears. A waitress hovered at his table, chatting away as she handed large lattes to the mother and her friend. Naturally, after she'd finished gas-bagging, the waitress leant down and coo-cooed at the boy, pulling one of 'those faces', where, even as a fellow adult, you wished that old fantasy tale of faces freezing as the wind changed was real, before handing him one of those gimmicky baby coffees, the name of which escaped me at that moment.

“There you go, Jackson, drink your coffee,” the pale-faced mother said, caressing the boy's thin, sandy hair, before turning her attention back to her guffawing friend. I laid the paper down and waited for it to happen. Jackson surprised me by taking a sip before the liquid went all over the floor. “Maybe 18 months is too young for a babycino,” the mother said to her friend, who was already on her hands and knees dutifully wiping up with a serviette.

I went back to the newspaper, wanting to get through one article before leaving, only to be interrupted again by big-voiced J, now doing his 'nana over a banana. Aaarrgghh. Thank God that's not me, I thought, that warm rush of relief akin to that of a late-teen who's had a bad dream about missing a VCE exam, only to wake up and realise they now have a day-job instead.

And that's when it dawned on me, in an arm-hair-stiffening moment of realisation: hang on a minute, that is you. Or about to be... That 'sort of thing', that's youYouYOU...

I shakily took a sip of my coffee. For the first time since Tash, became pregnant eight months ago, the truth had hit me square between the eyes.

It's amazing how one little seemingly insignificant moment brings such realisation, when so many other supposed milestone moments didn't quite do the job. Denial (the oh-so-apt anagram of my Christian name) was my adversary from the outset. I thought back to that fateful March morning, when Tash returned from the chemist. I remember noting how simple the directions were on the pregnancy kit box: a criss-cross symbol meant Positive; a minus, Negative. It didn't matter which way I looked at it – side on, upside down, standing on my head – it was positive. Shock softened my joy; after all, it hadn't been planned, and we'd been cautious in a lax sort of way. I resolved to push it to the back of my brain as Tash assured me we wouldn't tell anyone until she'd safely navigated the first three months.

But there wasn't even any morning sickness. And she was still working. It was like nothing had changed. And while I thought telling people would take me to some other level, it didn't, despite the news drawing tears from my mother, a slap on the back from Dad and some earnest, grown-up advice from my single mates.

As time went on, there was Tash's ever-changing body shape and mindset: I'd seen her stomach expand outwards, droop downwards, her reasoning waver, but somehow a stubborn wall of denial always stood in the way, and I'd refrain looking too far ahead. Baby names? What's the rush, we have six months to go... sorry, make that five.

I'd been reliably told the 20-week 3D scan was when it would hit home the most. Must admit, the little alien-like human writhing around on the screen was indeed an eye-opener but that fatherly feeling remained elusive, and has remained that way even as the final necessities were carried out – the cot, a hand-me-down from a friend, assembled and painted; a baby seat fitted in the old bachelor wagon; the pram purchased; the hospital bags packed.

Even Tash's baby shower last weekend, where I was temporarily surrounded by a bunch of excitable females before escaping to the pub with my brother-in-law (for a couple of light beers, of course), still had the long-toothed bunnies jumping fences in my mind's eye rather than the delicate, wailing, nappy-soiling, vomiting little human who was just about to enter my sphere.

Leaving the cafe, I noticed them all around me. Little monkeys in prams. Toddlers being tugged back from the road by multi-tasking mothers. It's amazing how little you see of things that don't directly relate to you. I began asking myself questions: will I be a dad who avoids coffee shop outings? Will I be one who is suckered into the methods of others before me? Will my child be a babycino drinker? Will I put up a 'baby on board' sticker in my car after years of chastising others for doing the same?

So. I'm finally at one with the knowledge that in a few weeks – or maybe days – I'm about to become one of those people. One of those preoccupied, enamoured, stale milk-smelling souls with licorice-dark rings under the eyes. I may not be ready but, hey, who's ever ready for anything? So thank you, little Jackson, you might have ruined your mother's morning but you made mine.

My top five all-time worst Australian songs

1. Nothing Can Divide Us - Jason Donovan
Pure crud. His voice sounds like a cow in its dying throes. The 'lyrics' are stomach-churningly bad. The most rotten in a batch of bad Stock Aitken and Waterman eggs.
2. Especially For You - Kylie and Jason
Read above. I made the mistake of watching the filmclip for a laugh after eating my dinner. Bad mistake. No wonder JD turned to the snort in the '90s.
3. Angels Brought Me Here - Guy Sebastion
Number one with an Idol-driven bullet. Ah, the power of TV. What a nation of morons we are - how can any sane-thinking person think this is anything but diabolical?
4. Boys Will Be Boys - Choir Boys
Bogan central. Wash down your meat meal with a dozen VBs, wipe your mouth with your truckie singlet, high five and bang heads with the empty-headed mate nearest you.
5. Don't It make You Feel Good - Stefan Dennis
Should be number one but for a hot field, and because the 'emotive' filmclip is good for a laugh. Australian music really was at its nadir in the late 80s.

The Rating Game

What happens when a young man first cooks for his mother? As Daniel Lewis discovers, the roles might be reversed, but you can't erase your childhood.

This is a year of firsts for me. I moved out of the bachelor pad and in with my girlfriend. Quit my job to pursue a new career. And for the first time in my life, I cooked dinner for my mother. The latter was the most nerve-wracking of all.
When I rang Mum to invite her over a couple of weeks back, she was thrilled. But I wasn’t convinced she knew the full story.
“I'm cooking,” I added.
There was a pause. Memories of me bringing home appalling concoctions from home economics class were no doubt swirling around her mind. Surely he couldn't reproduce that quiche from sixteen years ago?
“Okay, I look forward to it.”
The line went dead. Even within that soothingly familiar voice, those last words had a sinister undercurrent. Mum was worried. So was I.
I asked my girlfriend for help.
“You cook for me all the time,” she said. “You'll be fine.”
It was easy for her to be blasé. She hadn’t been the smart-ass kid who spent much of his childhood rating his mother’s meals.
Monday night, roast. Potatoes not up to usual standard. Seven and a half.
Wednesday, chicken stir-fry. Too much zucchini. Eight.
Friday, lasagna. Excellent, although a little bland. Some chili wouldn't have gone astray. Eight and a half.
There were never any tens, as that would mean there was nothing to look forward to, or for Mum to work towards. And, conversely, no fails. We still wanted to eat the next night.
Worse still, none of this was lost on my little brother, 13 years my junior, who continued the tradition long after I'd left home. Countless hours sweating over hotplates; another decade of narrowly missing that elusive ten. And it was all my fault. It was time for me to be the grown up, to face the music.
The big day beckoned. Footscray market was mobbed, the range of produce imposing. I just wanted tomatoes. Stall after stall, amid endless rows of vegetables, were variations of the trusty staple: Roma, gourmet, wild, beefsteak, heritage. All shapes and sizes. The little Italian grocer laughed heartily when I asked if cherry tomatoes were suitable for cooking a sauce from scratch. She pointed in the direction of the vine-ripened variety, gave a quick rundown on how best to cook them before waddling away with a shake of her head.
So, to the vine-ripened stand. Must admit, there is something aesthetically pleasing about those with the leaves still intact. I'd remembered an episode where Jamie Oliver baked some with herbs and oil before tossing them through pasta. It looked easy, and he even had time to entertain his guests while cooking, not to mention having them in fits of laughter afterwards. I threw half a dozen in the basket, added a few Romas for good measure. Then I stocked up on cooked prawns, herbs, bread, cheese and fresh pasta.
Back in the kitchen, I lathered the baking tray with olive oil, placed the tomatoes down, chopped the garlic and chili. A shake of salt and pepper. The juice of a lemon.
The doorbell rang during my chopping frenzy. I nudged the baking tray to a position on the bench where the tomatoes glistened in the late afternoon sun. I delayed the final preparations as my girlfriend showed Mum, my sisters and brother-in-law around the house. With Mum settled on a bench stool with a drink, I applied the finishing touches.
She sipped away, observing. Finally, she said: “Well, don't you look the part?”
My girlfriend ushered everyone to the courtyard dining table, where my brother-in-law’s jokes and Mum's laughter could be heard amid the clink of wine glasses and rapid conversation. Just like in Oliver's Twist.
In the kitchen, the tomatoes were blistered and cooking down. I tossed through the prawns. Added basil for flavour and colour. Everything was transferred into the pasta and tossed evenly. I wiped my brow and finished the beer I'd started an hour before. The sober chef.
I marched out with fresh bread and a bowl of freshly grated parmesan. A final drizzle of oil and out went the main. I served Mum first and waited for her reaction. If she was surprised, she hid it well.
“Restaurant standard,” she said, a look of genuine pleasure on her face. “Eight out of ten.”

Getting on a bit

You know you're getting on a bit when you remember the baby in the photos of your little cousin's 21st invite. Conversely, you know you still have a ways to go when your first thoughts are: free booze, I'm there, I'm going to get hammered.

Fruit Tangle - A Ko Samui flashback

The banana lounges were sumptuous; we stretched out and let the Ko Samui sun coat our bodies. The sun kissed the aqua blue sea in front of us. Backing that was the feint outline of distant, overarching cliffs, the steam rising up from the water. My spine nestled into the cushion and my body drifted into something reaching relaxation. We'd been in the same spot for five days now. It was perfection, we saw no need to move. And that's when I saw movement in the distance. Somewhere under a wide straw hat was the face of our little Thai fruit vendor. He was severely hunched over as he walked, a long, thick bend of bamboo slung across his shoulder that hoisted a sizeable basket of tropical fruits on ice. He was cutting through an inlet of water, heading our way with each back-breaking step. I didn't want any fruit. My girlfriend didn't either. We were, for want of a better word, all fruited out. And still he edged closer, like a little black insect expanding. The ridges of the bamboo stick became visible. I could now hear his footsteps in the sand, could see the muscles in his thin legs bulging with the effort. He was humming a tune. I started to wave him away. I even put on that moronic Asian accent Westerners use as compensation for not knowing the local language. No, thanks. Not today. And now he was upon us, the sweat dripping off his dark, ageing face, his teeth pearly white and smiling. He lifted the huge weight off his shoulders and it hit the ground with a weighty thud just in front of us. On offer was the same chilled smorgasbord as the previous few days. It all looked fresh enough. I knew we were his livelihood, perhaps his only customers. But with the tang of pineapple still on my tongue the only word that kept presenting itself in my brain was NO. Flashing his whites, he pointed at the watermelon. No. Rockmelon? No. He picked up a wedge of pineapple and thrust it toward me. He knew I was a sucker for the stuff. But it was another shake of the head. Everything was a no. I employed the accent again. Maybe tomorrow? His smile remained, but I could see the disappointment in his eyes as he hauled the weight back over his slender shoulders, his raggy t-shirt tearing slightly with the force as shuffled off. There was an even more pronounced sag to his posture now. The sad music needed to kick in, but all I could hear was distant jungle beats. It wasn't until my girlfriend jabbed me that I came to my senses. I ran after the little bugger and handed him the equivalent of AUD$10. I'd buy the lot. He did somersaults in the sand. My girlfriend winked at me as I returned to my towel. A warm charge of self-justification rose in my chest. Then I let the ants at the fruit.

Flying

I hate flying. No, I'm not against Superman or birds or Gary Ablett Sr (remember him standing on Chris Langford's head back in, what was it, 1993?), but my aversion I speak of is being in an aircraft, in the air. It's something that has been bubbling under the surface since I first boarded a plane at the age of 20, when me and my best mate Waz boarded a 747 bound for the UK. That flight, and the fifty or so since, haven't worried me in the slightest, mainly because there was barely a ripple of turbulence on any of those flights, and the fact I was young and silly and perhaps didn't give life the credit it deserved.

On my first few flights, particularly the first one with Waz (yes, I jumped straight into the deep end, no domestic flight in Oz to speak of, just an epic journey to a destination almost as geographically far away as possible) any nerves I may have had were assuaged by a dozen stiff drinks. That would get me to Kuala Lumpur or some other Asian middle-of-the-planet stopover and then I'd be so dehydrated and deliriously tired that I'd even manage some shut-eye on the back nine.

I've done flying's full gambit: 24-hour long-hauls - four times back and forth to the UK and Ireland; the halfway ones to Asia and back; and, of course, the blink-and-it's-gone commercial journeys within our great country. From the outside I could have even be perceived a casual flyer, one who could read immerse myself in a film, or read great chunks of novels, or happily slap my knees to music, or wile away many an hour unsuccessfully trying to beat the in-flight computer at tennis or frustrate myself no end at mini-golf. Until now. That voice, the one that I'd manage to bury away in my inner psyche, was always right. Truth is, I am scared when I'm up there. All it took was one incident, one flirtation (in my mind) with death for that voice to take over my faculties of reasoning; to scar me, perhaps forever.

Let's recap. Seeing I've given you a long, some might say self-indulgent lead-in to the story (that's the beauty of having your own blog, there's no issues with word count, or space, or even sticking to the point or angle of the story) I think it's only fair, for purposes of consistency, to give you ample lead-up to my flight from hell. A story told in detail is a story told well.

My beautiful girlfriend Tash and I recently left our lives behind for a tick under a month as we took in Buenos Aires and Argentina's lake district, and the US of A's New York and Los Angeles. As part of a snaffled bargain basement US deal, we flew to LA first. This flight went by in the wink of an eye, and aside from Tash and I being stuck in the middle of the four-seat middle aisle, with big, snoring men either side of us, it was smooth and uneventful: just the way I liked it. We spent the day touring Hollywood on a bus tour, one that would have been exciting had we not been so utterly jet-lagged.
Guide: 'And there, behind those large gates, amid those million dollar plants, next to the that statued waterfall, is Brad and Angelina's house...'
Tash and Lewy: Snore.

The next flight, from LA to Buenos Aires, went along the same, Guinness-head smooth lines. I'll stop here to say this part of the journey wasn't even part of the original plan. If Tash hadn't fallen pregnant after we'd booked our flights to Peru with the intention of doing the Inca Trail, perhaps I wouldn't be spending time recounting this story, and maybe I'd be thinking of my next trip overseas without thoughts of dread. But she did (which is indeed a blessing and, after a few weeks (months?) of uncertainty I have to say I'm besotted with the little creature captured on the 12- and 20-week scans and can't wait until December when it springs eternal) and therefore, due to the required immunisation jabs that are said to increase the risk of miscarriage, we had to dispense with the Inca dream and instead moved our flights, at a small cost, to Buenos Aires.
(Which, while we were there, was more than sufficient compensation. Buenos Aires is an amazingly diverse city, and we spent five endless days walking its streets, taking in as much as possible but ultimately only unravelling a tiny part of its rich cultural tapestry. Hip cafes, a hauntingly beautiful cemetery that is home to Eva Peron, the chance to retrace the steps of the hallowed grounds where Diego Maradona's twinkle feet once had his countrymen in the palm of his hand, and, last but surely not least, beautiful people everywhere, men included {Tash, to her credit, refrained from the sideways glance... as far as I know...} A huge city that takes up more than a third of Argentina's population, where the poor are poor and the rich are exceedingly, exclusively so. Unforgettable. And the Lake district - surrounding the homely town of Bariloche where the cleverly named 'Seven Lakes' are situated, was as breathtaking an alpine area you could hope to see, even if the lack of English {I learnt a few basic words but the locals' propensity to speed talk had me baffled every time} counted against us on two of our day tours, one of which we were cooped up in a bus for twelve hours with a nasally tour guide whose high-pitched Spanish and reluctance to accommodate us with her limited, but probably adequate, grasp of English had me thinking of all sorts of weird, Temple Of Doom-type ceremonial stuff... In the end our source of revenge was to not tip her at its conclusion.)
It was just the flight back across the equator towards the Land of the Free that has me scarred.

And so, to the flight itself. We checked in three hours before our flights to ensure we had our own aisle seat. The friendly woman at the reservation desk, one of few who spoke fluent English, gave us two aisle seats towards the rear of the plane, one of the last few remaining, adding that these were only available because people generally don't like sitting at the back. When I asked why, she mentioned something about people not feeling safe there. Is that because if the back snaps off, we're the first to go, I asked, drawing laughter. We guffawed a little more before we moved on towards customs. We boarded without fanfare. Upon taking up our seats, Tash voiced her displeasure that there was no in-flight entertainment, just a few strategically placed screens, the nearest of which wasn't working anyway. Next to us, in the three-seat middle aisle was a woman of middle-eastern appearance, wearing a long dress and bandanna, with two daughters. She was leafing through a Koran, praying. I looked away.

The take-off was stock-standard: we ascended, found altitude and cruising speed soon enough, and then the pilot turned off the seatbelt sign. The Captain's voice came through the speaker, informing us of all the places we'd be flying over, our expected arrival time, and that he was expecting a smooth journey. I opened my book and relaxed into my seat. There was no in-flight entertainment this time, which I thought a good thing as I could make some decent inroads into my novel and not get sucked into the ultimate of all life-suckages: computer games.

In a jiffy, Tash was served up her vegetarian meal (not that she's against meat, just the random bits and pieces that make up the meat options for in-flight meals). The flight path navigator suggested we were somewhere over southern Brazil. And then the buffeting started. At first it felt no different to regulation turbulence but within seconds I knew it was something more than that. We'd apparently enveloped ourselves into an unexpected air pocket of terror. The dreaded bell of the seatbelt sign flashed on and the little girls next to us starting crying, blubbering 'mummy, mummy'. I grabbed Tash's hand, an understated sobbing in my voice as I said with increased urgency: 'Tash, Tash'. The plane shook and bumped. After about half a minute the plane felt like it went into a spasm and then it dipped. My heart flipped. Then it stopped dipping, and came to a jolting halt, like we'd landed mid-air, and everyone was lifted from their seats. It reminded me of a silly time with several mates in Cobram when I was 18 or 19, when a mate, known by all and sundry as 'Pronga', fifteen pots of draught to the good, decided to take us on a crazed tour of our hometown in his yellow Datsun. The car would never be the same again after he flew over a levy bank near the river and came crashing to the ground a few seconds later. My head hit the roof on that occasion. Although my cranium didn't hit ceiling on this occasion, this felt much worse. Tash's glass of water lashed her meal. The little girls' cokes tipped along their trays. A few yelps escaped from other passengers' mouths but most stayed calm, even as the rattling continued. The Captain's voice came through the speaker: "Sorry about that ladies and gentlemen, we encountered some unexpected turbulence there, we are going to change our flight path slightly to see if we can get out of this bad area. Flight crew, please stay in your seats."

The plane continued to rattle we descended slightly. I had no choice but to hold the Captain to his word. Things calmed down a bit. Tash looked across at me. "That was bad". I couldn't speak. I didn't want to be up there any more. I was in a situation I had no control over and I'd peeked into the world of death. I didn't like what I saw. A wave of pure sadness washed over me, making me feel dirty. I was aware of how common turbulence was but it was the utter unexpectedness, the sheer violence of mother nature that shook the plane mid air that made it feel like something out of a movie, that made me think: this is my time. And I couldn't get rid of the sadness. I could barely talk. Two years ago it wouldn't have worried me. But now, with my partner carrying my future child next to me, I had more in the world to concern myself with. I wanted the baby to see the world, I wanted to leave something behind before I went on my way. Apparently this sort of thing is, and I hate this word, common. What isn't common though, and I've always prided myself on being a little different, is how utterly irrational I was being. Tash was no doubt spooked but was able to hold herself together. She didn't want to harm the child. Where as I, the man, the so-called protector, would sit there fidgeting, fists clenched, gently punching myself in the mouth, flicking in and out of in-flight movies and games, unable to concentrate on anything other than what I thought was our pending death for more than a few minutes.

The rest of the flight was ugly to say the least. There would be periods of calm but inevitably the demons of turbulence would have their wicket way again and yet again the seatbelt sign would flash on and that sickening sadness would engulf me again. What perplexed me most was how calm other passengers were. How they could just sleep through it, some of them in that open-mouthed deep slumber, was beyond me. How could they allow their bodies to lapse into such a state of advanced relaxation when our mode of transportation was akin to that of jut-impeded cattletruck, 30,000 feet above the air?

These airbuses, are they safer than 747s? Am I right in thinking those old mothers used to cut through the air, regardless of the weather? Airbuses seem to be just that: like a bus on a rattly road, except in an an airspace that requires oxygen if things go awry. I can't, and probably won't, subscribe to the theory that when it's your time , it's your time, and in life you should only worry about what you can control. That's why I won't get on a plane again for a while. However, I also abide by the adage, time heals all wounds, and have been told by others averse to flying that eventually I will be okay to fly again. I hope so, because I still have much to see and do; there are continents to conquer, things to show my kid down the track that will require travel.

As for the rest of the trip, we had a ball in New York, the city that throbs to its own heartbeat. Mixed it up well. Spent the first four nights in the crazy busy Roosevelt Hotel near Times Square, then took up residence at an apartment in East Village (which proved conveniently close to the home of Cobram's favourite son, Brad Blanks), then rounded it out with a night in Central Park West, near where John Lennon was murdered. After nine days in the big Apple it was time to get back on a plane: a four-hour flight to LA. My nerves were still shot, I needed another flight like a weekend binge-drinker needs a stein of lager on a Monday night, particularly when the plane took a minor buffeting as we ascended. This is where I was at: if we are being knocked around on the way up, what's it going to be like when we reach cruising speed? Surrounded by Aussie accents again (it's amazing how strong the accent sounds when you haven't heard it for a while; it's like something out of a movie) was a minor comfort and we got to LA in one piece. Two nights at the Roosevelt in Hollywood allowed me to relax and try to put the pending flight home out of my mind as I sun baked by the hotel's famous pool surrounded by a hundred beautiful, plastic people. But I allowed myself to be immersed in a USA Today article about the Air France flight, and the apparent heavy thunderstorms the plane had snagged itself in not long before disappearing into the sea. The old heartbeat thumped and I felt pathetic once more. I even put forth the idea to Tash that we perhaps take a boat home. A romantic cruise, was how I put it. When Tash saw I was half serious she explained that it would take weeks, months even, and we had a life in Melbourne to get home to and to stop being so silly.

But that nonsensical mindset stayed with me and was very much on song as I tried to combat anxiety boarding the plane that last time. The captain assured us it would be a smooth flight but he expected a few bumps just north of the equator. Great, I thought. Something to look forward to. I hung in there for eleven hours, continually checking the flight path, shaking my head and trying to take heed of Tash's advice to take deep breaths when we did hit turbulence and the seatbelt sign was turned on. Then I could see the top of Cape York appear on the flight path map, and as the gap between the little white plane and Australia's east coast lessened, the better I felt.

After we touched down Tash turned to me and said, "I'm never flying with you again". And I don't blame her. But I was rapt. It felt great to be on the ground again. Great to be home. I had fallen in love with Melbourne all over again. No more cliche-avoidance: it's great to be alive.

Response to JJJ's Hottest 100 of all time 2009

I gave Triple J's Hottest 100 Of All-Time a good chunk of my attention last weekend. So much so that my girlfriend had to tell me to dispense with the aghast sighs when hearing of an average (in my opinion) song's giddy position on the countdown as opposed to another's (of which I'm fond) lowly position.
Don't get me wrong. This is indeed a strong list of songs (I ranked each out 10 - and no, it's not that I've got too much time on my hands, I've had to burn the midnight oil a few times. The average is 7.82, a tick under an 'A' or 'HD' average).
Without stretching the old noggin any further (given this is more than likely to be a futile, thankless task) I'd say a good half of the tunes herein would be in line for my top 100 of all time. Or top 200. But then, it's impossible to say until I actually sit down and tackle that mammoth task. Unless the windfall comes my way it probably won't happen, I like my sleep too much.
Actually, even if I'm able to bathe in $100 notes while attempting it, it wouldn't feel right. Music is always alive, songs go up and down in estimations; new tunes emerge that take your breath away. I guess that's why these sorts of polls find constantly find themselves on the radio and in music magazines. It's the search for the fruitless - the definitive all-time great song. But it's more than that for many of us. It's the thrill of the chase.
So. What I've done is put my own order to the 100 songs that made the countdown. It seems I'm on the same page as the nucleus on no less than four songs - Under the Bridge, Alive, London Calling and Every You, Every Me while I was one off the pace on three - Superstition, Paranoid Android and Today. As for the others, well, I differ. And that's what, for me, made this exercise worthwhile. By throwing in a comment on each one (my self-imposed 20-word limit proved difficult, particularly on the songs I didn't like as much), and by listening to the Blip Playlist, I reaffirmed my thoughts on each.
Below is the final product. It's been through excel, word and now in restrictive e-blogger format.
Finally, my disclaimer: that I love music too much to make apologies for any of my choices. To adopt a well-worn cliche: music is the winner here!

My rank
(Hottest 100 of all time 2009 rank)
Song
Artist
Year of release
Comments


1
(59)
One Crowded Hour
Augie March
2006
Already an old friend. Moo You Bloody Choir, along with their first two albums, helped me through my ‘dark summer’.

2
(76)
Fools Gold
The Stone Roses
1989
Cool as f*ck (who’d have thought to turn the vocals down?) and ten years’ ahead of its time.

3
(36)
Into My Arms
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
1997
The definitive funeral song. Achingly beautiful.

4
(5)
Paranoid Android
Radiohead
1997
Goosebumps still sprout when electric guitar meets that bass-driven riff.

5
(7)
Last Goodbye
Jeff Buckley
1994
Memories of hostel life, rot-gut red and a love seemingly lost forever.

6
(15)
Karma Police
Radiohead
1997
Just pipped by Paranoid Android for Radiohead's best. ‘90s angst drips off this.
Harmonies Brian Wilson would be proud to claim.

7
(75)
Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)
Green Day
1997
Before Seinfeld and others took it to different place, this was a simple, heartfelt pop song for all ages. Pays to banish it for a while.

8
(8)
Under the Bridge
Red Hot Chili Peppers
1991
If you can’t be bothered with Anthony Kiedis’s autobiography, then just read the lyrics to this. Best bridge ever?

9
(84)
No Woman, No Cry
Bob Marley & The Wailers
1974
Ah, stoner backpacking daze… Grabs hold of the heart in its own unique way.

10
(44)
Hey Jude
The Beatles
1968
Pleased this made it; not such a guilty pleasure after all!

11
(85)
Bohemian Like You
The Dandy Warhols
2000
Sure I once read somewhere music-world doomsayers predicting we’d run out of great riffs?

12
(2)
Killing in the Name
Rage Against the Machine
1992
This raucous belter flips the bird with spittle-flying menace.

13
(71)
How Soon Is Now?
The Smiths
1984
Spine-tingling ‘80s synths and lyrics that carry across the generations.

14
(3)
Hallelujah
Jeff Buckley
1994
Leonard Cohen’s bank account inflates as his musical ego is forced in the other direction.

15
(11)
Imagine
John Lennon
1971
Perhaps heard this more than any other but it still more than holds its own.

16
(19)
One
Metallica
1988
Some songs are labeled an ‘epic’ undeservedly. Not this. Still awesome.

17
(14)
Bitter Sweet Symphony
The Verve
1997
Walkman had this on repeat walking along Brighton beach (UK) to work back in ’98. ‘I can change’!

18
(93)
Unfinished Sympathy
Massive Attack
1991
Normally not my genre but this haunts and moves the feet in equal measures. Trip-hop too ingenious to ignore.

19
(65)
Born Slippy
Underworld
1995
Instantly back to Edinburgh and backpacker hostel days again. A nightclubbing staple for years.

20
(16)
Wish You Were Here
Pink Floyd
1975
Even on the simpler, lighter side of the moon, Pink Floyd come up with the goods.

21
(40)
Come as You Are
Nirvana
1991
Yes, I have this above Teen Spirit. Strong album, Nevermind, wasn’t it?

22
(92)
Skinny Love
Bon Iver
2008
A broken-hearted gent who hibernated in Wisconsin and recorded for months. Basic and beautiful; you can picture him perfecting this by a log fire.

23
(28)
Fake Plastic Trees
Radiohead
1995
A constant on my walkman in the Edinburgh days. I'd forgo the bus from Portobello to Princes Street so I embrace the cold and listen to The Bends and reflect on how confusing love is. Pathetic, isn’t it.

24
(56)
Lover, You Should've Come Over
Jeff Buckley
1994
Again, it’s gallons of cheap red wine, life on a shoe-string and intoxicated by a first love. ‘Let me sleep tonight, on your couch’.

25
(25)
Alive
Pearl Jam
1991
Prominently black band t-shirt over long-sleeve, dreaming of tearing into this in front of a big crowd. I wonder where Jeremy ended up?

26
(77)
Hearts a Mess
Gotye
2006
Highly original and deeply affecting. Released around the time of an epic break-up.

27
(1)
Smells Like Teen Spirit
Nirvana
1991
Put the snarl in my 14-year-old self. Possibly suffers from a hundred too many listens.

28
(10)
Stairway to Heaven
Led Zeppelin
1971
Always number one on 96.9 Sun FM’s (Shepparton) all-time countdowns. Led me to buy Remasters at age 15.

29
(69)
Grace
Jeff Buckley
1994
Even by Bucks’ lofty standards, the ol' larynx gets a fair work out here.

30
(18)
Knights of Cydonia
Muse
2006
Music critics labeled it a ‘Spaghetti Western’. Me and my Muse-loving mates just turned it up. Loud. We discovered that cops are Muse fans, too.

31
(49)
Sweet Child o' Mine
Guns N' Roses
1988
Maybe forget Chinese Democracy ever happened. Reacquaint yourself with this instead.

32
(22)
Teardrop
Massive Attack
1998
You got a roach?

33
(13)
Creep
Radiohead
1992
Pablo Honey has always been harshly rated. Creep isn’t even the best song on it.

34
(50)
Don't Dream It's Over
Crowded House
1986
Around the time of this song’s release Australia claimed Crowded House for good.

35
(20)
Seven Nation Army
The White Stripes
2003
The riffs are getting bigger. I still struggle to reconcile their huge sound with a two-piece.

36
(43)
God Only Knows
The Beach Boys
1966
Picture this: a golden sun going down on a Californian beach; no music, just the Wilson brothers further beautifying the amazing arrangements of this classic, the waves crashing in.

37
(24)
A Day in the Life
The Beatles
1967
Arguably The Beatles’ most inventive moment to that time. Still holds up today. Of course, so does much of their material.

38
(87)
Yellow
Coldplay
2000
Wouldn’t it be great if great songs were given a five-year sabbatical after copping the 'year-long, broken record’ treatment from radio stations?

39
(4)
Love Will Tear Us Apart
Joy Division
1980
Got me fifth time around. That spine-tingling ‘80s riff always demands attention. Control one of the great music movies.

40
(35)
1979
The Smashing Pumpkins
1996
A heart-pulling electronic riff doesn't overshadow a cleverly-executed pop-rock number.

41
(55)
Like a Rolling Stone
Bob Dylan
1965
Forty-four years on and still going strong. Is so old my dad was still years away from blowing smoke rings in front of my ogling mother at the Ouyen cafe.

42
(81)
Common People
Pulp
1995
Camp, tongue-in-cheek and cool. Invokes memories of vile lager, late night chippies and full breakfasts. All at once.

43(41)
Billie Jean
Michael Jackson
1983
A great song anyway. Motown with menace.

44
(61)
Song 2
Blur
1997
At two minutes it was never great value on the video jukebox. Nor would it be to download now.

45
(80)
Paint It, Black
The Rolling Stones
1966
The Stones’ finest moment – and that’s saying something.

46
(64)
Blister in the Sun
Violent Femmes
1982
A classic but heard it too many times. Reminds me of the Barooga Sporties for some reason.

47
(94)
Float On
Modest Mouse
2004
The archetypal slow-burner – first time you think: 'good song'; then, 'there’s something more there'; and finally, 'a touch of genius'.

48
(98)
Kashmir
Led Zeppelin
1975
Led Zep are worthy of two songs; this is a worthy bridesmaid to Stairway.

49
(60)
Hurt
Johnny Cash
2003
An ailing old man outdoes himself. Again.

50
(99)
Wolf Like Me
TV on the Radio
2006
Another that has grown in stature as it’s aged. Feel your adrenalin snowball.

51
(100)
Take Me Out
Franz Ferdinand
2004
Wouldn’t be out of place in any era from the ‘70s onwards.

52
(6)
Bohemian Rhapsody
Queen
1988
Bona fide classic that suffers, as many do, from over-saturation. Perhaps we have too many all-time counts.

53
(12)
Wonderwall
Oasis
1995
Ah, 1995. The Gallaghers were young. I was younger. We all drank.

54
(31)
Enter Sandman
Metallica
1991
Never quite got the Metallica tee, but this song had me browsing. Definitely not a kids' bedtime story.

55
(62)
Closer
Nine Inch Nails
1994
The ARIA charts were relevant back in the ‘90s when songs from the far-left like NINs’ jewel were hits.

56
(46)
Epic
Faith No More
1990
Can still see that fish in its dying throes to the classical piano. Very underrated, Mike Patton.

57
(30)
All Along the Watchtower
Jimi Hendrix
1968
A Dylan cover that Hendrix made his own. First cab off the Vietnam rank.

58
(38)
Mr. Brightside
The Killers
2004
Top-notch glam rock with a look-at-me statesman. No wonder they made an instant impact.

59
(53)
Comfortably Numb
Pink Floyd
1979
Close your eyes and fly to the moon. Scissor Sisters' version is brilliant, too.

60
(23)
Throw Your Arms Around Me
Hunters & Collectors
1985
Pot of draught in hand, wrap an arm around your mate and bellow the chorus from your lungs.

61
(51)
Bullet with Butterfly Wings
The Smashing Pumpkins
1995
Another of the mid-90s stockpile. Disappointed Tonight, Tonight didn’t make it.

62
(33)
Tomorrow
Silverchair
1994
Fifteen years ago? Already? Where's some of the stuff they've achieved since?

63
(67)
Brick
Ben Folds Five
1997
Oddly beautiful but his strong Yank accent gets in the way somehow.

64
(32)
Blue Monday
New Order
1983
I was six when this came out; twenty-six when I fully understood its brilliance.

65
(29)
Where Is My Mind?
Pixies
1988
Nothing from Doolittle? Where are you, Pixies fans, too cool for this poll?

66
(39)
Better Man
Pearl Jam
1994
Sappy but shows how versatile Vedder is. His best work is on the Into The Wild soundtrack.

67
(27)
My Happiness
Powderfinger
2000
There’s more going on here than on most of their other stuff.

68
(89)
Bulls on Parade
Rage Against the Machine
1996
Check out this song on YouTube… and read the comments’ section. If you can decipher gen Y shorthand there’s some robust discussion going on.

69
(54)
Close to Me
The Cure
1985
Subliminal pop. First memory of Robert Smith is lipstick-smudged creepiness of Lullaby. Where’s Friday I’m In Love?

70
(21)
These Days
Powderfinger
2000
Couldn’t imagine Two Hands without it. Scriptwriting mates drool over the film’s simplicity… and its success.

71
(86)
Come Together
The Beatles
1969
If pushed wouldn’t have this in my Beatles top 10 but that’s more about their catalogue than me.

72
(52)
Berlin Chair
You Am I
1994
St.Kilda pub floors sticky with beer. Sweat flying from the stage. I prefer Cathy’s Clown though. And where’s Heavy Heart?

73
(73)
London Calling
The Clash
1979
Punk swagger of the highest order. Gov'ner.

74
(82)
Chop Suey!
System of a Down
2001
Bonkers. Only for heavy-heads and people who can decipher good music from the bad. This is the former.

75
(97)
Beds Are Burning
Midnight Oil
1987
‘80s Australiana that takes you back to the days of Bob Hawke, Perfect Match, Christopher Skase. Peter Garrett's political lyrics were never overshadowed by his electric-shock dancing. Were they?

76
(88)
Gimme Shelter
The Rolling Stones
1969
Well crafted and great musicianship but down a number of rungs on my Stones list.

77
(79)
Life on Mars?
David Bowie
1971
Bowie in his lithe, Ziggy-infatuated prime but Starman and Space Oddity are finer moments.

78
(57)
Forty-Six & 2
Tool
1997
A colossus of a song. I actually get Tool on this one.

79
(78)
Today
The Smashing Pumpkins
1993
Well represented, the Pumpkins. Very well, considering the songs and the bands that missed out.

80
(9)
Everlong
Foo Fighters
1997
Not their best but there's a layer of tenderness beneath that vintage rock sound.

81
(74)
Lithium
Nirvana
1991
Merely an album track on Nevermind. That’s what the standard’s like.

82
(72)
New Slang
The Shins
2001
Sweet as a blackbird at your window on a summer’s day. Know this song least out of all them. Might be top 40 next time.

83
(83)
Every You Every Me
Placebo
1999
Queen-bitch Brian’s passion comes through in waves here.

84
(42)
Banquet
Bloc Party
2005
Tight pop rock, spike-edged guitar, with a nod to '80s electronica. They keep getting better, too. Lead singer dresses cool.

85
(68)
Dammit (Growing Up)
Blink-182
1997
Rightfully a big hit at the time but they’ve had better stuff (I Miss You) since.

86
(91)
Back in Black
AC/DC
1980
All truckie singlets and VB tinnies. Oh, and some handy guitar work, too. Angus keeps returning to his Cornies in the morning, just like me.

87
(47)
Betterman
The John Butler Trio
2001
Low ranking because I prefer others of his. Much respect for the man.

88
(70)
Breathe
The Prodigy
1996
Godfathers of industrial metal. The sound is stuck in 1996 though.

89
(17)
The Nosebleed Section
Hilltop Hoods
2004
The pick of Aussie hip-hop but really, that shouldn’t matter when determining all-time lists.

90
(63)
Thunderstruck
AC/DC
1990
I reached for the Strepsils 19 years ago. How much longer will Brian Johnson’s screechy, gravel-laden voice hold up?

91
(96)
One More Time
Daft Punk
2000
Credit where it’s due: very clever techno released at just the right time. Was always oddly transfixed by the animated clip.

92
(26)
Thriller
Michael Jackson
1984
Not Jacko’s best by any stretch. Not even in the top five songs on the Thriller album.

93
(66)
Tiny Dancer
Elton John
1971
Elton and Stevie have never made it before, so why now?

94
(95)
Superstition
Stevie Wonder
1972
It's vintage groovy but question is worth posing: how many times played on JJJ?

95
(45)
No One Knows
Queens of the Stone Age
2002
Proof that a monster riff doesn’t necessarily make a song.

96
(34)
Prisoner of Society
The Living End
1997
Never been a fan. But that’s just me. Reviewer's prerogative.

97
(37)
Stinkfist
Tool
1996
Lots of noise and meaningful build-up but doesn’t hit its mark.

98
(90)
Sex on Fire
Kings of Leon
2008
Most overrated band of modern times. Kudos for dominating the airwaves but overkill has ensured a once tolerable tune is now abhorred.

99
(48)
Sabotage
Beastie Boys
1994
Their high-pitched voices give me the shits.

100
(58)
Around the World
Daft Punk
1997
Repetitive, nauseating and dumb.


Before signing off, consider this...

Five Aussie classics that missed:

Friday On My Mind - The Easybeats
The Real Thing - Russell Morris
Never Tear Us Apart - INXS
Khe Sanh - Cold Chisel
Under The Milky Way - The Church


Five I'm surprised didn't make it (not necessarily because I like them):

Hey Ya! - Outkast
Here Comes Your Man - Pixies
Zombie - Cranberries
Are You Gonna Be My Girl? - Jet
Feel Good Inc. - Gorillaz


And what about these:

Marquee Moon - Television
Light My Fire - The Doors
(same goes for Riders On The Storm, Peace Frog, LA Woman)
Anarchy In The UK - Sex Pistols
And She Was - Talking Heads
Passenger - Iggy Pop

"No-one is from here"

Had one of those head-nipping, moral-rattling situations earlier. I think I once read somewhere that everyone finds themselves in at least one such situation in their lifetime. Whatever, it has stuck with me since.

I'd just picked up my green station wagon from a garage, where I'd just had a petrol pump replaced, still reeling from the sting in my hip-pocket. Given it was low on petrol (part of the reason the fuel pump gave way) and dirty I decided to take it to my local servo for a clean. Give the neglected old thing a complete makeover.

This place has two cleaning stations, one of which has been out of service for what seems like an eternity now. This almost always means a delay. No problem; I live in a city where patience is a pre-requisite for survival. Whilst waiting for the incumbent occupier to finish, I filled the wagon up, and cruised inside to pay.
I recognised the moustached guy behind the counter: he was one of two friendly men of hard-to-pin origins. As I swiped my bank card and hit the digits on the EFTPOS holder I casually asked him, "Is that other car wash ever going to be operational again?". He almost cut me off answering, like he'd been asked this a zillion times before.

"Soon. We have been waiting for part from Germany."

Fair enough, I thought. I guess it's not an issue unless you have twenty cars lining up when there could only be ten.

Then he fixed upon me a strange look. "Are you from Germany?"

I shook my head. "No, I'm from here."

He gave a tight, crackly laugh. "That what everyone say. No-one is from here."

A flashbulb went off in my head as I considered that my game was up. Perhaps this stocky little retail assistant, whose broken English had a rolling accent that leant towards Israeli, or, for the sake of hedging my bets, somewhere else in the Middle East, was some sort of prophet. I understood what he was getting at, though: the distant German ancestry of my mother's side, and the shape of my nose. Maybe my girlfriend had it on the button early on in our relationship when she said my nose gave me away. Although she guessed wrong. Poland is a galaxy away from Germany.
I screwed my nose up slightly, as if to rid it off its 'German-ness' and stated simply: "I was born here." I wanted to say: so were my parents, grandparents, Great-grandparents, and, I think, Great-greats... it was either the 'greats' times two or three that made the trip over. On both sides. But he cut me off.

"Don't matter. No-one is from here."

I didn't know what to say. It was an abrupt reach-around from left-field. He tore off a receipt and wished me a good day, a look of stoicism still on his face.
I walked out and moved my car into the now-empty car wash and thought about what had just been said.

Had this guy been on the receiving end of racism one too many times? Was this a backlash of sorts? What disturbed me most, was his comment that 'no one was from here', regardless of where they were born. Effectively he was saying there was no such thing as an Australian! This was racism in reverse!

As I scrubbed off month-old bird turds off my car bonnet I considered how lucky it was that I didn't care about the whole racism/multi-cultural thing. My groove is: let as many in as possible, provided it's value-added, and we can live together harmoniously. Imagine if I'd been some disgruntled, out-of-work hulk with right-wing, red-neck tendencies. Someone who'd have him up against the wall for a comment of far less poignancy. Someone who'd demand more respect for a country who had taken him in. Perhaps he saw me as an easy test target.

I wanted to walk back in there and declare that I'm from here because I'm Australian. I wanted to say: Just as you're Australian, sir, because you immigrated here. Just as you may have picked my German nose, I pick your accent as someone who arrived not long ago, probably in the past twenty years. It goes back to old-fashioned geography. This continent is Australia, and we live on it. We two. You're originally from somewhere else, but I'm not. I'm a fifth-generation Aussie. I accept – and encourage – your culture, and wish you all the best in this land of opportunity. And that's what Australia still is. That's why you're here isn't it?

I don't think respect is too much to ask for in return for the opportunity to be sworn in as a citizen of one of the world's most liveable countries.

But still, I didn't say any of those things. All I did was finish cleaning my car, then got in and drove off. And not even a burn-out on departure.

Who's the toothless tiger?

This article might be seen as biting off the hand that potentially feeds. But I don't care. As freelance writers, we're taught to write about topics that ensnare our passion, make us frolic or seethe inside. So, here goes.

Now that the dust has settled and Terry Wallace’s life has returned to relative anonymity – maybe he’s even sleeping and eating again – I don’t think it’s unreasonable for the blowtorch to be turned the other way. In short, the media’s treatment of Wallace this year has been nothing short of savage. Blood-thirsty. A slight on the profession.

The carnage began after Richmond’s first round loss to Carlton. It was Wallace's final year of a five-year plan and he'd yet to make the finals. Richmond needed a strong start to the year to keep the wolves at bay. It didn't. The Tigers were thumped, and they – the wolves – sprang to life. The losses kept coming and the calls for Wallace's head – literally – reached fever-pitch in round four after a loss to cellar-dweller Melbourne.

The media – so often a struggling coach's Achilles heel in April and May – probed Richmond's bigwigs about Wallace's future, to which their position was unequivocally stated – that it would be reviewed mid-season. And yet, amid such headlines as 'Death Row', the same question continued to be asked and the public woke up to the same article – albeit with a few words moved around – every morning for a week.

Even Ben Cousins' return from injury didn't arouse the lower-regions of writers and subs.Remember not so long ago when the Herald-Sun, tired of being hot on Cousins' heals for no result, sent out a plea to readers: have you seen Ben Cousins?

Then came Wallace's 'week from hell', where an unlucky three-point loss to Port Adelaide condemned Richmond to 1-7. Wallace’s sacking was misreported (it would later be dubbed as ‘the non-sacking') amid rumours of a player revolt, and the circus reached proportions that would make our British brethren blush. One article observed Wallace's 'gaunt' features; that he'd lost four kilograms. And yet they continued pushing. That Wallace had been involved in 500 games at the highest level mattered none. The respect and dignity normally reserved for a person of such calibre forgotten in the gluttony of attack.

How long until this sort of treatment puts someone over the edge?

I'm not denying the story was there, and, yes, some of the disclosures were out of the box. But surely when the denials start, and the broken record is immovably stuck on track one, it's time to move on?

Football clubs are like any other employer. They do things on their own terms. When did your last employer get hassle from an outside party and then think to themselves, “Oh yeah, why didn't we think of that?”

Richmond fans, among the most passionate in the competition, would be sick to the teeth of the negativity surrounding their club. They know better than anyone how they're travelling on and off the field. Yes, a new coach should have been appointed earlier in the season. Yes, their club has made some perplexing decisions at draft and trade time. But they don't need their faces rubbed in it. And they especially don't need journalists and cameramen hiding behind pot plants and then reporting fact based on assumption.

Whenever journalists are challenged by players or club management on intrusiveness or shoddy reporting, their usual response is that players' and coaches' salaries are worthy of such scrutiny; that it's not for them to decide what's in the public's interest. What's forgotten is that with the rigours of modern-day football a player's career can end with one bent limb, and, historically, a coach's life only accounts for a small percentage of their life.

And so we get manic sensationalism from editors trying to outstrip their rivals, and, with increased third-party interests in the game, more outlets delivering news to the people they say matter most – the fans.

What codswallop. If fans mattered most then many things would be different, not least the fact that you are still short after handing over $10 for a beer and a meat pie.

Are the media still giving us what we want to know, or is the current climate of reportage based on assumption? If public forums are anything to go by, it's the latter. The on-line tide is turning. The average Joes don't trust what they read anymore. There's one senior writer of eloquent, minimalist prose who should understand this better than most. Bottom last in Herald Sun's tipping competition, among his many privileges is the ability to amend his pre-season predictions. If only the rest of us were able to reconsider the choices we get paid for. Amongst the varied condemnation posted this year, one popular notion is, “I'd have lost my job ten times over if I kept getting it wrong like that”.

How about changing that record, Mr Media? What about some focus on the good side of footballers' lives? Their entertainment value during these grim times aside, what about how the majority of these young blokes carry themselves as role models when so many of a similar age are turning Melbourne's streets into battlefields?

Maybe you could even write about what’s happening on the field. When was the last time two teams remained unbeaten after eleven rounds?

Diary entry #6 - drafted

I've had one of those restless mornings, the kind where you sit there at the computer with good intentions but in reality you are really doing nothing. Except: looking up stuff on Wikipedia (well, I read up on Bret Easton Ellis' first two published novels, which I've been told to check out, so that can be classed as research); sending inane emails to friends; guiltily slipping on to Facebook, shaking my head as the same cats fill the homepage with the same idle drivel; trying to book tickets to see a bunch of top-notch Aussie male artists' take of The Beatles' White Album later in the year, and being disappointed when it's sold out... and checking out scenes from The Big Lebowski on youtube. I tell you what, if there's a more surefire way of feeling like a waster than watching the biggest time-suckage character of them all, The Dude, let me know. I still laughed like a guffawing school boy though. There's several playlists where you can get your f-word fix from that film. My favourite is 'The Big Lebowski - the f**king short version'. At least I had Word open while I watched it, twice. Anyway, I'll be busier this afternoon. I'm a little chuffed after 'finishing' a draft of my novel. It's actually a rewrite, but the first time around was basically ideas thrown down, now it's tightened and fleshed out more. So yesterday I sent it off to Jeremy my mentor, who is going to do his best to give me a reader's report of sorts by early next week, so I can tweak, fix, adjust, make better, in time for the Vogel award deadline of 31st May. Which is a Sunday, so it needs to get there by Friday. And it needs to get to NSW, so I'll be posting it on Wednesday, the 27th. One week away. Why do these things always have to be so tight? I meant to give it to Jeremy late last week but life got in the way, and some of the finishing touches of the rewrite took longer than I'd planned. Grammar consistencies... head-nipping chore. Changing Irish and Scottish characters' accents... a 'quick' eternity (why does the little clock at the bottom right of my screen skip forward two hours?). Even something as seemingly harmless as a spellcheck took forever. I only have myself to blame. My informal writing style (present tense, and second person POV in this instance) gives rise to both fragmented and flowery sentences that need double-checking and/or punctuation. Comma or semi-colon, sir?
Anyway, as that outdated band Morcheeba (who I thought were cool at the time as I danced to their cool beats, revved to the eyeballs in a cheap disco shirt either bought for 2 quid from an op-shop or stolen from the hostel 'lost and found') sing on their signature tune: 'it's all part of the process'.

The credit noose

Have you tried to cancel a credit card lately?

I was on my way out for an evening run the other night, when I did a quick scan of my 'to-do list'. It always gives me a sense of satisfaction to put a line through items on such lists, no matter how minuscule. Sort of like an 'I've earnt my beer tonight, look at what I've achieved today' scenario. To my annoyance, there was one item at the bottom not actioned – a cancellation of a credit card. A card with a little bit of history.

So I cooled my running shoes while I rang them. It seemed easy enough. I had a credit card with nothing on it that I want to cancel. I had no income, and thought it best not to have the card any more. I'd read that all lenders had fallen into line with tighter credit policies. I thought I'd be out the door in no time.

What followed were three minutes and eleven seconds of voice prompts, then:

“Good evening, –––––– Cards customer service centre, Jemima (pseudonym) speaking.”
“Ah yes, my name's Daniel Lewis and–”
“Oh, good evening, Mr Lewis, how are you today?”
“Good, thanks.”
“Good, good. That's great. Now, how can I help you today, Mr Lewis?”
“I'm wanting to cancel my credit card.”
“Oh... congratulations.”
“Sorry?”
“You've obviously won Tattslotto.”
A more bellicose person would have asked to speak to the manager there and then.
“No, I haven't. I just want to cancel my card. That's all.”
“Well, I'm sincerely sorry to hear that”.
Lady, it's after five, either you're on late shift or you're in the right job.
“Can I ask your reasons?”
What if I said 'No, you can't', would that put an end to this?
“Um... I don't want or need the card any more. And I quit my job a few months back so I have no real income at the moment.”
“Oh. Are you in employment?”
Is she serious?
“No, as I just said, I'm in between jobs. A career change as such. And I'm not sure when I'll have regular money coming in again. I'm living on savings, and have learnt from past mistakes with credit cards. I don't want it any more, that's why I'm ringing today, to cancel it.”
I can't be any clearer, can I?
“Okay, Mr Lewis, I understand, I really do. I will have to put you through to another person to finalise your request.”
I knew this was coming, so I bit my lip. I also knew where it was going: to her supervisor, or to the Collections team leader. Without debt their jobs are on the line. Jemima announced her colleague, Dionne (pseudonym) would assist from here, and put me through.
“Mr Lewis?”
A new voice on the phone, a little clearer, even more upbeat. It took her a good minute to get through her greeting. Then she asked how I was.
“I'm good. I'm just–“
And if I was having a good day.
“Yes.”
“Now, my colleague has informed me that you wish to close your account with us.”
“That's correct.”
“And can I ask your reasons?”
These people are good. Strange combination: it feels like they've been amped up during these tough times, although, surely, they haven't been given an equivalent pay increase. Corporates just don't work like that, especially not now.
“I already explained my reasons to your colleague. I don't need or want the card anymore.”
Maybe Mr Bellicose is coming to play after all.“I'm sorry to hear that.”
“Your colleague said that as well.”
“You have been with us since 2004–”
“Yeah, well I–”
“And you have an excellent payment history. We regard you highly–”
Let's cut the crap. You've made money off me in the past. That's why you regard me highly, although I'm sure you personally don't, or should I say, shouldn't, give a shit. I'll give it to the big wigs here, they have some of the very best syrup drummed into their employees' heads.
“I'm not working at the moment. I'm doing the responsible thing here. You guys would be crazy to want to keep my business.”
“Are you in employment?”
Am I speaking effing English?
“No.”
“Well, I know $170 is $170, but for that small annual fee you get the luxury of having this $5,000 for a rainy day.”
She almost had me cornered here: I almost asked about the possibility of waiving the next annual fee. I held my nerve. They knew that I only took on this card as they were offering low interest debt consolidations, back in the day when all lenders were doing it, trying to snare their piece of the debt pie. I had never purchased anything on it, only hacked away, ever so gradually, at the balance. If they started waiving the annual fee – which was, after all, the real bee in my bonnet here – then they'd make nothing off me. So it was back to the verbal tennis, I was about to unleash the Nadal backhand.
“Listen, I've been on the phone for nearly ten minutes now and all I want to do is cancel this card. I have another credit card with my bank and that is all I need...(top notch pre-empting here) and, no, I'm not getting into discussions as to what their rates are. Your annual fee is too high, which I know is the same for most cards, but you charged me a $40 late fee for being one day late a while back. I have learnt from my mistakes. I think if more Australians started cancelling their cards and just living with what is actually theirs, we'd be much better off (enter inspirational background music). I know it doesn't augur well for your profits but I don't particularly care, either.”
Exhale.
“Okay, Mr Lewis, I understand. I've de-activated your card”.
She sighed. It sounded like she'd heard this rant before.
“Thank you.”
“But I do I need to read you a disclosure statement, which includes the option of re-activating your card within the next six months... All cards are required to be cut up and destroyed–“
“Already done.”
“And any remaining balances are to be paid in full before account can be fully closed.”
Huh?
“I've already paid the close-out amount.”
“Yes, Mr Lewis, it's all part of the disclosure statement. I'm legally required to read it out.”
She went on. I barely listened. And then...
“One last thing, Mr Lewis.”
“What's that?”
“There is a $7 credit on your card.”
sighSighSIGH... where's the initiative from earlier, lady?
“That's your fault. I rang a while back for a final amount, including all interest, and the man gave me the wrong figure. Just write it off.”
“You don't want us to–”
“Please. Just write it off.”
“Okay, Mr Lewis. Thank you for your business, and hope we'll see you again in the future.”
Not likely.

Afterwards, I got to thinking: is the credit noose tightening, or is it as loose as ever? Back in the earlier days of the millennium, if it wasn't the low interest deals, it was the letters in the mail advising of pre-approved card with limits that equated to a third of my salary.

Unfortunately, there was a time when I was blinded by the snazzy logos and the promise of getting my house in order. The 'inspired' joint ventures between big banks' analysis and marketing teams ensnared myself and so many others, steamrolling low-to-middle income earners for the sake of sustaining market share. (And who could write about lenders without mentioning the Antichrist – no points for guessing who they are – and their crippling interest rates for those with nowhere else to go. Where is the government legislation here?)

The fact that it takes ten minutes of verbal tug-of-war for someone with next-to-no income to do the responsible thing and get a credit card cancelled says those days are still a long way from diminishing.

No, the noose is still loose.

Diary entry #5 - morning recap

The wind rattled against the window, rousing me again. Then Tash said goodbye. I heard the clip-clop of her heels going downstairs on her way out to the real world. I pulled myself up and loped into the bathroom. Went through the routine, then pulled on my running gear. Well, I don't have running gear as such. Not like the over-zealous, over-walleted cats you see sometimes, I don't have the lithe Lycra, or even the Nike Air singlet or shorts, just a cheap pair of Spalding shorts, think I got them from Big W, and a long-sleeve white top that an Asian student who once boarded with me and my ex left behind, and over that, an authentic, now faded, Beatles tee. Authentic in that I bought it when I was in Liverpool back in 1998. That was during the fifteen minutes I spent away from the Caven Club and the hectic bars of Mathew Street where the pub owners would all have their stories of near-greatness. "We entered a music competition, a skiffle-guitar night. In our heat was John Lennon and his Quarrymen group. We were disappointed to finish third, but looking back, that wasn't such a bad result... The Quarrymen finished fifth!"
So, shoes aside, I had on about $30 worth of clothing. And even if I was one of the lucky souls who leaked money from every orifice what was the point in buying expensive just to sweat in? No-one looks their best when they're running. In fact, the grimace on most people's faces is anything but attractive. The spittle at the sides of their mouths, the crimson cheeks, the hair matted with sweat. When I ran the 14.2km Run for the Kids two weeks ago I wrenched my t-shirt afterwards and the Murray River was rejuvenated.
I do own a good pair of shoes, though. A pair of asics from none other than Leo Russell sports in Preston. Great range, great prices, a very 'healthy' feel to the place. And they have a very tasty pie shop across the road, just to balance things out.
Downstairs to the kitchen. Banana milkshake. Mr Cow stared up at me, I told him he would have to wait until I got back. Into my station wagon, lightly cursed Tash, sugar-coatingly, when I saw my empty cigarette lighter holder which meant she had the iPod dock. Triple J had to do as I drove to the Maribyrnong. The radio presenters, par for the course for breakfast radio, talked about nothing in particular, and my thoughts slipped back to last night when we visited Coburg Pentridge to see a Chopper impersonator. It was bone-achingly cold in there. A few bellow laughs though. Think I counted a hundred f-bombs in the first ten minutes.
I stopped on Maribyrnong Road for some petrol. The price hadn't gone down since Easter weekend. Did that mean the economy was going up? I didn't want to think about it too much, my head hurt when I did that. Some tall, muscular dude with a 1995 undercut (perhaps he was honouring a bet) and wearing lycra pants was filling up his Beamer. I looked away as I filled up. A few minutes later I paid the Egyptian man behind the counter who never smiles, then got back in the car. The needle on the petrol meter sprung to life.
I arrived at the river. Parked the car, pulled my headphones out, put them in the iPod, stretched half-heartedly, then got going. The iPod was on shuffle. I was keen to listen to a few of the 460 new songs a friend had burnt for me a few nights ago. The first song was "Everybody's got something to hide except for me and my monkey", off The Beatles' 'White Album'. John Lennon in fine form. That first kilometre flashed by, the river glistening. Second up was some Gnarls Barkley crud that I'd continually told myself to delete, so my rhythm was hampered for a few seconds as unlockled it and skipped to the next song. It was Faker's 'Hurricane', a song that I never tire of. It copped a pounding even before the great upload earlier in the week. I went up a gear. Even Johnny Cash's 'Danny Boy' didn't slow me down... until the vocal started. I think I was the only person running and weeping along the river at the same time. That song gets me almost every time, particularly when someone as honest and fragile as the ailing Cash was at the time he sang it. I had to slow down a bit to find 'Yellow Submarine' and then got bored with it as I realised I heard it only on the weekend and too much Yellow Submarine is like sharing the LSD Ringo and the boys were obviously on when they recorded it back in 1967. The last kilometre or two was a mishmash of different artists, none that seemed to fit the vibe of that very moment. I had it unlocked, fidgeting with it. It's typical of iPods, the more songs you have, the more restless you get. You never hear one song in its entirety. Having navigated the river, I arrived back at the car, stetched half-heartedly again, then got in and drove off.
The supermarket was next. I was tempted for a coffee at one of the cafes on Puckle Street but thought the cold air might give me a chill after my run. Yes, very soft. Safeway was a hive of activity. I even saw one woman jostle another out of the way for the last loaf of Helga's, on special for $3.29. The woman who missed out was almost in tears. A few minutes later a staff member loaded up the bread display again. Not much else happened. I queued up. The woman in front of me had homebrand bread, baked beans, cheese, cordial. Homebrand hair gel for her husband. 'Select' brand air freshener. And a sixteen-box of Ferrero Rocher, which were $1.50 off the normal price but still six times more expensive than the cheaper varieties. I imagined her saying to herself 'Can't eat that Select brand... it's too thick." And it is too, like stuffing a brick into your mouth, I know where you are coming from, sister. I picked up the Herald Sun, read Bruce Matthews' artice about Heath Shaw not apologising to umpire Vozzo for tapping him on the shoulder. Yesterday there was more on the 'Chickengate' scandal. It's almost enough to make me start reading the paper from front to back from now on. It was my turn to be served when I realised the self service area, only a metre away, was deserted. I could have slipped through there in half the time. The automated voice spoke, a monotone woman's voice. The checkout lady shook her head. "It's doing my head in". I nodded, got in my car, and drove home.
I had breakfast. Mr Cow was in fine form. Then I sat down at my desk, still in my running gear, picked up one of Tash's tops and draped it over my legs for warmth and sat down to write about my morning, as a way of 'warming up' for the day. My red-inked manuscript piled on the desk awaiting more mark ups and squiggles. Two hours later, could have been more, and here I am now. Time for a shower, then lunch. Ham salad sandwich. Leg ham, seven dollars a kilo.
One more thing, what's with Etihad stadium? I'll just go on calling it Telstra Dome, thanks very much. By the time my brain will be conditioned to say 'Etihad' some other huge corporate will have bought it out.

Diary entry #4 - mornings

Into my eighth week now and it still feels wierd not having to get up and iron a shirt and go through all the usual formalities before enduring one of the following: boarding a train that is late and twisting with people; or disloding the encrusts of sleep from my eyes as I wait an eternity at the platform for the 8.16, and then the 8.16 doesn't come at all and that faceless announcer comes through the speakers at 8.20 to say the 8.16 will not run today and the next train will be the 8.21 and when the 8.21 arrives at 8.26 (which isn't 'late', according to Connex - six minutes and under is 'on time') arrives it's twisting and turning with people. Faces squashed against the glass and all that vibe. Got room for one more, someone asks a few stops down the line. No, can't you see my head is up against this dero's armpit (and he's a fare - and soap - dodger; I'm the one paying for the privilege) and then this person pushes through anyway. Further into the forest of foulness I go.
Now, I just wake up (easier said than done now that I keep my own time), write whatever is in my head down on a notepad for twenty minutes or so, then head to work. That is, I get up, adjust myself and walk, in my jocks (green Bonds this morning), via the toilet, to my desk.
Being generous, I'll say it's one and a half minutes from bed to the desk now, instead of one and a half hours... and no armpits.
I won't know what's hit me when I do go back to the nine-to-five thing.
Not to say there aren't interruptions. The blokes next door, who are at my eye level each day (on the rare occasion that I open the curtains) as they drill bolts into their roof as part of a complete house makeover, are eager and loud and remind me of the real world, and there's an apprentice who looks no older than eighteen who reminds me of myself when I was his age - an uncertain gopher - only difference is, he actually has some semblance of what to do with his hands. Oh, the unlucky few who took me on for a day's experience here and there... I knew what they were thinking: he's a country boy, he should know how to use an angle grinder, a drill, a saw, a hammer, a nail gun, a shovel, a hedge-cutter, a corkscrew (actually, I picked up that one in the end).
So I'm logged in. Downstairs for breakfast. With my morning coffee always comes great delight as Mr Cow goes to work. Mr Cow was a Christmas present: a perculator in the design of a cow. My girlfriend hates that I call it Mr Cow. Actually, it's the sort of thing I would hate someone else saying, come to think of it. Anyway, the name has stuck now. It's a great little contraption. And, if you're comparing it with the 'toss it in and gulp it down' method of instant coffee, yes, there is a bit of dicking around. But it's worth it. Inside, without getting technical, goes - from bottom to top - water, espresso-strength coffee, and milk. The milk froths up like a cappuccino. Only when the froth creeps out of the lid, and starts dripping the cow's side, do I turn it off and carry it, along with a cup, back upstairs to the desk.
The old pupils expand as I sip away and listen to John Faine talk down to the people in power to the point where I begin to feel sorry for these powerful people, and then the whine of talkback callers has me switching the radio off.
I check my emails, feel the same anticipatory excitement as I've always done when I see I have new messages, which is soon offset by anger when I get into my inbox and notice it's just spam mail.
I get some work done, and then it starts getting warm. I open the doors to the bedroom and the mid-morning sunshine beams in so I shut the doors again. I can't be reminded that it's a nice day, I'm at work.

freefall #1

So I spend the morning writing a scene I think isn't too bad so much for just pouring it out and coming back to it later I wrote and rewrote and deleted and inserted and sculpted and shaped it and it gets me thinking of how up and down this whole thing is going to be when some of it is rushed and others it fleshed out and is influenced at all in the book I'm reading at the time? This morning's scene came out staccato style, which is my style, thanks to starting one of the few Bukowski's I've not yet read Women and it's Post Office and Factotum all over again and yet he gets away with it and you can see how he gets novels written in three weeks with that style but you'd be a fool to think that it's easy that's what makes him great that he makes it look easy and some writers make you seethe and boil with jealousy with their descriptive voice or 'to the button' stereotype characterisation but Bukowski writes easy because he does it easy... that's all for now just had to empty out the post-lunch dross out of my head and it's flown from the fingers courtesy of a coffee which was courtesy of Mr Cow who doesn't moo when it's ready instead the froth comes out the top and you have to take it off the stove before it splashes over the side and starts clashing with the licking flames and now it's 3pm Friday afternoon and I need to get another hour out I have Johnny Cash's "American V: A Hundred Highways" on ideal for writing to I never jumped on the Cash bandwagon but now it might be time to I just left it at a moderate volume leaning more to low than high and his voice permeated through me and is a constant while I sit here and let it out the weekend's nigh and I don't have that shaky Friday afternoon feeling anymore because I don't work in the office anymore that shaky feeling that means you'll be slurring your words by seven and drunk and chain-smoking cigarettes by nine and on some foul sugary bourbon and coke just as the witching hour comes around and then Saturday's gone and infancy is left behind and thirty is looming and you wake up with ochre-coloured sagging skin around your eyes and the ashtray is overflowing with cigarette butts and you have to step outside for air that's all in the past or is it

I asked if you were lonely
you said it didn't matter
these are old emotions
we need to bury them and leave them
Move on to something new
We need to bury them and leave them
But I can't leave even you
So if it's making everybody happy
Writing songs about shit
Well I know i'm not supposed to be serious about it,
but I'm serious about it
But I don't wanna fight no battle
And I don't want to feel love a first time
But if the stuff comes better when I'm on my own
Then I'll make it so I'm on my own
- Glenn Richards / Augie March "Rich Girl"

Life and footy, footy and life.

Two rounds in and the 'water cooler talk' is all footy. Some things never change. Supporters of teams who have started the season brightly are looking forward five months. The office SuperCoach who organised the tipping competition keeps losing to Lim in accounts who has never watched a game in her life.
And as the intensity lifts at thousands of flood-lit ovals around the country, memories of my childhood come flooding back. To a time when players could bump each other without tribunal recourse, and money-driven outsiders hadn't yet dipped their fingers into football's pie.
I think of my Collingwood-mad uncle who rang me pretending to be Peter Daicos after a semi-final win. Of course, I believed him. This same uncle who showed remarkable constraint in not throwing his beer at the television as a wispy-haired Kevin Bartlett ran into another open goal.
I think of my father driving me and a bunch of grotty, wide-eyed boys to junior football on Saturday mornings. Later he'd take me to support the local team. I would hack away at his pay with purchases of pies, dim sims and cans of coke while dreaming of one day pulling on the boots for the senior team on my way to VFL stardom.
And every now and then, around this time of year when the temperature drops, I remember the old man who took the time to kick the footy to a grotty barefoot kid and help nurture his love for the national game.
It was 1987. I was almost ten. Dad had just accepted a bank transfer to Swan Hill. As dusk closed in, I ran around barefoot at the bottom of my new street, weathered Sherrin in hand. In my mind, it was late in the final quarter. Collingwood was five points down. It was my chance to kick the winning goal on the siren as I had done a thousand times before, when all of a sudden a stray kick landed in the arms of an old, bespectacled man. A twenty-metre handpass was fired back at me. This wasn't how I'd played it out in my mind.
Even though we'd never met he called me by my first name and knew I barracked for Collingwood. He was a Fitzroy supporter; said he wanted to see them win a premiership before he died.
His old bones hampered him somewhat, but he was skilful, his drop kicks spearing into my chest. We went back and forth until the headlights of Dad's car pulled into our driveway, which signalled dinner time.
The following evening I looked out the window to the street and there was the old man, hovering under the street light.
And so it became a nightly ritual. The seasons changed and in winter we'd come out a little earlier. Mum always reserved her best neighbourly smile for him, and Dad was relieved that his late nights at work weren't hampering my football development.
He would sometimes call around on wintery Saturday afternoons and sit with me and Dad in the backyard by the fire drum. The ABC footy crackled from the wireless and he'd sit bemused while Dad lined up empty VB cans and picked them off at a distance with his slug gun. The commentators would talk in excited tones about 'Plugger' Lockett breaking the old record for most goals in a game. The old man would agree with them; the best forward he'd seen since John Coleman. He wasn't so thrilled on Sunday afternoons, however, when Warwick Capper and the dancing girls stole the show.
And then later that year it was time for us to move house again. I went around to his house to say goodbye. There was a little kitchen, and a loungeroom with old china on top of dusty cupboards. Old Fitzroy paraphernalia competed with photos of his late wife for wall space. And on the coffee table was an old photo album filled with newspaper cuttings, curled up at the sides and yellowing. He was a footballer of promise, but the war years cut his career short. I remember him being sad that I was leaving. I made a promise to visit him again. I never did.
Fitzroy became my second favourite team, and I always associated them with him. In 1996, when Fitzroy folded, I wrote him a letter to say I was sorry. He would be nine years older, misty-eyed and now probably not even able to kick a football in frustration. I'd like to think he received it, but was too old to send a reply. Then there was the years Collingwood lost grand finals to the Brisbane Lions. The blow was softened by the thought of him in his armchair soaking it up. I hoped that he was still alive to see it.
This morning I was in a queue at the Centrelink office. The line kept growing behind me, snaking out into the street. People were looking up at a television, watching the financial news. Numbers flicked up on the screen with downward arrows next to them. The mood was grim. And then, the footy news came on. The drone of chatter building like a crescendo. Smiles back on faces. On my way home there was an old man kicking a footy with a young boy. The kid dropped an overhead mark and the ball bounced toward me. He thanked me with shy eyes as I handed it back to him. The old man waved. I walked on. And so things keep on keeping on.
Life and footy. Footy and life.

Cricket comment #1 - The Australian team and the media

And so, now that normal service has resumed and the knee-jerk 'demise of Australian cricket' will have to be put on the back burner (actually, make that 'put in the incinerator'), the media will have to come up with a new angle to make their coverage interesting.
Andrew Symonds will struggle to get back in so any news about him now isn't really news.
My guess is they are banking on one of the new cats to show their real claws in the not-too-distant future; preferably on the eve of the third test.
I think Hilfenhaus might be a bit of a goer. Under that dishevelled goatee might be the binge drinking, white-stuff hoovering, womanising maniac that is the sub-editors' dream.
Or maybe Phil Hughes will be found celebrating his sixteenth birthday at some seedy Cape Town pub with a bevy of hot women and underworld figures.
Let's just hope it happens soon, before Roebuck, Dorries and co. have to resort to laying the boots into Punter again for something as trivial as his 'on-field body language'.
Oh no, a captain who is disappointed with the way his bowlers are bowling - can't have that!

Diary entry #3 - tolerance

1995 was certainly a landmark year. My eighteenth birthday, my VCE year, passing my driver's license and buying my first car (a Holden Belmont Ute with three on the tree), my first part-time job with hourly earnings in double figures. And, naturally, there were a few other firsts in there as well.

Not that I knew it at the time, but it was also the first year the United Nations observed an International day for Tolerance (November 16th each year to those of you not in the know, which was me as well until wikipedia pointed me in the right direction a few minutes ago). In the fourteen years since, the values of tolerance that my parents instilled into me as a child have often been put to good use. And, as a friend once said whilst in the all-too-familiar situation of having to wait an eternity for his wife to get ready while he sat idle in the lounge room: 'By Christ, you need patience'.

But yesterday, when the planets aligned, conspiring to put me to the test, unfortunately, I failed.
The morning started well enough with me completing 'The Morning Pages' (a daily exercise from Julie Cameron's 'The Artist's Way' where you must fill three pages with stream-of-consciousness writing in order to block out any hindrances to your creative side), and then going through the same old early morning routine.

First up, after a week or more of procrastination, I decided to lodge my Austudy claim. To Centrelink I went, a short walk around the corner. Armed with realms of completed forms and identity documents, I was ready to be in and out in five minutes; be back at the house by 10.15am. Not a chance. In a sign of the times, there were two huge lines, one for job seekers and the other for first time claimers and general inquiries. The latter was longer, and no sooner had two minutes elapsed since I first slunk into line that the snake behind me was about to burst open the doors and move outside. There were stacks of people sitting down in an open waiting room, looking up at the morning news on TV. Pakistan terrorists shooting at Sri Lankan cricketers gave way to Ben Cousins' 33 drug tests in two months which gave way to the financial news. Numbers flicked up on the screen with down arrows next to them. The vibe in there wasn't great. The line wasn't moving, and I was out of there. I'd come back tomorrow at 8am.

Later on, after a morning where I added about 500 words to my novel (of which the first 250 will duly be deleted), I visited the RMIT shop on Little Lonsdale Street to pick up some texts on the way to Non-Fiction class, which, as usual, I was running late for. There was a queue of people waiting outside and a young-looking guy acting as a security guard of sorts. I looked around, puzzled. He spoke up. 'Look guys, unless you've got plenty of time on your hands you'll have to come back later. I can only let people in as they come out'. And sure enough, shortly after when three people went out, one was admitted in. It was like being out front of some seedy bar on King Street on a Saturday night, only difference being there was no hulking, white-teed, leather-clad meathead manning the door, rather a librarian type who would normally list the most physical aspect of his job as having to lift the 4th edition Macquarie dictionary in order to scan its barcode.

Later still, the old lady with the loose change trick did me again at the supermarket. It always seems to happen to me. I remember being stranded at Edinburgh bus station while my Belfast bus disappeared out of the station the same reason. I was in a rush to get home before Tash so I could clean up my breakfast mess. And there I was, in the express lane, at peak hour, and as a result of one of the registers malfunctioning three of the four checkout assistants left their posts to crowd round it and muse to one another its potential remedy. Meanwhile, the sole remaining assistant waited patiently for dear gran to count out three dollars for a small box of tea bags.

And finally, one more gripe to round out the day. On-street parking. Being inner city, it's on-street for most of us on our street, and occasionally it becomes an issue, particularly during Spring Carnival or the Big Day Out, and all the niceties, all the 'feeding each others' pets or watering gardens while the other is on holidays' goes out the window. On our side of the street we have an issue with pigeons. This is because our next-door-neighbor feeds them. Their rancid turds bombard many cars on our side of the street, and, left stationery for any length of time, they begin to resemble something taken from a crazy artist's lair. Therefore, some of us use the other side of the road, and now, it seems, the other side have had enough. Some of them have taken the time to pull branches off nearby trees and place them strategically so no one can park in 'their spot'. You see it everywhere, branches that would require two men to carry them, resting against gutters. What is the go with this? Doesn't on-street parking mean anywhere is fair game? Surely these people who we've spent time living in the close proximity of realise that we only park in 'their spot' as a last resort?
Anyway, there must have been some one-year old's birthday party because there was nowhere to park in within a 200-metre radius of the house and I wasn't prepared to go into conflict mode with someone who has the time to lift and move an elephantine branch each time he or she needs to drive somewhere. End result? Tash was home, but luckily, hadn't gotten any further than her office, and therefore missed the Weetbix-hardened bowl and crumb-infested plates sitting like sitting ducks on the kitchen bench.

I know none of this matters but I feel better now. When I say I failed so ungracefully on the tolerance front, it was only inwardly that I did so. And it feels better having let it out.

Diary entry #2 - Jerm

It's amazing how good it feels when you get on a roll. As my literary friend, Jeremy, put it, it's like a shot in the arm. Not that I've ever done heroin, but after watching the characters' languid exhilaration in 'Trainspotting' several times, I can imagine what it's like. Just not in front of Begbie.
Jeremy, on the other hand, is a reformed junkie. An Irish teetotaller. A contradiction of sorts. He's now a writer, and acts as a sort-of mentor to me. He rents an office in the city to write from. His main focus of late has been the final draft of his script 'Seventh Veil', a dramatic, page-turner that he's polishing up with the hope of garnering agent interest.
We caught up last Monday. After a squirmy morning I left my little desk around midday and hopped on the train into the city to meet an old friend for lunch. After bading her farewell, one glass of white wine to the good, I rang Jeremy on a whim. Let's catch up, he said. In ten minutes we were shaking hands, he observing my relaxed demeanour. Previously, when we caught up, I would sport office attire and a drained expression.
The sun was out, so we went into a pub on Flinders Lane where the steadfastly-'80s' décor is partially covered in darkness. I ordered a Carlton draught for myself and a water for him. He seemed excited by the froth at the head of my pot and recalled his AA meeting from earlier that day. I apologised for drinking in front of him. Not at all, he said.
We talked non-stop for half an hour, as we always do. If I could have him nearby for a coffee at the beginning of each day I would. His unyielding enthusiasm gets me every time. And this from a man with a wife and two little mouths to feed, and another on the way. A man whose amazing talent isn't unhinged by mounting day-to-day pressures.
He's done the sums and says the family needs $1200 each week to get by. Six months ago it was $1000. In less than a year, with an additional member it'll likely be upwards of $1500. And, yet, they soldier on. He has a big belief in things 'always working themselves out'. In addition to the 'bits and pieces' he does, including the writing of script sections for others, his wife, who does contract work in advertising, brings home the remaining bacon. But, as he reflected, eyeing off my beer as he drained the remainder of his water, it's time for him to put the almost-finished screenplay, the rewriting of his novel, on the back burner as he re-enters the workforce. Need the bread.
We left. He had to get back to the office to bang out a few desperate hours before stopping off at the creche on the way home. We stood out front of his building for five minutes, discussing the industry. He told me the story of how everyone at a publishing house in Dublin read and loved his book, and yet he was told that it 'wasn't for them'. Expletive central. We shook hands and went our own ways.
Jeremy has been living like this for years, alternating writing time with babysitting time with the odd menial job thrown in for good measure. For someone like me, with many mental mountains to climb before getting into a position of rewriting, of polishing, of producing something big, he is an inspiration.
After every meeting he gets me thinking outside my normal realm. I've come to the realisation that writers have no choice but to chase their dreams, and often that means to chase their tails. If you have the talent, especially if it's your only talent of substance, it (the writing bug) will get you eventually.
Maybe I wasn't put on this earth to write, but it's a far more likely story than being put here to do anything else with my hands.
The next day I wrote 3000 words. The day after, another two thousand. Bringing it home, although I'm already here.
Living the dream!