this magic moment

today was a day like no other. forever i will have lou reed's "this magic moment" fused with slightly askew classical radio, charlie's angels TV theme song combined with uncontained electricity, sleep deprivation, swine flu & you melting into a thriller-esque tribute embedded into my mind.

these were the sounds of friday morning june 26, 2009. angel of the 70s blowwave farrah fawcett, dead. the king of 80s pop, michael jackson, dead. sasha grey's fish, dead. for awhile there, king of the dinosaurs AKA jeff goldblum didn't look so crash-hot either but he was later resurrected from the interwebs hysteria which suddenly resulted in "add your own celebrity & stir = instant death formula". to my shame, i was temporarily suckered too.

but then it was time to eat, leaving my computer, twitter et al far far away [until the need to jack in on the run via mobile is all consuming]. after a morning of perusing costumers with clare to create the perfect cowgirl, i headed towards the quay in a cab which insisted in stopping for gas preceded by the rhetorical question of "you're not in a hurry are you?" um, yes actually i'm running late for lunch and potentially should be in ambulance being tested for mutating flu strains, hence the taxi over public transport... and still stopping & being charged for the pleasure. aah, sydney cabs...

the overseas passenger terminal is a whole world away however. it promises the mystery of yesteryear, the traditional berth and departure dock for many great ships coming in and out of sydney's harbour. today something akin to the flying dutchman [actually the james craig miraculously restored for 22 million] on cue arrives & the dead have risen again.

despite being mega-late, i'm early at the ocean room & immediately bury my michael jackson [the later years] red stained lips into a bloody mary for alleged restorative powers after a slightly embarassing entrance. if vodka gargling works for the russians, i plan to follow suit. today i plan to drink a lot -- i am in mourning after all. besides i need to paralyse my throat with alcohol so the glands will work & i can swallow.

i've flicked my hair in homage to farrah but it didn't work so well & requires more length so hat is firmly back in place. wearing one glove [i couldn't find the other in the jungle which is my semi-unpacked room] i moonwalk the last leg to the table with billy jean from the cab radio under my breath, promptly tripping over my dangling scarf. entry FAIL. thank god for the most fantastic invention of last century: sunglasses. the staff pretend not to notice.

i decide to stop thinking about dead people, stop planning my own timely funeral & focus on the menu even though i already know before looking what i'm going to have... there are two places in sydney to have superlative salt & pepper prawns and chef raita noda's interpretation is one of them [the other is the malaya]. the salt and five pepper king prawns are extremely addictive and moreish. mmm, the pepper, the salt, the prawns...

i struggle to finish my main today but it's only because my appetite is off & i'm tired. my arms are sore from my failed signature blowwave in a salute to the once pin-up woman who bravely video documented her later battle with cancer in the hope it might benefit others involved in a similar struggle. she had already shaved off her own signature locks by then. i feel for farrah that her death today has been completely overshadowed by michael jackson -- they were both incredible popular culture idols in their own right. as my friend tom said, today is the gen Y JFK question: where were you when michael jackson died?

i drink a couple of glasses of delicious seresin savignon blanc from marlborough, nz, even though i was too young to drink in the pinnacle of both the red swimsuited & one gloved years. i'm certainly not now. what's freaky about michael jackson is that he was fifty when he died. um, how did that happen? i drink more to try to forget.

sometime earlier before our mains arrived we ate california art being tempura battered spicy tuna & salmon california roll with citrus-soy. it's not where i'd normally go but i'm in preproduction for another experimental film and feel i should merge realities more than usual. it's good but i'm not in love [at least not with this dish but that says more about me than the food]. it reminds me of something else however which i have other photos for which i mentally bookmark as a potential blog because it's so awesome, pure and weird i have to share it. maybe tomorrow if i can find the pics before going geisha shopping in chinatown.

the peppered calamari pops however are so much fun i want to play knuckle bones with them and maybe create some kind of manga ad campaign with. they really do pop, are malleable and dry curry salted. frivolously delightful.

jump back forward to mains: my dearest friend, john, is eating the pan seared ocean trout as we share the japanese roasted pumpkin with seeds which is so incredible but suddenly i realise this night meets morning of emotional intensity fused with illness has really taken it out of me more than i gave credit for. it's a chore to take photos & i keep micro-sleeping at the table with a montage of eclectic meets iconic imagery slow-dancing in my scrambled head. john looks concerned and tells me i don't look so well... hot date FAIL. thankfully we're old friends.

what i'm even more concerned about as i consider inserting toothpicks in my eyes piling into the cab en route for a mid avo nana nap, is that i have not done nearly enough justice to the ocean room. hopefully its million dollar views & exquisitely salted signature japanese fusion dishes will speak for themselves.

i'll let the dead: these defining pop culture icons of their day, of this day, have the last word despite most high profile MJ youtube vids having embed request disabled now. RIP farrah fawcett. RIP michael jackson.