fush n chup heaven

being a "kiwi" by birth, fish and chips are my soul food. for instant comfort zone all i need is a hot newsprint package with a hole torn in the side whilst my sticky little greased up fat fingers fight the heat & pungent fumes to oil slick up my greedy mouth and lips.... aaah, heaven. just add tomato sauce and stir.

increasingly it's becoming difficult to actually capture the perfect mix. and as an afficionado of such matters, my experienced taste buds, finicky pseudo vegetarian oil cooking requirements [yes, some people still cook in lard, i've even come across whale fat before] and eye usually baulk at what is on offer in sydney. however there are a few rebel chippies which buck this trend, most notably the original fish and chip co based on glenayr ave on the lazy back streets beyond the shiny hub of the beach itself.

they deliver to puritanical pilgrims like myself fish and chip perfection. it's not until i finish licking the last snail trail of delightfully salted grease from my fingers, like a neanderthal desperately sucking marrow from a bone that i remember something grossly inconvenient. this is deeply considered whilst sculling something artificial and fizzy in a can. the whole reason i'm on a month long sabbatical from alcohol in some unlikely kudos wager [at this time of year] with friend and fellow punk monk ky is that i seem to have mysteriously lost my waistline.

"world famous in bondi" <-- to find the original fish and chip co just follow the sexy skanky sound trail of bob marley wailing out onto the streets from the dim eames lamp-lit interior which cast shadows onto retro aqua blue wallpaper which blanket the red formica tables.

it seems a shame to leave. if only i could stay here for every meal. but then the image of gilbert grape's mother come to mind...

original fish and chip co

163 glenayr ave

bondi beach

symbol of happiness

when wedged between indiscernible shades of grey sometimes anything will do in order to reprogram/ambush the senses. even if it's the ubiquitous red balloon being pimped out by asian girls in matching cheap-ass corporate uniforms for some dull conference even the keynote speaker fails to get excited about.

their injection of colour & irrepressible ability to hunt out the smallest patch of blue sky & float away in a bid for freedom never disappoints.

it's always better to look up than down.

power to the masses

first the fan stopped. actually that's not true. the very first thing is the white organza which floats from my window frame reminding me of my inherent girly coquettishness blew off. romantic chick fail with instant gaussian blur. this was late last night. closely followed by the ripping of garden tarps emulating spinnaker sails in full inflated roar [they were literally flying]. it was a hell of a storm.

i don't know how many people were late to work today because the alarms stayed suspiciously silent. as i spent the best part of 30 mins on hold to energy australia after my bedroom became intolerably stuffy i realised the soft dulcet tones of machines whirring & grinding was coming from downstairs underneath the corner shop's street facing balcony.

thankfully my belated payment of the 866.74AUD power bill was not to blame for the power cut. recently energy australia increased its rates by approx 22% i was informed by the lovely operator voice when querying the bill prior to payment, as i begged for an extension on special extenuating "i am a cripple who sometimes doesn't face mail" grounds. ouch.

earlier this year in march, sydney CBD was subjected to a massive power blackout. basically everything shutdown. it doesn't take much to force everything down to a stuttering halt. the centralisation of utilities in society really disempowers people. where did that expression come from anyway?

still here are the energy peeps as they attend to this mass outage which apparently effects several blocks in alexandria. the corner shop is at the epicenter. i watch & talk to the workers as they winch up new thick insulated lines which circle the block before they prepare to remove the old lines [which can't cope with interference from trees - PS. they were there first]. i'm glad my money went towards a nice winch. also the truck is shiny with a crane et al which pleases me. i take pleasure from it like an avid richard scarry reader.

noone knows the exact nature or cause of the blackout from which i am briefly delivered from & scurry like the blog junkie i am to upload mobile pics before quickly protecting computer equipment from surge. it's a mystery they say. electricity is still not an exact science it seems. tell that to thomas edison & nikola tesla.

yesterday we had our usual punk monk monday night meet and although electrons fly & burst to meet the wild charged creative sea which crashes asunder i don't think it was that. perhaps those post 21st tarpaulins generated enough energy of their own to counter the fried toxic lines which pass within a metre of our building? turning our back on the grid of enslavement we could have sailed to hobart by now with the wind in our sails.

today is for renewal, something power companies only pay lip service to despite my opted into green power bill investment. i am a pure energy premium customer/sucker in a valiant bid to passively invest and encourage others to send a tangible message to the corporations who hijack us on days like these. i don't need to wear a bikini to promote climate change but perhaps if i did it would attract attention [my skin glows in the dark]. instead they use my extra cash to mine more coal.

it's a good day to shut down the computer & sow some seeds.

testing realities

customs house in circular quay might seem to be an odd place in sydney to see an exhibition. punk monks certainly frequent the inner west locale more often in pursuit of underground subversion/expression. we think art on the city's harbour foreshore, we think MCA. usually [except for free lunches] i leave the quay to the tourists. sometimes it's not till you play tourist in your own city that new discoveries, which are old, are made...

multiple displays whilst executing apparent clinical perfection [this need not be negative] can be seen right now with views of sydney to die for in heritage landmark surrounds. customs house has witnessed immense trade over three centuries being historically the sandstoned vehicle which brought people and goods together. now it continues this tradition in another guise.

with free admission, exhibitions cover three levels including the ground with events including the upcoming ferrero festival of light covering the exterior forecourt on upwards through to the first [nocturnal photography by peter solness] & second levels [remodelling architecture: architectural places - digital spaces].

leading up from ground level [testing reality: the architect and the model] i was led like a kid in wonder through the white walled labyrinth past the classic eames chairs jacked into the building wide free interwebs & made a pact with myself not to be such a stranger in future & to allow all cultural realities to blend. we have access. we have motive. we own this city.

haiku: screwy ninja suit

screwy ninja suit

my precious seeking gollum

love you real long time

open your mind [shut for business]

meet rozelle mental hospital otherwise known as callan park.

in a couple of weeks time punk monk propaganda will take over this abandoned space with a select group of experimental artists to bring the old girl back to life in the guise of a series of video installations as part of the multiple personalities exhibition in conjunction with leichardt council.

in the meantime since this healthcare facility [which oozes "one who flew over the cuckoo's nest" sensibility] closed a large section of the community who call this a home away from home are displaced.

wandering around the shell it's grossly apparent that home really is where the heart is. no matter how soul-less this environment appears to be, it is steeped in sadness and emotionally tangible history and the ghosts of christmas past. there are still traces of many stories to be told here. some which may wish to be forgotten. others desperately vying for attention. ward 17 is the legendary haunted piano ward...

join us in december for an altogether different flavour from santa's sack where we experiment with historical imprints in geographical space & bring mythology into the present. the shadows do speak.

[pix by punk monk felix]

delicious deco delight

rockpool bar & grill... 1930's style shouldn't be compromised by 21st century rhetoric. let the pictures impart the heritage style with a classic neil perry flavoured twist.

bunny killers

i became a vegetarian when i was twelve years old before experimenting with veganism on & off. my motives were strongly philosophical at the time rooted in a deep respect for all animal lifeforms & planetary symbiosis. over the years my politics have evolved then devolved at convenience but i've not eaten a creature from the land since. i still stand true to the overriding ethos of vegetarianism despite my fall from puritanical grace.

from time to time for a couple of decades now i eat seafood which was spawned from incredible cravings when my vegan pregnant self started experiencing uncontrollable oyster cravings. it was the zinc deficiency which got me in the end. if anyone has been around a pregnant woman in deep set craving mode you know to a/get out of her way and b/go procure current object of obsession forthwith. i never looked back & slowly fell down the slippery slide.

these photos above are of my mother with her grandparents in the early 1950s. two year olds with guns... they don't make them like that anymore. or perhaps they do. just not around here. i guess this must be pre-barbie who wasn't released by mattel until 1959. a good seven years too late for my mother. what can a girl do instead but dress up dead bunnies?

although this seems a gross separation from my reality in fact it is not so. only last week i carried a still pulsing rabbit off the country roads which i had inadvertently hit. the residual clumped guts still stain my washed shorts as its innards spilled over my legs as i wailed to the sky, tears streaming for my murderous role. we gently carried it to the grass in the darkness, measured its pulse & between the two of us in the car stroked it gently before breaking the neck [it took a while to work out how to do it].

needless to say i forgot to pose for a photo.

slushy cocktails for everyone!

raen's 21st. the day after... the clean-up stole my words [but now we have matching pirate tattoos -- arr, arr, arr].

little red riding book

in the world today all culture, all literature and art belong to definite classes and are geared to definite political lines. there is in fact no such thing as art for art's sake, art that stands above classes, art that is detached from or independent of politics. proletarian literature and art are part of the whole proletarian revolutionary cause; they are as lenin said, cogs and wheels in the whole revolutionary machine. - mao zedong [tse tung], 1942

"before you can fly. you have to be free"...

last week i finally saw mao's last dancer. or the li cunxin story.

as an ardent admirer of bruce beresford's work [breaker morant, driving miss daisy] i arrived with shining eyes & dickin's-like great expectation. while the story did deliver in epic human proportions it left me cold & flat despite the calculated beauty & craftsmanship. the dancing [chi cao], the music are unquestionably beautiful. in a word; breath-taking. however i was unsold.

the film felt like an inferior rendition of mao's little red book, a piece of contrived propaganda which condemned the chinese government but then served as a fabled artifice to elevate western principles specifically the US in contrast. all i could think of was that it became what it most sought to separate itself from. the chairman's words haunted me. with a washington accent.

for those not familiar with the successful autobiography of li cunxin, mao's last dancer is a powerful story of an impoverished chinese boy working his tiny toned ass off against all odds in a harsh communist regime buoyed by the love of his parents to become one of the most accomplished ballet dancers in the world. after being headhunted by the houston ballet on a scholarship he eventually defected to the US under dramatic headline grabbing circumstances.

fade to black, back to screen: li cunxin now becomes a capitalist pig, ditches bare-boned morals & humility along with loving american wife who helped secure him legal course to stay in the country. consumed by his need to dance & be centre stage he wins another blonde ballerina who is obviously even prettier than the last. this is how it works in movies. behold the manifestation of the consumerist american dream. PS. li cunxin is now a stockbroker. an east meets west success story.

where had the money come from & who was the intended audience of this film? was bruce selling out to the americans... i mean why were li cunxin's parent's on stage so long for? was that a political commentary, accurate depiction of real events or merely a deliberate ploy to stage emotional overkill with a less than subtle audience. not quite hollywood but close enough.

i felt a stabbing pain but not as a result of the filmmaker's intention. did the houston ballet fund this film... funnily enough li cunxin was greatly involved in an EP capacity sourcing funding [his company financed the film] and "coincidentally" the americans love the political simplicity. like taking candy from a baby.

billy elliot leaves the big bad iron scarlet curtain wolf & discovers freedom, blonde chicks, hot dogs & defects. only in america. land of the free. shame elton wasn't around for the soundtrack. although christopher gordon's soundtrack is wholly brilliant. not quite guoyue but i'm sure mao would approve.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/oldtasty/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

back alley swish

what i love about a really good restaurant sans shine far far away from the fray is like a shared secret they are passed from one special friend to another. this is how i was introduced to sydney madang, hidden like a trove of treasure clustered amongst the vertical skyline in an overlooked alley off pitt st in the middle of the CBD. and so it is passed on.

nestled right under the nose of the city akin to its authentic seoul counterparts where the complimentary pan chan juxtaposes the soft urined concrete surrounds humbly scattered with real life practicalities of bins & waiting stools with such an injection of colour, texture & flavour that the urban air blend is perfect. just dirty enough. more kim chi?

after ordering the requisite local beer, hite, which looks eerily like the brewery has multiple products reaching into the oral hygiene market with a one size fits all branding campaign [gotta love the gagging for a wide mouthed smile stripe & changeable temperature indicator icon in cool minty blue].

next up is the serious business of food ordering & there is no possible way we are going past the seafood & vegetable with udon shabu shabu. thankfully we are an easily convinced two but a third could easily be accommodated with the feast that ensues. the gas barbecue is ritualistically delivered & turned on. then efficiently replaced when it runs out of steam...

there's no going back now as the plates of food arrive: 1 x vegetables & several asian varieties of mushrooms [hi ron], 1 x plate of seafood [mussels, octopus, calamari, scallops, prawns] and 1x dish of udon with fresh shallots to pile in at the end.

this is interactive dining at its best. we tong ingredients in a swish swish [literal japanese translation of shabu shabu which describes the mix action] motion with wonder into the broth as we salivate in anticipation of what comes next. once the glass noodles are clear the pace whips into a frenzy as the melting hotpot of goodness permeates to die for edible smoke [now with extra spice]. at 53.00 AUD this dish is sublime decadence & extremely good value for shared food [we don't quite finish it but loosen belts trying].

we finish by cleaning our teeth on another bottle of beer leaving the comfort of the back streets to sparkle & shine our pearly [w]hites back out amongst the bustle. if the neon signs were in kanji/hanja i could almost believe we're not in sydney anymore dorothy.

sydney madang restaurant

371A pitt st

sydney

+61 [02] 9264 7020

aussie's holy grail...

the cup, the melbourne fucking cup. the much flaunted highly hocked chalice of equestrian dreams & extremely bad hat days... why hello ganymedes.

i already loathed it as an institution but this year not only did i buy into the mass consumption of drinking way too much champagne in a paddo pub & having "a little flutter" thereby hypocritically supporting the brutal national tradition of RSPCA listed horse-beating midgets with short man syndrome who stop the nation, i got so plastered i lost someone else's keys.

who knew car keys could be so designer, even more so than a david jones top shelf ornate fancier? once the final tally is totalled it looks like it was quite an expensive day out. i'm not alone, but happily surrounded by a national league of losers.

malaysian magnate, datuk tan chin nam whose horse "viewed" won last year had three horses run and lose all in the same race. overpriced cat food anyone? but wait there's more: a record 95.6 million AUD was bet just in the states of NSW and victoria. the winners apart from "shocking" were the bookies as they didn't have to shell out on favourites. drink more, the answer really does lie at the bottom of the glass, err cup.

why did i fall off the pedastal & succumb i can't say... there was a combination of factors but mostly it was just an excuse to drink. for a corner shop dwellers tête-à-tête, to do a little bashing of my own. my liver needed to be firmly put back in its place. as a writer who takes such a challenge very seriously it's hard to resist such an invitation even if it hinges on flagrantly crossing certain ideologies. justification buys a lifeline of grey shades when push comes to shove. morals for sale, going cheap... champagne for everyone!

but that was a long time after i was suddenly overcome by a desire to don red garb; a T shirt, a cap [see bad hat day] maybe AND to fly, fly away & discover. somewhere else... apparently dubai is very nice at this time of year. what? maybe it was the copious amount of imbibed buoyant bubbles but was i seeing right?

the "emirates melbourne cup" had been won & placed by every horse i didn't bet on & that this strange cheshire smiling catwoman with her shady veil & uniformly fixed cheekbones behind the premier or whoever at the lectern was sending me subliminal messages to go put my money into some oil baron's travel fund [like middle eastern royal families really need it].

how terribly australian. sustainable ethos? not much. act local, think global just fell out a 12,500 metres and climbing window. is it so politically incorrect of me to ask: why is the most profile australian event sponsored by a major saudi arabian company? i know they breed beautiful horses but, but... surely someone else in town had some dosh. as stevie said: "where is dick smith when you need him?" perhaps mr chin nam saw pigs hanging with horses on the flight over.

in the end i guess what keeps the holier than holy horse chase australian is our competitive traditionalist approach to races. in fact any kind of racing will do... especially if it involves alcohol. this more than anything is a sure bet. regardless, i'll save my sanctioned eighteen crop strikes per minute for later. there might be some lucky boy out there who might actually appreciate them. it would seem they're quite capable of racing without. shocking that is not.

nappies - a retrospective

this is me with my mother a long time ago when instead of bleaching hair, crisp white sanitised nappies were de rigueur. at least in my world.

last night i saw this photo for the first time. it's almost a faded bastion of a lost world. it was given to my daughter as a series of family portraits for her coming of age. it's official yet simultaneously surreal, raen miro is now a woman in the eyes of society & so the commencement of the handing down of family heirlooms/bric a brac begins. the traditions are passed, stories are told & shared.

when she was an infant, we too floated in a framed sea of freshly washed nappies which flapped wildly in the wind permeating their happy apple cider vapours into the breeze on the line at the little house i bought when still wet behind the ears at university with her dad, before we parted ways a year later. that is where i gave birth to her after hiding up a hedge seeking to divert the inevitable after being in labour for the longest time because i didn't want to push. eventually i was coaxed down & the rest is history. twenty one years ago yesterday.

i can still smell the vinegar warmly whitened by the sun's deep caress.