I remember listening to the Beach Boys singing 'California Girls' when I was a kid and getting all pissed off about it. East coast girls might be this, and girls from the midwest might be that, but what about Aussie girls? What about girls from France, Germany or Italy? Or from Sierre Leone for that matter (elusive but sweet, apparently)?
Last night I caught up for beer and pizza with Cheeseboy and JK at a pizza joint in Barkly street, just around the corner from Acland. We sat outside under the warmth of one of those tall, gas-powered heaters. We drank Italian beer and ate what were very good pizzas, though not cheap. As we sat and talked bullshit a steady stream of people went by, many of them stopping to enter the pizza place to pick up their take-away or to sit inside with a glass of red, a pizza, and a date.
As is my wont I watched these comings and goings, which is when the Beach Boys song came to mind.
With some degree of knowledge I could write about women from different parts of the world. Similarly I could break it down further and split it out by Australian city - each has a different culture and style, and the residents - male and female - reflect that. Melbourne style is reasonably distinctive and well known - black goes well. In general Melbourne women are stylish and often elegant, social, well-read, they take an interest in fashion and very often food, and some go a bit further to become politically committed in some sphere or another - the environment, animal rights, human rights etc. It's a good style.
St Kilda women are a sub-group of that. St Kilda is one of those suburbs that has such a unique style of its own that the decision to live there in the first instance reveals much about the person. St Kilda women share much with their sisters in other parts of the city, but also have the imprint of the suburb they live in. It is many different things perhaps, but can be summarised I think as independence. St Kilda women are, in general, more independent. They are committed to a certain lifestyle, social in large part but tinged with the bohemian. They enjoy life and drink fully from the glass - and there are few places better than St Kilda for that. At the same time they follow their own desires - a little more artistic perhaps, a tad more alternative - and are committed to that. The best of them are 'much woman'.
There are very diverse types of women in St Kilda, and what I have described is not a template but rather a general drift. I watched many go by last night and every one was different. There was one girl sitting in the window of the pizza parlour that JK took to. He pointed her out to me: see the girl in red? I thinks she nice, I like her. I looked over at her. She was young, with a red top on and a skirt flecked with more red. She had dark hair and big eyes and perhaps an innocent air - as if she had not yet fully supped from that cup - a feel almost of a slightly alternative schoolteacher. I nodded my head, she's nice. Throughout dinner JK continued to point her out to me as if each time it was the first, until we urged him finally to do something about it. Not to be - she was with her boyfriend, an earnest and borderline geeky guy who seemed a good type.
Cheeseboy left to join Cheesegirl and so JK headed up Acland street and onto Fitzroy. We went to the George, where a female colleague of JK's had been texting him from all through the night: please come! So we went. As usual there was a good crowd there and a good amount of the aforementioned St Kilda type girls. There were also some different types there, blow-ins from the Grand Prix down the road.
I was only going to stay for one beer but that unsurprisingly became a few more. It was noisy enough that conversation was not easy and I was feeling tired and little sore still from my training session the day before. We met up with JK's friend, A, who had had a couple after attending the Grand Prix practice sessions earlier, and was inclined, as is often the case, to dance or to karaoke - despite there being no music.
At one stage alone I got out my notebook from the little bag I carried with me and, opening it, began to write. I used to carry a notebook like that with me all the time once. It is handy to jot down things you see or hear, or little scenes you might otherwise forget. Last night I wrote about the ambient sound, a steady roar that if listened too hard enough individual sounds - voices, laughter, conversation - could be discerned. Otherwise it was background noise that we hardly noticed. As I wrote I noticed that I was drawing attention to myself.
A had been speaking to a lean guy with a wispy beard and a good head of long blonde hair that he had swept ocer one eye. He wore a t-shirt with a picture of Jesus on it and some legend I can't recall. At the time I thought he had selected that t-shirt because he was a dead-ringer for Jesus himself. I looked up to find both he and A were watching me. I winked an eye or something, feeling myself caught unawares and a little revealed. After a moment the Jesus lookalike spoke to me. "Are you a writer?" he asked me.
What the heck, I thought. "Yeah, I'm a writer," I answered - though I see now I should have corrected him and told him I was a wordsmith. He asked me what I was writing. He was clearly very interested. I put my notebook away and shrugged my shoulders. Not much I told him, just impressions. He nodded his head.
We left soon after. I had met the Gaz's, the Seans, had checked out the St Kilda girls and engaged in conversation with a guy looking like Jesus. I'd drunk enough. We left, JK and I, while A gently swayed to the music the alcohol had made her hear.
We walked home, discussing Danish breasts, the Mens Gallery and all the usual stuff a couple of men with a couple of beers under their belt discuss on balmy St Kilda nights.