I probably should get the entire Woody Allen catalogue. 2 films in and I’m worried I want to become him, the wry wit and dry humor, the intellect, the style, the neuroses, the dating 17 year olds… At least that’s what he does in Manhattan, not what I want to do.

I love the film and I’m actually still only halfway through but I figure I’d write about it because I don’t need to see the finish to appreciate it. It’s good. I love the space. I love the black and white. If you wanted to know what NY was, you don’t gotta get some Lonely Planet or a wallpaper* guidebook. You should just watch this movie. It distills the essence of the city into a beautiful, poignant film about romance and the fickle attitude with which humans go about their lives in the concrete jungle of jungles.

I love the opening scene with the Gershwin and Allen narrating about how he’s going to open on his new book about the city. It’s splendid, dry and incisive. Makes me wanna drop everything and get a loft. Like the one scene where he’s talking to his 17 year old lover in his apartment. Because the film is shot in super widescreen, you get a full on view of everything and the city itself becomes a character. In the scene I’m talking about, the 2 characters are moving around within the apartment but the camera is still and they go from right to left to left to right, talking about their relationship and how silly it is. Then they finally exit through the circular stairs, brilliantly lit in the shot and utterly drawing in the sense of space and architecture that makes the city what it is. This is a scene which explains why loft living is so NY.

Then there’s the restaurants and the inimitable NY accents on a variety of people. I love how everyone’s busy, going to art shows, getting caught in the rain in central park, going to black tie events… Everyone’s rich and dapper and cool and interesting and they rattle on pretentiously about various personalities. So vacant, so existential, yet very modern and spirited.

Maybe in 10 years, I’ll get an address with a 10001 zip code.

Other than being the megacosmolopoloozlis, NY has always had a strange sort of appeal for me. It’s gotta be that dream of living in a loft or traipsing round central park or getting robbed pre Giuliani every 5 blocks or whatever absurd cliche is stuffed in my faced from every movie in existence. I suppose it just has that vibe, a life of its own that creates a fertile ground for the imagination to run wild.

How the fuck else do you explain Moondog?

This du was like my first foray into avant garde crap sometime back in ‘03 or so. I didn’t like it that much at the time. Fast forward to today and I do, somehow. Maybe it’s because I saw a photo. Or that I learned that he made his own instruments. Or that he played live on the street. It’s like real street music, not that hype shit.

He was called “The Viking Of 6th Avenue”, because he only ever wore clothes he made himself that were supposed to be what the Norse god Thor would wear. He was also often on 6th Avenue in Manhattan, busking with his home made instruments. Listening to his music, its like a mix of Thai, Native American, Javanese, Japanese, American Folk and jazz interludes. Yet, it also feels like you could remove all the ethnic or cultural elements all at once and simply focus on the rhythm and the beat. The structure, if you will.

He’s also blind. Which makes him like the best blind musicman since Beethoven. Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles ain’t got nuthin on him.

I know its all telly and that but its kinda awesome to see a guy skinning and gutting a camel in the sahara and turn it into a temporary shelter. Fuck da haters.

This smackingly patriotic piece is basically a testament to the wonderful country of S 2 da G. Where else do you get freakin’ express customs counters where you scan your passport with an IR then roll a thumbprint scan to double confirm your identity against your passport. Takes all of 5 seconds. Locals only. Suck it.

Fauchon. Parisian temple to food and drink. I think I’d like to be baptised in macaroons by launching myself at one of their croquembouches one day.

Fauchon’s Tarte Rubik.

Pain Poilane in Paris. Remind me to go there. Via IHT.

Back in Sydney and less than a day gone by, I’m on the road again. I love holidays. This time, it was going to be a massive group going canoing in the Kangaroo Valley. “2 hours” from Sydney. We were led by a guy whom my friends gave the name Leon Lai, on account of him vaguely resembling the singer. He was slung low on his motorbike and rode like he was the business, with only our car managing to keep up with him. The rest of the convoy was pretty much lost.

So anyway, Kangaroo Valley. Sounds wonderful dunnit? I didn’t see a single roo but that wasn’t what we were there for. We were there to canoe. Which we did, although we turned up about an hour later than expected. Renting a canoe costs about 30 bucks a person, including a mouldy lifevest, a choice of single, double or triple canoes and the pickup bus sending you back whence you came.

I think back about the canoeing club 10 years ago, in junior college, as I slug my canoe down to the riverside. It was pretty much filled with dimwits who were perpetually tanned and muscled and mostly dull personalities. You joined it cos you wanted to get buff and browned like toast. Me, I’d rather eat toast than be toast. Still, I had to cast aside all prejudices about 5 minutes in when I crashed into a tree and was forced to step out of the boat, into the freezing cold river. I was pretty much the only loser who “capsized” although I maintain that I did not, technically anyway. Ok fine, I capsized.

I had to overturn the damn thing and pour out the water before I headed back in. And at this point, the haughtiness of before had disappeared into a tiny joy, one abetted by the tiny rapids we sometimes went over. We’d actually picked the easy route, on account that most of the group had never set foot into any sort of river flotation device. I’d imagine, as Leon himself commented, that it’d be a much more exciting venture if it was really whitewater rafting. Controlling the boat is easy enough, until you start hitting rocks and shit. That’s when the river flows just a bit faster than you can react and the current throws you along.

The other nice thing about paddling along a river is the calm bits, which were, as one friend put it, tranquil. A serenity forged by the surroundings, which were quite pretty really. Trees glinting in the sun, birds chirping like vultures and pretty girls by my side laughing at my stupidity from before.

I also enjoyed the ride back though, seeing as I had the chance to drive my friend’s BMW down a mountain and back to Sydney as he and the girls helped to keep me alert with their hypnotic snoring.

I’m not too sure if its worth it to drive 4 or 5 hours there and back given how much petrol costs. It is a little far but it is a nice little place to go canoing and check out wildlife and nature and shit.

When I can, I love to travel. Just something about a sense of temporary migration that appeals to the soul. Or perhaps a malfunctioning, obsolete gene forcing its way into my subconscious. Either way, that feeling was one reason why I found myself popping into a plane and flying up to the Gold Coast for 5 days before the ANZAC weekend. That and a lady friend of course.

The Cool Gray Coast.

The last time I went to the Gold Coast, I was 14 or 15 and dying to see the famed uncovered boobies that abound Australian beaches. Unfortunately, we didn’t even really go to the beach on our tour. I had the double misfortune of going on holiday with my parents and going on holiday with my parents in a package tour. Which pretty much meant I didn’t get to see the famed beach of boobies. Which sucks when you’re 14 or 15 and dying to see boobies after a decade and a half of conservative Asian appropriation.

I still didn’t get to see what I’d come to see half a lifetime ago as the pic above testifies. The fact that it was fall was probably to my undoing. It was pretty blustery down at the beach, which was a lovely long stretch, juxtaposed by a slew of tall buildings behind.

That’s the thing about the Gold Coast. It’s really just a long stretch of lovely sand beaches and not much else. Everything else is pretty much man made and man made for tourism. The place felt like what Vegas would be if it were at the beach. Tacky neon lights aplenty lit up the nighttime, which had an atmosphere perpetrated by the smell of tourists and an easy dollar. It was pretty much otherwise, quite dead. I would surmise summertime would be immensely more crowded with even more tourists and yet still retain a certain vacancy, even if it were diminished by the howls of obnoxious babies and children of parents who bring their kids on holiday.

Daytime was spent pretty much going for breakfast and then hitting a theme park before coming back for a nap, then dinner and bedtime. Sounds boring, I know. It wasn’t really. I enjoyed the theme parks and the lounging around. I’m not quite the party animal. Meals were largely terrible though. The theme parks serve expensive fast food that sucks whilst Surfer’s Paradise was filled with sub par restaurants. I knew there were probably better places to eat but unfortunately, I didn’t get to go to anywhere close to that. Instead, I relented to subjecting my tastebuds to mediocre and paltry experiences, safe in the knowledge that I’d get back to Sydney soon enough.

The Superman ride @ Movieworld.

The theme parks though, are fun enough. Movieworld is an ok pastiche of Warner Brothers related stuff, filled with stores and decent rides. The one above revolves around this idea of you getting into a train there being some kind of accident, only for you to get saved by… Superman himself, who pushes the train at lightspeed out of the tunnel and into the light. That initial blast apparently takes you to 4.2Gs because its superfast, then you drop immediately after, like 85 degrees or so. Its the biggest vertical loop you can see in the pic and whilst I neglected to include some scale references in my photo, it was high enough and fast enough to deliver a certain thrill.

Wet ‘n’ Wild was pretty fun too, basically a big waterpark, where there’s slides and tubes and water and bikinis. And the bikini’s didn’t automatically claim prominence either. Seaworld was a more languid exercise, with more marine life shows than rides. I didn’t even bother to take the coaster. I skipped out on Dreamworld and Whitewater world but I did drive and stop by for a looksee. Couple of the rides there certainly looked menacing.

On the final day of our trip, we also made a sojourn up to Tamborine Mountain, where we chanced upon a paraglider failing to take off and crashing into some kids as well as hanggliders narrowly missing some treetops. Also included was a trip to a “$1.1 million” glowworm cave, which was completely man made and about as big as a toilet in a hotel room. I then received a lecture in the help glowworms granted to cancer research and a treastise on environmentalism in a fake cave. Fascinating.

I have to say, the GC is one big bundle of bodaciousness. Between the shittiest fish n chips in the world and a barren beach, what else can could one ask for on a holiday?

Sometimes, my instincts hone me for the better by taking me to places which toughen me up. This trip has taught a valuable lesson aka “Who the fuck goes to the Gold Coast when its not Summer?”. One day, I will overcome my struggle with moron syndrome and disregard the wiles of women who tug at my sleeves in painted voices.

Easter weekend was spent driving up to Coffs Harbour, about 6-7 hours drive north of Sydney. I know because I was the one who drove my 5 pals in a people mover. Lucky me.

Coffs is basically a small town, known for its fishing and basically being a seaside sorta place. We just wanted a bit of a break and decided to go experience said fishing at Coffs. Saturday was spent mostly shooting the shit and me driving. We arrived at like 11 at the hostel and basically slept till 5am. At which point we were supposed to go fishing but a spot of miscommunication meant that never happened. So instead, we hit the Sunday market near the hostel and I managed to get the hostel reception to book us for fishing on Monday whilst my mates slept their lives away.

Literally Coffs Harbour!

We then woke up for lunch at a cafe in town which was quite decent. My selection was a simple burger with chips and a cappuccino. Following which, we made way to the beach, which had plenty of frolicking people half naked and snogging and stuff. We settled for tamer sports like tag with seaweed balls and sand caricatures. Dinner was fish from the marina fish shop cooked at the hostel. Entertainment were endless rounds of chua dai di and slapping games and copious amounts of beer. Being the designated and only driver meant I had 3 bottles.

I think its criminal to use lean beef in burgers!

This is an what I saw at sunrise on Sunday instead of heading out to sea.

I also spent time watching the barnacles grow.

After the barnacles came the rock formation studies at the beach.

Followed closely by the excavation/destruction of mini crab tunnels.

Monday and we woke at 430am this time to ensure zero cock ups and were repaid with a wonderful boat trip out to sea. When the boat made its first stop to fish, 2 of the girls made way for the side of the boat, hereafter declared as the sickbay. They then proceeded to spend 6 hours half drowsy and puking miserably. This despite the fact that I’d bought some “natural” anti travel sickness ginger tablets. (I couldn’t find the chemical ones so I figured at least some sort of placebo might work. The lady assured me it would though.)

Look the moon iz so smallz! Lolz!

In any case, thus began my first fishing trip proper and I have to say, I am hooked. The last time I went “fishing” was with some other friends and we basically spent a couple hours doing nothing and I got the honor of cooking for them. Fish caught = zero. Monday at Coffs Harbour was dramatically different though as I caught no less than 6 fish including a flathead and snapper amongst others. A few were tossed back into the sea and 1 was used as baitfish.

My emotional state at that point in time = Stoked. I used to think fishing was fucking boring, like just stand around with a fishing rod and wait and stuff. Not anymore though. I have to admit to quite loving the rush when you hook something and reel it in and bam, it ends up on your dinner table. Regrettably, I opted not to take any photos of the fish I caught because my fingers were covered in pilchard blood from handling the bait. So I can brag all I want and fabricate extra details like how I also caught a shark but let it go out of the kindness of my heart. Well, someone caught a shark and let it go, it just wasn’t me but it was memorable enough.

Whilst the girls were puking, at one point, I also joined in. Hurling the contents of the morning’s tiny breakfast, a single Dorayaki. I did that in a 2 step process but managed to otherwise remain pretty ok for the rest of the trip. I found that focusing on the fishing intensely allowed me to ignore the feeling of my pancreas dropping into my balls every 3 seconds. Which was quite horrible in case you were wondering.

If anything, I feel like I’ve found a wonderful new hobby/sport which is also highly advantageous as well. Catching the most fish for any single person on the boat today sorta felt really neo-lithic machismo/manly man steez. The rush can be pretty awesome even if somewhat subdued. I’m so heading out to get fishing gear replete with a Rick Owens distressed leather fishing jacket and a sick rod. Just something about that muahahaha, I am a survivalist expert.

Catching the fish was fun and so was eating them. We scaled and washed up before cooking using various methods. Mine was the busiest, having to basically grill all the fish on the barbeque. I would have probably preferred to fillet and skin them all but I have to say that Flathead are pretty good grilled. A lot of the other white fish just have that all too typical texture and flavour. Next time out, I’m gutting my own.

I think it was something like 46000 (confirmed on BDO webby) I heard mentioned on the local radio on my ride to the airport as I left Melbourne. Big Day Out was my main event and it was not to disappoint.

I smelt more spliffs and joints @ Flemington race course than I did regular cigarettes which was a good thing. The beer (Toohey’s extra dry) was pretty awful. I somehow remember almost enjoying them in bottle form when I was in Sydney but the cans sold @ BDO were fucking awful. Piss could pass off better as beer. The food was ok I suppose. I didn’t expect nor wanted restaurant fare. This stall that sold Dutch pancakes (essentially mini pancakes) was not too bad even if the dough was slightly undercooked. The toilets were ok though. Better than expected although I went once only and I went early. The crowd getting home was quite mad really. Imagine 46000 people squeezing onto the trains and a cut off time of 11.15. Carl Cox’s set finished at 11 by the by. Still, it wasn’t anything remotely close to Shanghai’s trains on a daily basis. Something about Australians being polite and stuff I suppose. Plenty of kids did climb fences and fall in pursuit of getting on the first train but nothing offensive really. The worst thing though might’ve been the venue itself. Flemington race course is fucking dusty. In the middle, right where they have amusement rides, its like a fucking desert, chomped off Las Vegas and dropped onto Melbourne. My Skulls were khaki from the knee down.

Water sprinkling tower helped to keep temperatures in check.

Still, nothing would detract from the show that was to unfold. And what a show! We went a little late, at round 2. Some acts started at 10 or 11. The only thing I can say I would have missed was Kate Nash’s set, although I got some consolation for that.

5 mins in and I’d gotten all the essentials. Drink tickets, drinking age wristband and show program with map and timetable. Efficiency is the key.

First act we checked out turned out to be none other than the UK’s finest, Dizzee Rascal. Rascal rocked the place I thought, spitfire rhymin and grimin. It was pretty awesome, even if the “act” was a little scripted in feel, like when DJ Semtex said the crowd don’t want no more and then Rascal says yes they still got time for one more song and the crowd cheers.

The UK’s finest, Mr. Rascal.

Next up, were Gyroscope, who were quite ok. We left when my mate wanted to hit the loo. At that point my ears pricked up when I heard a crowd laughing. Then I checked my program and realized Billy Bragg was playing none too far away. In between songs, the man laid out his mantras on world peace and how Howard sucked and hopefully Australia will do better under Rudd, how Aussies should support Rudd and remember Howard was awful etc. He was quite a bit preachy and I think this set the tone for the entire festival really. Still, he did his political folk/punk thing which was quite good. The highlight was when Bragg introduced Kate Nash on stage and they sang a duet of sorts. Woowee, she’s so cute, especially when she did the most adorable “muak” kiss. Oh and her voice was awesome as well.

The lovely Kate Nash and Mr. Bragg.

Next, we headed for Pnau. Along the way, we chanced on a pretty good soulstress singing on top of a van with a DJ and 4 gyrating, half naked girls. Also, there was some sort of mad band that played at the Lilyworld stage that had guys in puffy, neu-rave suits with oversized glasses, top hats and assorted miscellany. I think they played some kind of kitschy dance music but I can’t remember. Think Henrik Vibskov’s most unwearable pieces come to life only without the style.

Pnau was fabulous. Very danceable. They also had a lot of colorful mascots on stage to add to the fun factor. Throughout the show, they also did a “get the crowd to go low and then rise up as the music got red hot” thing. Rockin’. Some dude did try to storm the stage but was denied by 4 or 5 security personnel who flung him onto the floor inches from me. The poor guy clutched onto his wayfarers, clearly showing where his priorities lay. The only bad thing was, after that, this very cute chick next to me left before anything really fun happened. Damn. Must go to Pnau shows more.

One half of Pnau & Friends.

At 530 , we realized suddenly that Arcade Fire was taking the stage like half a click away, so we left the funny mascots, ran across the dust covered desert and managed to get to a half decent view of the place. They’d only just started which was fine but they were at the main stage area, which was freaking crowded. Sort of poignant when they started to play “No Cars Go”. At which point, I realized that we had to pretty much stick around here or be completely fucked when Bjork was on show, or Rage for that matter. Fire were fantastic though and comparetively, quite minimal in their political mentions.

Some Canadian goodness called Arcade Fire.

After Arcade Fire, I popped over to the merch and bought an Arcade Fire tee. I actually wanted one with their Neon Bible artwork but stumped for the one with my size, with the organ pipes instead. There was also a monochrome version of the Battles tee I was wearing and a nuns Rage tee I wanted that didn’t have my size. We had a quick dinner, which included the Dutch pancakes earlier and then tried our best to squeeze back to the main stage area and get a place for Bjork. It was fucking hard to find anywhere. The area closest to the stage had been closed off by the time Arcade Fire were playing so basically, we were on the outside of that, which was still packed. All this means I was sacrificing LCD Soundsystem, who I like immensely, and also Battles, who I’d seen before at least. Sad but true. The ethical dilemma of music festivals I suppose.

Token Silverchair pic. They played after Arcade Fire and apparently, some of the crowd didn’t like them too much.

Bjork had me worried though. I had no idea if she would take the stage even, although no one said anything about so I assumed it was gonna happen. And happen she did. A marching band came out and soon after, the Princess of Pixies bust out “Earth Intruders”. When she finished, she said the most awesomest, cutest, thank you ever on the face of earth. She was also incredibly beautiful and cute. And beautiful. Next up were some tracks off Homogenic, which basically left me completely mesmerized. You could tell her voice was on edge, particularly when she croaked a bit on “Cover Me”. Still she was fucking mesmerizing. I was and continue to be blown away by her voice, its still ringing in my ears like. She was amazing and busted out her political bend when she dedicated “Declare Independence” to the indigenous peoples of Australia. The mostly white crowd cheered, somewhat oblivious to the irony or perhaps in support of her intentions. I had my doubts and laughed nervously, quietly. The music was what triumphed in the end I guess. And how spectacular it was. The video walls proffered a better view from my location, stuck behind some old, sideways shaking twit with a hat.

The goddess herself.

The wizards behind the sound. The guy in the video manipulated the sound as he dragged bits and pieces from the side in a show of interactive art and music. Awesome.

Finally, the main event for much of the crowd arrived, at round 9. Rage Against The Machine, reformed and revived. Ok, so LCD Soundsystem and later Carl Cox (seriously, why the fuck did LCD have to play then?) were to perform around the same time as well but almost everyone was at Rage. We tried our best to snake our way from the top end of the Bjork stage to the bottom end of the Rage one next to it, one big bloody circle. Along the way, some loofy bird was taking her kit off on the roof of one of the nearby structures. Then some dude climbed a tree in hopes of a better view, only to be pelted with empty drink bottles. Ultimately the place was seriously crowded and the trees were as well. Everywhere, people just chanting “rage! rage! rage!” or “we want rage!”.

Homo Rageus.

Apparently that’s RATM, although it could possibly be Alvin & The Chipmunks from this range.

They were true to form. Anarchic, political. Zach de la Rocha bust out his rhymes in typically venomous fashion and the kids were going nuts. I couldn’t quite see the mosh from where I was but from what has been said, it was insane. I was close-ish to the stage and video wall for arcade fire. Slightly less than that for Bjork and lost at sea for Rage. I think the extent and gravity of the situation was made known to me as I felt these vibrations under the soles of my feet. It was like a mini earthquake and I was a little itty bitty part of it. When de la Rocha did his manifesto preaching bit, I couldn’t actually quite hear what the fuck he said exactly but hey, the crowd certainly dug it. The climax was probably “Killing In The Name Of”, which had like everyone going bonkers.

Zapatista Zach de la Rocha.

Guitar God Tom Morello.

All in all, I’d say I had an awesome time and it was definitely a Big day out for me. I wish I had a better videocam. Much of the vids I shot came out complete crap. I could barely make out any members of Arcade Fire nevermind RATM. I was just too damn far away. The sound is ok but there’s nothing to see, which is kinda sad! Anyway, I’ll always have my memories like Bjork’s uber cute thank yous or that moment when Morello bust out some finger tricks on his guitar or Zach shouting, Bragg dissing Bush and Howard in a revised version of Waiting For The Great Leap Forwards and Kate Nash blowing me a kiss (I can dream can’t I?).