While over watching High Fidelity at Arlen and Ryan's, I'm told to help myself to the baked goods in the kitchen (a fourth, mystery roommate works at a bakery and brings home goodies).
I grab what I think is a cinnamon bun and pull a piece off. It is not a cinnamon bun.
And it is terrible.
I spit it out, return the rest of the unidentified baked item to the bag and rinse out my mouth. Several times.
When I get back to the lounge, I tell Ryan about the sweet impostors.
"Oh yeah... I think those are cheese & Vegemite buns... sorry."
What a terrible idea.
Terrible, terrible, terrible.
Monday, March 23, 2009
My Fellow Canadian
Arlen, a friend of a friend I know from Toronto, works for Bicycle Victoria. If anyone should know where I can get a decent, inexpensive ride, he should. When I ask, he tells me I can borrow a spare one he has. Which is about as inexpensive as you get.
I head over and meet his roommates, Ryan (another Canadian) and Rob, an Australian who’s concerned that he’s clearly outnumbered. Arlen and Rob are playing video games, so Ryan shows me the bike.
Just as I’m ready to leave, it starts to pour. The boys tell me to wait it out. Ryan shares some dinner with me and we bond over job search frustrations. We fill each other in on leads and exchange phone numbers. Turns out, Ryan is also part of Alba’s Surf Club.
As we chatter away at each other, Arlen says he’s glad Ryan has a new best friend.
***
You never know when or why you'll hit it off with someone, but there are often clues. Like the following text message I received from Ryan the other day:
He also signs off messages containing work info with, "We are great!"
And seriously, how great is that?!
I head over and meet his roommates, Ryan (another Canadian) and Rob, an Australian who’s concerned that he’s clearly outnumbered. Arlen and Rob are playing video games, so Ryan shows me the bike.
Just as I’m ready to leave, it starts to pour. The boys tell me to wait it out. Ryan shares some dinner with me and we bond over job search frustrations. We fill each other in on leads and exchange phone numbers. Turns out, Ryan is also part of Alba’s Surf Club.
As we chatter away at each other, Arlen says he’s glad Ryan has a new best friend.
***
You never know when or why you'll hit it off with someone, but there are often clues. Like the following text message I received from Ryan the other day:
Overheard on a tram, one bogan woman to another:
You should always keep 50 dollars to your name.
Always.
He also signs off messages containing work info with, "We are great!"
And seriously, how great is that?!
74 Wellington
March 14th
Shane has given me the address: 74 Wellington.
“You’ll be sharing the room with a guy. Have Gina or Ian in room 5 show you and call me back if you want it.”
He has lots of other properties in the area and tells me once the Grand Prix is over, he can get me into another place. But right now, this is it.
Fine with me; it’s dirt cheap.
I get there and find Pete, my new roommate, talking to Gina and Ian. Tell them I’m staying, hope Pete doesn’t mind. And no, I don’t care that it’s a tiny room, I just need my own key and some space, a base of operations.
Done. Call Shane. Tells me I’ll have to pay for the month; after all, it’s not a hostel.
When he gets there, I give him rent for the week and a deposit for the key. No arguments.
“Just give me a week’s notice.”
About 25 people living between the 11 rooms in the house. It’s shabby and reputedly haunted (word is, our room is fine), but people seem very nice for the most part.
***
I get back later that night after watching The Castle with Sally [try to find this movie: it is fantastic and essential viewing in terms of Australian pop culture]. Pete, Ian, and a bunch of other Irish people – the house’s predominant nationality – are watching football/soccer, all crowed into Anush and Savit’s room, as it’s the only one with couches and cable.
The game, however, is just filler, being watched in anticipation of the evening’s main event: Ireland vs. Scotland in the Six Nations rugby match. Ireland has only to win the next two games to be the top team. Pete informs me that my attendance is mandatory at the Celtic club in the city to watch the game. Kickoff is at 4am.
The rest of the evening is a blur of beer, cheering, and accents. At one point, mini toasted cheese & bacon sandwiches are passed around. We decide that they are the best thing any of us had ever eaten (there is even talk of them the next day).
Ireland wins, and there is much rejoicing.
Shane has given me the address: 74 Wellington.
“You’ll be sharing the room with a guy. Have Gina or Ian in room 5 show you and call me back if you want it.”
He has lots of other properties in the area and tells me once the Grand Prix is over, he can get me into another place. But right now, this is it.
Fine with me; it’s dirt cheap.
I get there and find Pete, my new roommate, talking to Gina and Ian. Tell them I’m staying, hope Pete doesn’t mind. And no, I don’t care that it’s a tiny room, I just need my own key and some space, a base of operations.
Done. Call Shane. Tells me I’ll have to pay for the month; after all, it’s not a hostel.
When he gets there, I give him rent for the week and a deposit for the key. No arguments.
“Just give me a week’s notice.”
About 25 people living between the 11 rooms in the house. It’s shabby and reputedly haunted (word is, our room is fine), but people seem very nice for the most part.
***
I get back later that night after watching The Castle with Sally [try to find this movie: it is fantastic and essential viewing in terms of Australian pop culture]. Pete, Ian, and a bunch of other Irish people – the house’s predominant nationality – are watching football/soccer, all crowed into Anush and Savit’s room, as it’s the only one with couches and cable.
The game, however, is just filler, being watched in anticipation of the evening’s main event: Ireland vs. Scotland in the Six Nations rugby match. Ireland has only to win the next two games to be the top team. Pete informs me that my attendance is mandatory at the Celtic club in the city to watch the game. Kickoff is at 4am.
The rest of the evening is a blur of beer, cheering, and accents. At one point, mini toasted cheese & bacon sandwiches are passed around. We decide that they are the best thing any of us had ever eaten (there is even talk of them the next day).
Ireland wins, and there is much rejoicing.
Brunswick
March 11th
Jeremy is waiting for me as I get off the tram with all my stuff. He offers to carry one of them, but I decline, slightly self-conscious of their weight. There is something other-worldly about him: his resonant voice, his gliding movements, his absolute calm demeanor. Really chill, zero pretences, and thoroughly comfortable to be around.
Just as well, seeing as I’ll be sleeping on the floor of the place he shares with 3 other people.
Jeremy, Dil, Justin, and Dave – along with half a dozen others – have a collective called We Make Stuff Good. They live in a warehouse space that houses an office, an upstairs with some bedrooms, and an open central area they’re in the process of turning into a cafe [scheduled to open in two weeks].
That night, we sit in the soon-to-be cafe on the lush red velour couches and emerald armchairs, watching “Rash,” a documentary about street art in Australia, focusing on Melbourne, giving a bit of insight into what I’ve been seeing everywhere, and I mean everywhere. Mention is made of a crew Jeremy (who is out working) does stuff with from time to time. Dil tells him about it when he gets home; he’s completely unfazed, in spite of her excitement.
The next morning, we have avocado and tomato on toast.
I love it here.
***
I have some work in St. Kilda and make plans to meet Jeremy in Fitzroy later. Travelling from Brunswick to St. Kilda and back to Fitzroy only makes it clearer that I want to live in the northern suburbs.
We meet at The Evelyn Hotel. Jeremy is sitting with a big group, deep in conversation with Kim, a guy visiting from Germany. I settle in and start chatting with a few girls.
There’s champagne. Lots of it. We’re out on the patio and manage to break 3 glasses by the time we leave.
Jeremy is waiting for me as I get off the tram with all my stuff. He offers to carry one of them, but I decline, slightly self-conscious of their weight. There is something other-worldly about him: his resonant voice, his gliding movements, his absolute calm demeanor. Really chill, zero pretences, and thoroughly comfortable to be around.
Just as well, seeing as I’ll be sleeping on the floor of the place he shares with 3 other people.
Jeremy, Dil, Justin, and Dave – along with half a dozen others – have a collective called We Make Stuff Good. They live in a warehouse space that houses an office, an upstairs with some bedrooms, and an open central area they’re in the process of turning into a cafe [scheduled to open in two weeks].
That night, we sit in the soon-to-be cafe on the lush red velour couches and emerald armchairs, watching “Rash,” a documentary about street art in Australia, focusing on Melbourne, giving a bit of insight into what I’ve been seeing everywhere, and I mean everywhere. Mention is made of a crew Jeremy (who is out working) does stuff with from time to time. Dil tells him about it when he gets home; he’s completely unfazed, in spite of her excitement.
The next morning, we have avocado and tomato on toast.
I love it here.
***
I have some work in St. Kilda and make plans to meet Jeremy in Fitzroy later. Travelling from Brunswick to St. Kilda and back to Fitzroy only makes it clearer that I want to live in the northern suburbs.
We meet at The Evelyn Hotel. Jeremy is sitting with a big group, deep in conversation with Kim, a guy visiting from Germany. I settle in and start chatting with a few girls.
There’s champagne. Lots of it. We’re out on the patio and manage to break 3 glasses by the time we leave.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Comedy at The Local
March 9th
Sally and I have met her friend Steve down at The Local for Comedy Night. We arrive early to grab some food upstairs and then head down to snag prime seats on one of the couches.
As the room is being set up, someone discovers a cricket behind the bar.
So naturally, they mic the cricket.
The little guy makes regular sound appearances throughout the first part of the evening, but by the 2nd half, is either dead or has left.
As the evening’s host put it, a night of firsts: first time he’s performed for a live cricket; first time someone’s died during his set.
Sally and I have met her friend Steve down at The Local for Comedy Night. We arrive early to grab some food upstairs and then head down to snag prime seats on one of the couches.
As the room is being set up, someone discovers a cricket behind the bar.
So naturally, they mic the cricket.
The little guy makes regular sound appearances throughout the first part of the evening, but by the 2nd half, is either dead or has left.
As the evening’s host put it, a night of firsts: first time he’s performed for a live cricket; first time someone’s died during his set.
Future Music Festival
March 8th
The Future Music Festival is what brought me back to Melbourne. Yes, I could have stayed in Adelaide and seen it there, but I got a ticket for it in Melbourne shortly after arriving. Besides, I had a crew to go with.
Basement Jaxx, N.E.R.D., CSS, Grandmaster Flash... I was pumped.
Didn’t see much of Grandmaster Flash (he started at 2pm), N.E.R.D. was good, but the sound wasn’t; I couldn’t get to CSS because it was at a different stage and I certainly was not going to miss Basement Jaxx.
Michael, David, and I had jumped the barrier to see N.E.R.D. and then decided to make a move for the front, to be there in time for Basement Jaxx. Which meant enduring Paul Oakenfield – ter-ri-ble – but worth it a million times over. In fact, Basement Jaxx made up for the whole predominantly lacklustre festival, despite the largely unresponsive [see also: very high] crowd.
And there were costume changes!
(What can I say? I’m a sucker for costume changes.)
***
We made it 2nd from the front and soon after, I was cursing my empty water bottle. Some of the people around us had been there for hours, including a lobster-red lout from Leeds. The only way out was over the fence, and after that, you’d be at the very back.
From time to time, the security guards got water bottles and fed people in the front few lines, who waited anxiously, mouths open like baby birds.
At one point, we're joined by a feisty blonde named Alesia and her Italian cousin. They had pushed their way to the front fairly quickly and had had enough of the drunken and stoned hoards. Thankfully, Alesia decided she liked us, because she seemed quite sincere in her threats of violence toward everyone else.
The Future Music Festival is what brought me back to Melbourne. Yes, I could have stayed in Adelaide and seen it there, but I got a ticket for it in Melbourne shortly after arriving. Besides, I had a crew to go with.
Basement Jaxx, N.E.R.D., CSS, Grandmaster Flash... I was pumped.
Didn’t see much of Grandmaster Flash (he started at 2pm), N.E.R.D. was good, but the sound wasn’t; I couldn’t get to CSS because it was at a different stage and I certainly was not going to miss Basement Jaxx.
Michael, David, and I had jumped the barrier to see N.E.R.D. and then decided to make a move for the front, to be there in time for Basement Jaxx. Which meant enduring Paul Oakenfield – ter-ri-ble – but worth it a million times over. In fact, Basement Jaxx made up for the whole predominantly lacklustre festival, despite the largely unresponsive [see also: very high] crowd.
And there were costume changes!
(What can I say? I’m a sucker for costume changes.)
***
We made it 2nd from the front and soon after, I was cursing my empty water bottle. Some of the people around us had been there for hours, including a lobster-red lout from Leeds. The only way out was over the fence, and after that, you’d be at the very back.
From time to time, the security guards got water bottles and fed people in the front few lines, who waited anxiously, mouths open like baby birds.
At one point, we're joined by a feisty blonde named Alesia and her Italian cousin. They had pushed their way to the front fairly quickly and had had enough of the drunken and stoned hoards. Thankfully, Alesia decided she liked us, because she seemed quite sincere in her threats of violence toward everyone else.
The Garden of Unearthly Delights
March 6th
I’m currently sitting in The Garden of Unearthly Delights. As much as I really (reallyreally) wish I were speaking figuratively, The Garden of Unearthly Delights is an actual physical location, part of the fringe set up in Adelaide.
Essentially, it’s a park-turned-carnival: half a dozen venues, buskers, a (lame) freak show, a few rides, wares, booze, and general debauchery. Opened the week before the Fringe proper gets going, it is the place to go.
Every night, all month.
Thinking back, it’s nearly impossible to believe it’s only been about a week. Despite its size, Adelaide’s fringe feels considerably slower-paced and more formal than other fringe festivals I’ve been to.
That said, “fringe time” appears to be in full effect. When calling it a night at 2:30am on a Tuesday is quitting early.
***
I’ve seen a good number of shows and, as is expected with fringe, they span the fantastic to the horrendous. But that’s part of the fun.
And I behave myself pretty well, only going on one serious tirade and a couple mini-rants about performance and the responsibilities of performing artists.
At least I’m passionate, if perhaps slightly slightly overzealous.
***
I also managed to get access to a pass for the first few hours of WOMADelaide, an immense world music and dance festival going on this weekend. Didn’t get to see much – a few musical groups and Strange Fruit, a mesmerizing aerial/circus group – but the opening of the festival with song, dance, and blessing by the Aboriginals of the area was well worth it.
***
And the back to The Garden. Sitting under a tree full of fairy-lights, waiting for “Tarnished,” the last fringe show I’ll see here, and watching the circus.
I’m currently sitting in The Garden of Unearthly Delights. As much as I really (reallyreally) wish I were speaking figuratively, The Garden of Unearthly Delights is an actual physical location, part of the fringe set up in Adelaide.
Essentially, it’s a park-turned-carnival: half a dozen venues, buskers, a (lame) freak show, a few rides, wares, booze, and general debauchery. Opened the week before the Fringe proper gets going, it is the place to go.
Every night, all month.
Thinking back, it’s nearly impossible to believe it’s only been about a week. Despite its size, Adelaide’s fringe feels considerably slower-paced and more formal than other fringe festivals I’ve been to.
That said, “fringe time” appears to be in full effect. When calling it a night at 2:30am on a Tuesday is quitting early.
***
I’ve seen a good number of shows and, as is expected with fringe, they span the fantastic to the horrendous. But that’s part of the fun.
And I behave myself pretty well, only going on one serious tirade and a couple mini-rants about performance and the responsibilities of performing artists.
At least I’m passionate, if perhaps slightly slightly overzealous.
***
I also managed to get access to a pass for the first few hours of WOMADelaide, an immense world music and dance festival going on this weekend. Didn’t get to see much – a few musical groups and Strange Fruit, a mesmerizing aerial/circus group – but the opening of the festival with song, dance, and blessing by the Aboriginals of the area was well worth it.
***
And the back to The Garden. Sitting under a tree full of fairy-lights, waiting for “Tarnished,” the last fringe show I’ll see here, and watching the circus.
The Art Exhbit
March 5th
Thursday night. I’m doing front of house stuff for a couple shows on Hindley Street. [One of which – “Slim Limits” – is quite possibly the worst thing I’ve ever had to sit through in my entire life. And I’ve seen Starship Troopers.]
Shane, the venue manager, is... well, he’s not exactly your average fringe festival employee. His cousin is one of the co-coordinators for the fringe; Shane has worked as a security guard and a bouncer, so he’s here as Hindley Street is considered the seedier part of Adelaide (to be fair, someone had been stabbed around here less than a week ago).
***
Next to the venue is a gallery space that currently has an exhibit of 50 plaster vaginas. The posters caused quite a stir when they went up around the city because the title of the exhibit – everyone’s favourite “c”-slang for female anatomy – was emblazoned across them in huge block letters.
But surely, the artist wasn’t trying to be controversial.
Right?
The city forced the artist to alter the posters (the solution: most of the word is covered up with sticker of “vagina” in a different language) and – surprise of surprises – he got buckets of publicity.
Just the thought of the exhibit is more than Shane can handle; it’s kind of like he’s 10. He can barely keep a straight face when he tells me I should really (snicker) check out the art (stifled giggle) show next door.
***
A slightly scraggly young couple is walking up the street. The guy has his forehead bandaged and is carrying a neck brace in his left hand. He asks if there’s an art opening going on around here; it’s his friend’s show, but he doesn’t know much about it.
Shane: “Well mate, there’s one a few blocks up and there’s another right over here... D’you know if it’s of 50 plaster vaginas?”
Dude: “Dunno. Maybe... Actually, sounds about right.”
Shane: “The one up the street is paintings and stuff.”
Dude: “Oh... (intense disappointment) Yeah, probably that one.”
And the pair shuffles off.
Seriously though, if your buddy’s sculpting dozens of vaginas, wouldn’t you have some idea?
Come to think of it, maybe not.
[Note: Thanks to SpellCheck, I've learned the plural of "vagina" is, in fact, "vaginae." I've kept it as is, as an artistic choice.]
Thursday night. I’m doing front of house stuff for a couple shows on Hindley Street. [One of which – “Slim Limits” – is quite possibly the worst thing I’ve ever had to sit through in my entire life. And I’ve seen Starship Troopers.]
Shane, the venue manager, is... well, he’s not exactly your average fringe festival employee. His cousin is one of the co-coordinators for the fringe; Shane has worked as a security guard and a bouncer, so he’s here as Hindley Street is considered the seedier part of Adelaide (to be fair, someone had been stabbed around here less than a week ago).
***
Next to the venue is a gallery space that currently has an exhibit of 50 plaster vaginas. The posters caused quite a stir when they went up around the city because the title of the exhibit – everyone’s favourite “c”-slang for female anatomy – was emblazoned across them in huge block letters.
But surely, the artist wasn’t trying to be controversial.
Right?
The city forced the artist to alter the posters (the solution: most of the word is covered up with sticker of “vagina” in a different language) and – surprise of surprises – he got buckets of publicity.
Just the thought of the exhibit is more than Shane can handle; it’s kind of like he’s 10. He can barely keep a straight face when he tells me I should really (snicker) check out the art (stifled giggle) show next door.
***
A slightly scraggly young couple is walking up the street. The guy has his forehead bandaged and is carrying a neck brace in his left hand. He asks if there’s an art opening going on around here; it’s his friend’s show, but he doesn’t know much about it.
Shane: “Well mate, there’s one a few blocks up and there’s another right over here... D’you know if it’s of 50 plaster vaginas?”
Dude: “Dunno. Maybe... Actually, sounds about right.”
Shane: “The one up the street is paintings and stuff.”
Dude: “Oh... (intense disappointment) Yeah, probably that one.”
And the pair shuffles off.
Seriously though, if your buddy’s sculpting dozens of vaginas, wouldn’t you have some idea?
Come to think of it, maybe not.
[Note: Thanks to SpellCheck, I've learned the plural of "vagina" is, in fact, "vaginae." I've kept it as is, as an artistic choice.]
You're a Legend
March 5th
Day 2 at Gasworks: Allison asks is anyone feels like a more creative job. Oh, for the love of everything, yes please!
I spend the morning drawing out 25 letters on cardboard, each a meter high, that are to be made 3-dimensional with the help of gaffer tape. [Isn’t that a better name than “duct tape”?]
Upon finishing, Allison informs me that I’m a legend.
In all fairness, “You’re a legend” gets tossed around a lot here, but it’s such a fantastic expression. I feel immense pride for my Sesame-Street-grade letters.
The process of turning them into solid, standing 3D letters, however, is not as easily accomplished: Allison and I only finished several after a couple hours of concerted effort and by then, it’s quitting time for me. And I can’t say I’m sad not to be back tomorrow to finish the job.
Day 2 at Gasworks: Allison asks is anyone feels like a more creative job. Oh, for the love of everything, yes please!
I spend the morning drawing out 25 letters on cardboard, each a meter high, that are to be made 3-dimensional with the help of gaffer tape. [Isn’t that a better name than “duct tape”?]
Upon finishing, Allison informs me that I’m a legend.
In all fairness, “You’re a legend” gets tossed around a lot here, but it’s such a fantastic expression. I feel immense pride for my Sesame-Street-grade letters.
The process of turning them into solid, standing 3D letters, however, is not as easily accomplished: Allison and I only finished several after a couple hours of concerted effort and by then, it’s quitting time for me. And I can’t say I’m sad not to be back tomorrow to finish the job.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Ali vs Google Maps
March 4th
I didn't lug all my stuff to Adelaide, since I'm heading back to Melbourne in less than two weeks; for some reason, however, my map of Adelaide didn't make the cut and I've been making due with a relatively shabby (but free) one from the tourist information booth.
***
Wednesday morning. I leave the house a little after 9am, heading beyond the border of North Adelaide to volunteer at The Gasworks Theatre for the fringe. With Google's directions carefully recorded in my book, there's no reason I shouldn't get there by 10am.
Except that Barton Terrace West doesn't connect to War Memorial. And when I do find War Memorial, there's not really a "right" to turn onto, so I go sort-of-left-ish.
And walk for ages, looking for Park Terrace.
War Memorial circles the golf course and there's not much around. Finally, I approach a bigger cross street. This must be it. Except that it's King William.
Which means that after an hour and a half of walking, I'm about 5 minutes away from where I started. Not even kidding. A full circle around North Adelaide.
The same route, except turning right at War Memorial and I arrive at Gasworks 3 hours after leaving the house, tired and cantankerous. One of my tasks is to spray paint bean bag chairs in the wind. Ugh.
The next day, Erik and Bec offer to give me a drive, I'm sure to save me from having a repeat adventure. They must think I am ridiculously incompetent.
Google maps, may I never doubt you again!
I didn't lug all my stuff to Adelaide, since I'm heading back to Melbourne in less than two weeks; for some reason, however, my map of Adelaide didn't make the cut and I've been making due with a relatively shabby (but free) one from the tourist information booth.
***
Wednesday morning. I leave the house a little after 9am, heading beyond the border of North Adelaide to volunteer at The Gasworks Theatre for the fringe. With Google's directions carefully recorded in my book, there's no reason I shouldn't get there by 10am.
Except that Barton Terrace West doesn't connect to War Memorial. And when I do find War Memorial, there's not really a "right" to turn onto, so I go sort-of-left-ish.
And walk for ages, looking for Park Terrace.
War Memorial circles the golf course and there's not much around. Finally, I approach a bigger cross street. This must be it. Except that it's King William.
Which means that after an hour and a half of walking, I'm about 5 minutes away from where I started. Not even kidding. A full circle around North Adelaide.
The same route, except turning right at War Memorial and I arrive at Gasworks 3 hours after leaving the house, tired and cantankerous. One of my tasks is to spray paint bean bag chairs in the wind. Ugh.
The next day, Erik and Bec offer to give me a drive, I'm sure to save me from having a repeat adventure. They must think I am ridiculously incompetent.
Google maps, may I never doubt you again!
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Navigating Adelaide
March 2nd
Time after time, people keep telling me the same thing: Adelaide is easy to navigate because the CBD is laid out on a grid.
And in principle, it should be easy. Except that there’s no way to orient N, S, E, W – particularly since it’s been epically overcast.
There have been several instances of walking in the opposite direction of my intended destination for blocks before stopping to ask someone, only to be told, “Remember, it’s a grid.”
I didn’t forget; I just have no idea where I am.
[Making it completely irrelevant that North Terrace borders the north edge of the city, South Terrace, the south...]
Time after time, people keep telling me the same thing: Adelaide is easy to navigate because the CBD is laid out on a grid.
And in principle, it should be easy. Except that there’s no way to orient N, S, E, W – particularly since it’s been epically overcast.
There have been several instances of walking in the opposite direction of my intended destination for blocks before stopping to ask someone, only to be told, “Remember, it’s a grid.”
I didn’t forget; I just have no idea where I am.
[Making it completely irrelevant that North Terrace borders the north edge of the city, South Terrace, the south...]
Triple J
Some of you were privy to the agonizing 349-song challenge caused by my admittedly-sorry 2GB iPod. So far, I’ve been immensely pleased with my selections, but ultimately, the strife was somewhat undue. Because Australia is home to Triple J, Champion of all Radio Stations.
Triple J is publicly-funded, nationally broadcast, and basically what my iPod dreams of being. The closest Canadian comparison would be CBC3. Plenty of music, no commercials, Triple J is everything good.
And they love – love! – Canadian music here. (I feel slightly guilty that I’ve never heard of the vast majority of Australian bands).
I also appreciate that they don’t censor any of the songs; it does, however, crack me up that they provide a “This song contains coarse language” warning. Especially before Lily Allen’s new and very catchy single, which if you’ve heard censored is simply ridiculous.
[She’s huuuge here. I’d heard of her before, but is this something I missed?]
***
Triple J also presents a concert/gig series, which they broadcast live. A few weeks ago, I was listening to a re-broadcast of The Fleet Foxes, when it suddenly occurred to me why “Triple J” had been so familiar a name when I first arrived.
About 4 or 5 years ago, a friend gave me a copy of a live recording of Belle & Sebastian... done by Triple J.
As I pictured the CD in my mind, I realized it was “Live at The Espy,” which at the time had meant nothing, but is this amazing bar/music venue in St. Kilda that I went to my 2nd day in Melbourne and have been to a few times since.
Kind of a surreal thing, as I’d listened to that CD so many times driving back and forth to Halifax, only to be standing there a few years later on the other side of the world.
Triple J is publicly-funded, nationally broadcast, and basically what my iPod dreams of being. The closest Canadian comparison would be CBC3. Plenty of music, no commercials, Triple J is everything good.
And they love – love! – Canadian music here. (I feel slightly guilty that I’ve never heard of the vast majority of Australian bands).
I also appreciate that they don’t censor any of the songs; it does, however, crack me up that they provide a “This song contains coarse language” warning. Especially before Lily Allen’s new and very catchy single, which if you’ve heard censored is simply ridiculous.
[She’s huuuge here. I’d heard of her before, but is this something I missed?]
***
Triple J also presents a concert/gig series, which they broadcast live. A few weeks ago, I was listening to a re-broadcast of The Fleet Foxes, when it suddenly occurred to me why “Triple J” had been so familiar a name when I first arrived.
About 4 or 5 years ago, a friend gave me a copy of a live recording of Belle & Sebastian... done by Triple J.
As I pictured the CD in my mind, I realized it was “Live at The Espy,” which at the time had meant nothing, but is this amazing bar/music venue in St. Kilda that I went to my 2nd day in Melbourne and have been to a few times since.
Kind of a surreal thing, as I’d listened to that CD so many times driving back and forth to Halifax, only to be standing there a few years later on the other side of the world.
Speaking Australian
Although I have yet to come up with a personally satisfying response to, “How ya going?” (I know, it’s only one word, but the “ya” throws me off everything), I’m doing pretty well, overall: I use petrol, pots, and primary school seamlessly, although I refuse to say mate, reckon, heaps, or uni – believe me, they sound hideous in a Canadian accent.
Favorite term: Bogen, Bogan
Meaning: A hick, down to the standard dress/hair/numerous half-functioning cars. Equivalent, but delightfully superior, to Banger.
Favorite expression: Rock up
Meaning: To arrive.
Example: “I rocked up to the pub at half-ten and the place was rammed.”
Favorite term: Bogen, Bogan
Meaning: A hick, down to the standard dress/hair/numerous half-functioning cars. Equivalent, but delightfully superior, to Banger.
Favorite expression: Rock up
Meaning: To arrive.
Example: “I rocked up to the pub at half-ten and the place was rammed.”
Sunsets in Radelaide
Feb. 27th
Jezza is playing around on his laptop. I’m in the kitchen making tea. We’re waiting for Tristan at the house on the beach and then heading into Adelaide for their gig. The upstairs is very open with the west side entirely of windows facing the ocean.
I stop mid-pour as the sun – a perfect glowing circle – begins to lower toward the water.
“Oh man, Jez, check the sunset!”
“Yeah, Adelaide does sunsets pretty well.”
He looks out the window and, barely audibly, “Go, Adelaide.”
It’s maybe 10 minutes from the moment the sun came into the range of the windows until it was quite literally swallowed by the ocean, like a cartoon. Awe-struck, I didn’t move until a minutes after it disappeared.
Go, Adelaide.
Jezza is playing around on his laptop. I’m in the kitchen making tea. We’re waiting for Tristan at the house on the beach and then heading into Adelaide for their gig. The upstairs is very open with the west side entirely of windows facing the ocean.
I stop mid-pour as the sun – a perfect glowing circle – begins to lower toward the water.
“Oh man, Jez, check the sunset!”
“Yeah, Adelaide does sunsets pretty well.”
He looks out the window and, barely audibly, “Go, Adelaide.”
It’s maybe 10 minutes from the moment the sun came into the range of the windows until it was quite literally swallowed by the ocean, like a cartoon. Awe-struck, I didn’t move until a minutes after it disappeared.
Go, Adelaide.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Surfing
February 22nd
I came across Alba's Surf Club on a general Melbourne web forum. With about 80 members, typically 10 people go surfing Saturday and Sunday, every weekend. Open to all levels, there are a few instructors who offer lessons to the beginners. You can rent boards and wetsuits through the club, and carpool to the day's destination. And I was desperate to go surfing.
***
Sunday morning, bright and early, I pack everything up -- sunscreen, hat, towel, lunch, bathing suit -- and head to the meeting point. But when I get to where 523 should be, it's not there: 519 and then 527. The only thing in between is a little parking area.
Maybe this is where we're supposed to meet. (At this point, I don't have a phone and, for some reason, neglected to write down anyone in the club's contact info).
5 minutes before we're meant to leave and still no one else is there. Definitely at the wrong spot.
Maybe it's 532. So I start walking, quite disappointed that I may not be going surfing, after all.
A few blocks up, there are a bunch of people lashing boards to roof racks. Suddenly, I am horribly shy, and make a slow approach. Before I can say anything, one of the guys asks if I'm with the club. Yes, yes I am.
Introductions, final preparations, car arrangements, and we're off around 9am, only half an hour behind schedule (not bad, considering there are 24 people).
***
We're headed to Phillip Island, a 2-hour drive outside of the city. Maybe an hour in, we pass some roadkill. I give a somewhat dejected, "Oh..."
"What's up?" asks Tom, the driver and my soon-to-be surfing instructor.
"I was hoping the first kangaroo I saw would be alive..."
"Hmm, you’ll see more dead than alive, to be sure. Besides, I think that was only a wallaby."
***
There were four of us who had never surfed before. The conditions in the morning were pretty good for beginners, too. I stayed in the water until my legs were jelly and my arms didn’t have enough strength left to get me onto the board. (And I had my wetsuit on inside out for easily two hours before I could bring myself to stop long enough to change it).
The afternoon brought rougher surf and it took a while to get far enough out for a good crack at it. But I got my feet on the board and my hands off several times by the end of the day, which I’m told qualifies as standing up, despite being far from vertical.
***
One of the other beginners, a very tall Dutch girl, got whacked in the head – she would have been right behind me at the time, but I didn’t notice. One minute she was there; the next, gone. She gets to go to orientation at university tomorrow with a bunch of stitches, poor thing.
Everyone met up at a pub and waited for them to finish at the hospital, which amazingly only took a few hours on a sunny Sunday.
***
The group of guys play around like a bunch of bear cubs; it’s really quite funny. Alba tells me it’s something about being in the water together; you bond pretty quickly.
The sunset on the way home is brilliant: vibrant pink in a shimmering sky. Beautiful, but unsettling: the radiance due to the still-burning bush fires.
I came across Alba's Surf Club on a general Melbourne web forum. With about 80 members, typically 10 people go surfing Saturday and Sunday, every weekend. Open to all levels, there are a few instructors who offer lessons to the beginners. You can rent boards and wetsuits through the club, and carpool to the day's destination. And I was desperate to go surfing.
***
Sunday morning, bright and early, I pack everything up -- sunscreen, hat, towel, lunch, bathing suit -- and head to the meeting point. But when I get to where 523 should be, it's not there: 519 and then 527. The only thing in between is a little parking area.
Maybe this is where we're supposed to meet. (At this point, I don't have a phone and, for some reason, neglected to write down anyone in the club's contact info).
5 minutes before we're meant to leave and still no one else is there. Definitely at the wrong spot.
Maybe it's 532. So I start walking, quite disappointed that I may not be going surfing, after all.
A few blocks up, there are a bunch of people lashing boards to roof racks. Suddenly, I am horribly shy, and make a slow approach. Before I can say anything, one of the guys asks if I'm with the club. Yes, yes I am.
Introductions, final preparations, car arrangements, and we're off around 9am, only half an hour behind schedule (not bad, considering there are 24 people).
***
We're headed to Phillip Island, a 2-hour drive outside of the city. Maybe an hour in, we pass some roadkill. I give a somewhat dejected, "Oh..."
"What's up?" asks Tom, the driver and my soon-to-be surfing instructor.
"I was hoping the first kangaroo I saw would be alive..."
"Hmm, you’ll see more dead than alive, to be sure. Besides, I think that was only a wallaby."
***
There were four of us who had never surfed before. The conditions in the morning were pretty good for beginners, too. I stayed in the water until my legs were jelly and my arms didn’t have enough strength left to get me onto the board. (And I had my wetsuit on inside out for easily two hours before I could bring myself to stop long enough to change it).
The afternoon brought rougher surf and it took a while to get far enough out for a good crack at it. But I got my feet on the board and my hands off several times by the end of the day, which I’m told qualifies as standing up, despite being far from vertical.
***
One of the other beginners, a very tall Dutch girl, got whacked in the head – she would have been right behind me at the time, but I didn’t notice. One minute she was there; the next, gone. She gets to go to orientation at university tomorrow with a bunch of stitches, poor thing.
Everyone met up at a pub and waited for them to finish at the hospital, which amazingly only took a few hours on a sunny Sunday.
***
The group of guys play around like a bunch of bear cubs; it’s really quite funny. Alba tells me it’s something about being in the water together; you bond pretty quickly.
The sunset on the way home is brilliant: vibrant pink in a shimmering sky. Beautiful, but unsettling: the radiance due to the still-burning bush fires.
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