I can remember as a little kid being serenaded by the sounds of my mother singing a particular song, that started off like a lullaby. Like most of the songs mum sang as she washed the dishes of an evening, it either came from 70’s television or Jesus Christ, Superstar. But this one particular tune really stuck in my head. It was the tune that accompanied the closing credits of a pioneering Australian comedy series, a tune that went on to sell 250,000 copies and hold the number one spot on the charts for 22 weeks, an operatic rock anthem of its day. The song, “Farewell, Aunty Jack was, and still is, the most brilliant and utterly non-sensical anthem about an obese, violent, boxing glove wearing transvestite ever written .

Although I was too young to have a clue what it was all about, in later years I felt a great sense of nostalgia for The Aunty Jack show, which ran one never to be repeated series on ABC television in the early 70’s.

The show itself was completely off the wall, a pioneer in TV sketch comedy unlike anything ever before seen in Australia. Central to the show’s success was the songwriting team of Graeme Bond and Rory O’Donnahue, and their alter egos, Aunty Jack and Thin Arthur. It’s amazing to think Aunty Jack’s original offsider was a bloke by the name of Peter Weir - yes, the same one who directed Picnic at Hanging Rock, Gallipoli, and The Truman Show. The second series saw the creation of a new character played by Garry MacDonald - who would later go on to host his own TV show in the late 70’s as the hilarious Norman Gunston.

Tragically, in a fit of “tidying up” and as a result of crippling budget cuts in the 80’s, some well meaning dunce came across the original U-matic broadcast tapes of The Aunty Jack show, and folklore has it, erased them for re-use. It was long believed that all but a few hours of footage was lost forever.

Many years later some original footage from series one was found, and a 90 minute special was assembled. I managed to record this off TV - the one and only time it was aired - and it became one of my most prized possessions. It was through this tape that I really came to know the wonder of The Aunty Jack show, and it later became a favourite among several friends of mine who’d only ever heard their parents talk about it.

Last night I finally got to see the legends behind the ground breaking show in real life, possibly the last time they will perform this material together. The Aunty Jack Show… and tell is a retrospective, intimate, behind the scenes look at the lives of two amazingly creative individuals. Performed entirely by Graeme Bond and Rory O’Donnahue, the show follows the format of the bevvy of other recent “show and tell” productions trying to screw a buck out of an aging and nostalgic audience. But this one is much, much, more.

A few things struck me looking around the theatre before the lights went down at the start of the show. Firstly, I swear, with the exception of a guy next to us who’d brought his teenage daughter along, Miss R and I were the youngest people in the audience by quite a margin. Secondly, there were some people who’d done some serious drugs in the 70’s, and thirdly, there were some fine examples of 70’s facial hair on display. It’s like these guys got to 1973 and just went, “I’m really happy with this look.. I think I’ll just never shave again”. Shudder…

But we weren’t there to study prehistoric man, we were there to watch two of the most talented and creative individuals this country has ever seen re-live a wondrous snapshot of 1970’s Australiana. And they didn’t disappoint.

What you notice straight off is the chemistry these two guys have. Sure, you could say that in a career spanning 40 years you get to know each other pretty well - but it goes beyond that. They have this extra sensory perception of timing, and instantly fall naturally into harmony when they sing or play guitar together. Early in the show they took this literally - both playing a twin neck acoustic, Graeme’s arms reaching around Rory’s neck to reach the frets and strings. Throughout, I was blown away by the sweetness and timbre of Rory’s voice - but moreso by his fantastic muscianship. Every time he picked up the guitar it sounded like a serenade, and the sound and presence absolutely filled the large auditorium.

They performed many of the classic songs that I had come to know through the TV special I taped, including part of the hilarious “Origami Rock Opera”, Tarzan, Superape. I was swept away by their rendition of “feeding the ants”, a tune that accompanies a classic sketch featuring characters Neil and Errol who become trapped on a park bench - unable to ever leave for fear of killing “innocent” ants. “Last refrain” was also fantastic, an instant classic for me despite having never heard it before.

Now nearing 60 years of age, these two guys still had a presence that you rarely see in live performances these days. I felt like I was watching a piece of Australian history that had been snap frozen and perfectly preserved, performed by two of our most priceless, living, icons. The time just flew like a perfectly preserved Mini Cooper S, and it was sad to realise that the show was nearing its end. But in that, Rory and Graeme saved the best till last.

The crowd went mad as from stage right, Rory strolled on carrying an acoustic guitar, wearing the original Thin Arthur costume. More remarkable, he looked bloody amazing- having turned to Iron man competition in recent years and sporting a physique many in the audience 15 years his junior would be envious of. But when Aunty Jack bounced onto the stage from the left, gigantic blue floral frock and gold boxing glove positively glowing under the stage lights, the ovation was deafening. The Queen of Wollongong was back.

They played three encore tunes, but without doubt the highlight was hearing Rory perform the classic hit song from the show. A nice spin was put on Aunty Jack’s classic interjections, as they changed from present to past tense as in, “She rides a black bike” ( “I used to” ). The crowd sang along as he reached the chorus, and sang those immortal lines that have entered the Australian TV vernacular, “We know you’ll be back, though you’re ten feet tall you don’t scare us at all”. I’m not ashamed to say hearing it brought a lump to my throat.

It made me long for a time, long ago, when things were built to last. When style, wit, and natural talent were everything and production was nothing. When people who knew nothing but how to be entertaining could do so, without having to worry about what label they should endorse in their video clip. When two guys with guitars who wrote advertising jingles could pitch an utterly insane show at a television network - and be allowed to make it.

Farewell, Aunty Jack.

I know you’ll be back.

** sigh**

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warning… rant ahead…

I always knew drivers in my oversized country town loosely referred to as a “capital city” were below par on a national scale, but my recent jaunt to Victoria has heightened this sense of despair.

I may have alluded to it before, but I really can’t stand people who drive like arseholes - and this town, it seems, is chock a block with ‘em. Now before you shove me in with that class of twats who think they drive a lot better than everyone else ( but in actual fact are just as bad ), let me explain why that assumption would be half right.

I actually do think I drive better than the 95 percentile mark, in this town at least. I believe this because a) I actually have learnt how to use my indicators, b) I don’t habitually tailgate, c) I drive reasonably close to the speed limit, not 35km/h under it ( in a 60km/h zone, as many of the dear old things in this town prefer ) or 75km/h over it, d) I don’t see cyclists as hood ornaments ( I’m looking at YOU Eugene ), and e) I actually consider the varying skill levels of other drivers and drive accordingly. You’d think these are fairly reasonable attributes for an “average” driver to possess, but alas, here these are exemplary traits.

One of the first things I noticed driving in Mexico ( AUs slang for the state of Victoria ) was how people on freeways actually pull into the slow lane and leave the overtaking lane free… even if they are driving slightly above the 100km/h limit! Oh bliss! Not having to pull into the LEFT lane to overtake a queue of four cars and a caravan sitting in the overtaking lane, and driving at 85km/h was indeed a rare treat!

The other thing that struck me was the decisiveness, and confidence. I’m used to sitting at traffic lights for a full 20 seconds before anyone here wakes up and moves off after they turn green. There were no doddery old cretins hunched white knuckled over the steering wheel straddling two lanes , no veering into the middle of the road to accomplish the most sedate and gentle left hand turn, no inexplicable and sudden stopping in the middle of the road without indicating. It was utterly unbelievable.

Compare and contrast my first week back here.

12 minutes from my house, first day back in the city, and after following a stream of 10 cars puttering up the hill at 40km/h, I finally pull onto the freeway…. just in time to watch a potential 6 car pile up unfold in front of me. There’s tyres screeching, brakelights flashing, horns blasting, and cars just swerving all over the place. Yep… I’m back! The following night, on the way home, a P plater in a rusty bogan falcon is sitting in the rightmost lane on the three lane freeway, driving at the same speed as a fully laden fruit truck in the left lane. Cars are banked up behind him, weaving from side to side, and tripping over themselves trying to pull into the one free lane in the middle, and all cutting each other off. One brave champion in a 4WD decides he has special privileges, and simply pulls into the emergency lane and overtakes everyone on the right hand side. Wow! I always wondered what that lane was for!

I might point out that these are not isolated incidents - I’d see 3 or 4 similar episodes in the course of a normal week - and often far, far worse. To that end, I decided to carry my camera with me on Friday, just to see if I could snap any of these FW’s doing what they do best.

As I neared the top of the downhill run toward the end of the freeway, I noticed one of the regulars. Let’s just call her “bubblecar bitch”. Apart from the tailgating, right lane hogging and general rudeness I’ve seen her partaking of, BCB has a special trick. You see, every day, when BCB reaches the end of the freeway where all the cars start to pile up at the traffic lights, she pulls into her own special lane and just overtakes them all! Brilliant! The fact that it’s the bus lane and is not only clearly marked as such but painted a different colour to the road doesn’t deter her - she’s obviously far more important than everyone else, and as such it’s her right to use it!

Anyway, I don’t see BCB every day, but yesterday I noticed her as she pulled from the far right lane into the far left near the bottom of the freeway. I quickly set up my camera, pulled up behind the stationary traffic, and waited. I looked back at her behind me, and sure enough, a moment later, she pulls into the bus lane and whizzes past. I line up the camera, get her in focus, and snapped this.

Note that in the copy sent to the cops, and the one that will be used when she gets the $225 and three demerit points, her number plate is clearly visible.

And to Bubble car bitch, well, part of me is sorry that I had to make you the fall girl for all the rest of the jerks who behaved so poorly and inconsiderately on the road this week, but, meh… you had it coming. This is for all the times you have pissed me off.

Yeah, I’m a prick I know. I’m just pissy about not being on holiday anymore.

End rant…

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It had been just over a week since I’d seen her, and I suddenly realised it was the longest we’d been apart in almost 3 years.

My homecoming was not overly auspicious.

I arrived home late, I was tired after the long drive - and I just didn’t feel able to give her the attention she probably felt I owed her. I made some time for her the next morning, but she was indifferent - the gloomy weather probably not helping the situation. She seemed to be punishing me for my time away from her… or maybe for my time with the other.

Make no mistake - being with the other was a dream, and I often didn’t have time to think of what I’d left behind.

She was breathtaking, larger than life - a class act - and on more than one occasion I considered running away with her and never coming home. She impressed me with her even temper, her natural beauty, and her many hidden talents. Everytime I saw her she just looked better and better, and I could tell she had done this before. Many men and women had fallen for her charms, some uprooting their entire lives just so they could be by her side. I never saw her throw a tantrum, raise her voice, dress poorly, or have a bad hair day - but that was only because I didn’t live with her. Leaving her to come home again was hard, but deep down I knew she had put on her best behaviour for me. It was an act to draw me in - and I knew she could not keep it up forever.

Back home again I felt the need to reconnect, to spend some time with her and get my life back to normal. It’s true - I did see her everyday, and that sometimes made me take her for granted. Other men may look at her on a day I think she’s not looking all that special, and fall madly in love with her. But I also see her sometimes when she looks amazing, when she really turns it on - so much so that I can’t believe she is all mine. Days like that when I have her all to myself, are truly special. They are what I live for.

Today the weather was beautiful - more like spring than autumn, with clear blue skies and a gentle, cool breeze. I said we should spend some time together, but I had to coax her out of her mood. She still looked flat and listless, and I would be lying to say she’d never looked better. Nonetheless, she reluctantly accompanied me as I donned sunglasses and running shoes once again, and stepped out into the dazzling sunshine.

As I ran I tried to talk to her, but she was monosylabic - still punishing me for my cheating. I told her I needed her, and that I had chosen her over all others, and that she meant more to me than I often cared to say. I told her that I had to be near her - to see the sun on her face, to feel her body against my skin again, to see the gentle breeze blow through the tiny tufts in the most private places only I knew.

I looked for a sign, something, anything that would indicate anything more than indifference. I ran up to the lookout, turning my back on her as I did. At the top I stopped, doubled over and catching my breath as my lungs burned from the last one hundered metres. I turned ’round to look at her, and for a moment her eyes sparkled as the afternoon sun caught them. She knew exactly what to do - how to remind me why I love her so. The ocean had been as flat as a lake all day, but a shoulder high wave suddenly reared up, appearing from absolutely nowhere - and I watched it reel off perfectly down the sandbar for almost 30 metres before cracking onto the dry sand. Not one other wave graced her shores all day - not before, or after. She did it just for me. She did it to let me know that she’ll always be my beach.

She knows I’ll always come home to her.

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If you see me walking strangely tomorrow it is because I sustained a most painful and unpleasant infrury in the surf today. I am not gonna go into the sort of detail steph is prepared to in describing her injuries to the downstairs region, so suffice to say surfboard fins are very, very sharp and painful enough when they cut you anywhere… let alone… oh god… I’ve said too much already…

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I am feelin’ veeeeeeery lazy today, what with the post holiday comedown and overcast weather, and the avoiding thinking about work tomorrow. Uggggh…

So today, so far, I have:

- made a Wikipedia entry on a shifty dotcom I once worked for ( I’ll write a play about it one day, seriously… it’s too ridiculous a story to let slip by unheard by the world)

- spent 20 minutes looking for an airline cookie to have with my coffee that I imagined was here, but actually was in the condo back in Torquay. I bet my stoner mate scoffed it in a fit of the munchies. Grrrr….

- looked at the webcams on the South Coast about 15 times in the sad hope the surf will get as good as it was last week in Vicco. It won’t. **Sigh **.

- read all about fundamentalist nutjob Jack Chick, the fictional Necrocomicon ( referred to numerous in the works of famous author H.P. Lovecraft ), and found some great parodies of Jack’s whacky comics

- ignored a request sent via IM to archive two large, bulging databases that threatened to bring a client’s web server to a screaching halt ( it’s my day off man, what makes you think I am here huh? because my status says “AWAY”? is that it? )

- wasted 15 minutes trawling emails trying to find the password to said server so I could SSH in, before realising it was written on my whiteboard

- wasted a further 15 minutes trawling emails looking for my Google Adsense PIN so I could arrange the getting of the money and the cash and the yehay… flaven, before re-reading the page that explains that they post it to me via snail-mail. d’oh…

In the spirit of further time wasting, I will no doubt drive 50 minutes to the South Coast and find the surf is crap, and so drive 50 minutes to get back home, dry haired and annoyed.

I then plan to wait until 5:30 for my business partner’s 3pm arrival for a “what the b’jezus are we doing now?” meeting.

After that I’ll drive around for an hour trying to find a bottle shop that’s actually open on Anzac Day, then it’ll be dark so I’ll come home, turn on the TV and see the Big Brother is on, turn the TV off, stumble down to my office and see what everyone else in the blog-o-sphere has been up to today.

Look forward to hearing about your Time Wastin’ Tuesday!

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Yes, my week long Surfcoast Odyssey is over, and I’m back and blogging on the fickle little stretch of coast I call home.

I really don’t know where to start, and I certainly don’t plan on giving you a day by day, blow by blow account of the best holiday… nay… only holiday… I have had in years… so I’ll just stick to the best bits. The main reason myself and my dope fiend surfer buddy went was to catch the Australia’s oldest Pro surfing contest, the Rip Curl Pro, at Bells Beach. It’s just dumb luck that we happened to see it held in the biggest and best waves ( 8 to 10 feet on Friday ) in over 10 years, and luck seemed to be with us for the whole holiday when it came to surf.

We rented a place in Torquay and found surf just about everywhere, including numerous spots less than 5 minutes from where we were staying. Here’s the sunrise balcony view. Nice, eh? That’s the ocean to the right of center.

I phoned The Doctor on the Easter Monday, and he soon made the short drive from his comfy pad in Jan Juc to join us for a surf. It was great to see him again, and to sit out there and soak up the beautiful day and the cool, clear, water as we caught up on each other’s lives. We keep in touch via e-mail and sporadic txt msgs, but you cover ground much quicker face to face. After about 90 minutes I got a wave in and grabbed my camera, then got a handful of nice shots of him gettting half a dozen waves in about 15 minutes. I’d love to post some of them here, but you know, he’s a doctor… so I can’t show you his face, right?

It didn’t take long to suss out best shops in the village, and these were focused on two basic human needs - food and clothing. The SurfCoast Pizza bar satisfied our apres surf cravings on several occasions, not only pedalling great tasting pizza with loads of topping, but also employing the hottest looking pizza chick we’d ever laid eyes on. I swear every guy in the shop dreamt of being that dough… mmmm…. lucky dough….

The Bakery was also damn good, and to our great amazement, sold pasties - which are largely unknown outside South Australia. In the Safeway I came across another South Oz delicacy in the deli section, but it had a weird name I’d never seen or heard of before. After three failed attempts at pronouncing “Pariser” ( first I asked for Paris-er, then Parissa, then Pari… mumble where I just tapered off and avoided saying the last two syllables audibly) the confused lady behind the counter took pity on me. “Do you mean Pah-ree-zer?” she asked. Ummmm… yeah… that stuff there that looks like fritz. Yep.

Being the surf capital of Australia Torquay is, needless to say, chockers with surf shops. Better still, it is also home to the discount surf outlet, where scabby interstate surfers can buy all their favourite gear at crazy prices ( apparently ). I bought a few things for myself, some pairs of pants, some funky shirts, and a couple of windcheaters, but I also grabbed a heap of gear to flog on ebay. Not sure how I’ll go with it, but I reckon I can make a buck on 10 shirts I paid ten bucks a piece for that are on racks in stores here for $69.95. I also got some girly gear ( shoes, sunnies, purses ) as a tester, so if it all goes well, I’ll do a trip over in a couple of months and spend up big. If the profits pay for four days of surf, three nights accomadation and the plane tickets then hey, I’ll be happy!

On Friday we got to see the final of the comp, and many of you would have seen bits of it on your local news ( or sports tonight if you are in Australia ). If you live in Melbourne, you would have seen my travelling stoner buddy vox-pop’d in the carpark by Channel 10 sport. So funny we nearly choked on our beers when we saw it that evening! Also funny was the fact that I had the quick witted answer, but he was running away from them trying not to be interviewed. Like standup comedians or strippers, I guess they always choose the harmless looking embarassed guy over the smart arse. Can’t say I blame them.

For most surfers going to Bells to see the Rip Curl Pro is a bit of a pilgrimage. Much like going to the North Shore of Oahu in Hawaii ( can you believe I did that years before I ever went to Bells? ), it’s considered something you must do before you die. For me, it was all about being there and seeing that gladitorial arena I’d drooled over pictures of in surf magazines as a teenager. It was also a chance to get up close and personal with people who have been a huge inspiration to me.

For so many reasons Mark Occilupo, or Occy, is a guy who’s career I have followed from his earliest forays into pro surfing. I’ve looked up to him from the first time I saw him surf, right through his fall into obscurity, and subsequent amazing comeback and world title win in 1999 at age 32… a feat never before achieved in pro surfing and unlikely to ever be repeated.

Occy was narrowly defeated by Joel Parkinson in the semi finals, but I was thrilled to see him surfing at that level 22 years after his first pro event. I got to shout out “Bad luck Occy” as he walked right past me at the end of the heat, and he looked up and nodded. I wish I could have high fived him as a winner, but it wasn’t to be. Awsome, nonetheless.

The day went to Kelly Slater, another legend of modern day surfing and an inspiration for being a) in his mid thirties, and b) a 7 times world champion. Kelly himself is quite an unassuming guy… very down to earth, very focussed, quietly spoken and articulate - characteristics that belie his explosive surfing and movie star status. Seeing him in person does nothing to diminish this - the one time love interest of no less than Pammie Anderson ( Kelly even did a season on Baywatch with her as Jimmy Slade ) has charisma so undeniable you can almost touch it as he walks past. I managed to snap a few pics of him at very close quarters, but this is the only one I can let you see!

On a quieter day during the week we also checked out the world famous Surfworld Museum. I’d have to say it was pretty good, but not amazing. I’m not sure what we were expecting - maybe more action, maybe something bigger, maybe something more, well, impressive… I dunno. That being said, there were some amazing artefacts in there, and some priceless objects that mark crucial milestones in the history of surfing throughout the world. There were also some great pictures from the dawn of the surfing boom in Australia, including the one below. If you look carefully, you’ll even see a ghostly aparition of generalboy reflected in the glass as he snapped the picture. Spooky…

On another quieter day we took a drive down the Great Ocean Road, taking in one of the most scenic drives in the world. I have long dreamt of doing this trip in the collectable classic I keep in a semi-restored state in my shed, but I had to make do with the hire car on this occasion. Undeterred, I made good use of its notchy gearbox and barely adequate brakes - nicely finding the apex of the curves and practising heel-toe declutching on the approach. Driving at speed through the windy roads near Wye River is a calculated risk - not due to the unexpected rock falls, but the presence of drop bears who can unexpectedly slam onto your car roof at any moment. Here we see one awaiting unsuspecting Queensland Tourists. Looks pretty mean, huh?

The end of the road for us was Port Campbell, and the internationally famous eight-and-a-quarter apostles. There were actually 9 apostles up until last year - when right before the eyes of some Queesnland Tourists who had survived numerous drop bear attacks to make the arduous journey, one collapsed into the sea.

It was interesting to see how quickly the pile of rouble left by the recently deceased apostle has eroded - check my photo as of last week and compare it to the one in the news article above. I reckon it’s now half the size!

My soundtrack was pretty good, but oddly enough there’s one song that could never have been included - that will always take me back to the overcast skies and classic waves of Torquay. Mid week we both heard a song on JJJ for the first time, and it grew on us every time thereafter. We both agreed that the song, Ta Douleur by Camille, was unbelieveably catchy and Tres Chic. More than that, it oozes such sensuality that you almost need a cigarette after hearing it. It’s that good. Oddly enough, the song is sung entirely in French, and the subject is singularly inappropriate - but that didn’t matter.

The time to leave came upon us all too quickly, and it seemed hard to believe a week had passed as we loaded up the car and prepared for the long drive back. As we pulled out of town we stopped by the nearest beach to watch clean, head high waves roll through - molested by a crowd of about half a dozen surfers. It was all we could do not to stop the hire car and pull the boards off the roof for one last surf - but I knew it was already gonna be returned 4 hours late.

About an hour out of town on the freeway the song came on JJJ again, and our thoughts instantly flashed back to the afternoon we first pulled up to see clean, perfect head high waves reeling off on a deserted beach. We surfed the bank alone for two hours, calling each other into wave after wave until the sun slipped behind the huge sand dune and the shadows grew tall. As dusk approached we stumbled back through the narrow overgrown track, shivering as we got out of our wetsuits in the fading light and plummiting evening temperatures. When we finally got in the car and got going, Ta Douleur was the first song we heard as we pulled out of the remote carpark.

I hope in years to come, that song brings me right back to that day. Back to this very spot.

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Had our first surf in the cold waters of the Surf Coast this morning, but I was pleasantly surpised to find that it hasn’t reached icecream headache stage yet. This place is amazing… it really is surf city and absolutely everything here revolves around “the industry”.

Went and checked out the comp for a few hours, but the pros didn’t surf today. The put the juniors out instead, including the girls. Among them was Bethany Hamilton, and I have to say seeing her in real life was pretty inspiring. Bethany is a 15 y.o. surfer fromn Hawaii who made headlines last year when she had her arm torn off by a shark. Undaunted, she was back in the water months before the doctors adevised, and before long was knocking off able bodied women surfers in top level competition. Any time you feel a bit like copping out, have a look at this pic and think again about the hand you’ve been dealt. I know I will!

Also checked out TZU and Faker who played at the Music Festival, both did a really good set but I felt TZU in particular were short changed by the bovine crowd. Faker were just brillant - easily the best gig I’ve seen this year and about as tight as a live act gets. As usual, Nathan went ballistic, climbing scaffolding and throwing himself around the stage in a show remaniscent of a young Iggy Pop. Again the crowd were indifferent and I felt a bit annoyed at them. Note to self: check out Faker next sweaty crammed pub gig they play.

The day ended on a bit of a downer. My stoner travelling companion had hit the bourbon pretty hard, and was looking decidedly shabby by about 5pm. We opted for a countery at the Pub, and decided to walk down there to avoid the risk of coming across the overzealous Victorian Constabulary in the course of the 5 minute drive. After 45 minutes of walking, it became apparent that his short term recollection of the location of said Pub had been erased by too many pre dinner bongs. I was getting hungry, and a little pissed off that I had been lead on a goose chase all over Torquay by a paralytic pothead. I eventually persuaded him to turn around and walk the 3km back to the condo, with the promise of re-heated last night’s pizza and a fridge full of beer. Eventually we made it back while he was still capable of walking… which I’m sure he wouldn’t have managed after just one hour at the pub. Note to self: never trust a stoner’s memory for the location of ANYTHING.

Tomorrow we’ll have another look at the comp, go Pro spotting, and select another item from the surfing smorgasboard to sample. An update is unlikely for a couple of days, but I will try and pop back sometime and see ho y’all are doing.

OK, bed is calling now. Hope everyone had a great easter, look forward to catching up on all the latest when I get home next weekend.

Generalboy, signing off…

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Sorry again for the lack of updateage, I seem to be apologising a lot for that lately, huh?

Anyhoo, I am sneaking this post in before I finish loading up the car and head down to Bells Beach for the Rip Curl Pro, and spend the week watching and photographing pro surfers and all manner of weatherbeaten, partially collapsed limestone monoliths. Needless to say, the whole trip is just an elaborate tax dodge, so you can bet I’ll be working REALLY hard.

I don’t have 3G coverage anywhere down there, but I will be taking Lenny the Laptop with me to post updates and such, and even the odd piccie or two here. I’ll also drop by and see how you all are doing when I get a spare moment over the next week, so spare a thought for me plodding along at dialup speeds as I read your latest entries…. uuuugh…

So now the open road is callin’.

Take care my little chocolate noisetté pattes, I’ll be watching you from afar.

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This week I am spearheading a new initiative I have called “time wasting tuesday”. In the spirit of TWT, therefore, this post will be pretty much a waste of time for all concerned, myself included. So let’s procrastinate no longer, and get on with the time wastin’!!!

Today, I:

- discovered an alternative, budget priced alternative to Jelly Belly’s, and have so named them “Deli Bellies”. They cost two dollars a bag, and have really weird flavours that are banned in most developed countries! Hurrah! My favourite combos (developed today while I wasted time waiting for 3GB worth of server files to TAR up) are Cherry and Cola ( and it tastes just like Cherry Cola… C-O-L-A Cola! ) and Toffee and Apple ( duh! ).

- received a packet of white choc chip cookies in the mail, sent by a press agency. I would have preferred they actually sent out my press release to some people like we paid them for, but hey… it’s TWT, right! Let’s all eat cookies!

- watched eMule pull down the last 5% of the Baxindale album I’ve been trying to nab off P2P for four days ( yaaaaaaaaaaaay! )

- weaved impatiently from side to side behind a 7 car long traffic queue with some sweet old dear up the front driving her Metro at 30km/h for 5km. I’m sure YOU had all the time in the world nanna, thanks for wasting mine!

- spent 40 minutes looking at pictures of the hire car on the manufacturer website wondering how the hell we were gonna get four surfboards on the roof…

- spent 20 minutes phoning around bottleshops trying figure out which chain had a particular brand of imported beer on special

- checked my Google Adsense account repeatedly and converted the running total from US to Australian dollars

So ends another Time Wasting Tuesday. How was yours?

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In the post 28 and a half girls, I jokingly attempted to stereotype girls that had somehow been a part of my life, based purely on their names. The post was also a parody of an old B-52’s song, 52 girls, which came out in the B-52’s debut album in 1980. In the song, Kate Pierson and Cindy Wilson list all the girls names from their era, including their own - but you suspect this addition is a little tongue in cheek. The song is probably open to interpretation, and you may conceive it as everything from a random list of girl’s names - to a tribute to the women of the Baby boomer generation.

Attributing in depth social commentary to a new wave, clambake inspired 80’s band who sung about bikini whales is probably drawing a long bow, but when the chorus chants:

These are the girls of the U-S-A
The principle girls of the U-S-A
Can you name them today?

they seem to be lamenting the fact that these names - names like Jackie, Brenda, Betty and Alice seem like relics from a time past - possibly a more optimistic one. Among those names are first ladies, peace activists, famous Actors - women who contributed so much to their generation and who’s shadows loom large .

This got me thinking about how the same happened here, in Australia.

I started recounting the names of men from my dad’s era - the Kerrys, the Malcoms, the Murrays and the Daryls - and how people hardly use these names now. Spanning Gen X to Nintendo baby, how many friends do you have named Trevor, Dean, Henry, George, or Ray? When was the last time you got invited out for a drink with Bert, Hank, Ted, Bernie, and Roger? How many xtreme games stars are called Larry, Bill, Percy, Hal, Colin, or Eric?

And what of the beautiful people in entertainment? How many Jims, Harolds, Stans, Walters,
Samuels, Franks or Barrys are there in the cast of The OC? How many “first name only” singers are called Bob, Brian, Cyril, Gary, Howard, Joe or Kevin? Can you imagine Keith, Arnold, Dennis, or Rodney written above the stage in the same stylish font as Bono? Picture a Big Brother house full of Rons, Rosses, Keiths and Grahams. As if it isn’t scary enough already!

My g-g-generation largely abandoned these names for Bens, Stuarts, Shanes, Tonys, Pauls and Richards. I played All over, Red Rover at morning recess with Andrew, Tom, Matt, Darren, Steve, Mark, and Sean. My mis-spent youth was squandered getting rat-arsed with Nathan, Luke, Andrew, Alasdair, Wayne, Adrian, Brett, and Chris. The actors in the Aussie tv dramas I watched were Craig, Jeremy, Scott, Grant, Troy, and Daniel. I spent hours in the surf with Marty, Nigel, Jake, Glen, Simon, and Gavin. I listened as Dave, James, Mike, Nick, Tim, Ryan and Adam belted out the soundtrack to my adolescence.

Even now I see the Josh’s, the Noahs, the Kyles, the Rhys’s and the Zachs surrendering to the new guard of Kais, Coopers, Tylers, Kierans and Connors. Sometimes I wonder where it will all end - as parents seek more and more obscure names from the exact same sources as everyone else - but inevitably end up with the same unusual name for their little boy as five other kids at playgroup will have.

But just when you think it’s all gone too far, you see something that makes you wonder if it doesn’t all eventually come full circle. In NSW last year, the ten most common registered names for baby boys were, in descending order, Jack, Lachy, Bill, Josh, Tom, Jim, Ryan, Dan, Matt, and Sam. They are probably not altogether different from the same statistics 30 years ago, and it makes me wonder.

Is the age of Arthur, Bruce and Doug dawning? Will our world be rocked once again by the Warrens, the Wesleys, the Wallys? Will a great leader rise up from the soup of popular culture, a leader with a simple name, a name almost forgotten by the fast food eating, disposable nappy wearing, i-pod chanting mp3 downloading masses, to lead us into the New Age?

I wonder what well call him?

Gough perhaps?

Tags: general by admin
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