Hieronymous the Anonymous

Serene and pretty

We're in the midst of a run of pretty Autumn days. Serene and windless, the skies are blue, crisp to start by midday the air is sun warmed to t-shirt temperature. It's often the way at this time of year. We get all sorts of weather, and have experienced those variations in the last month. Right now it is the best of Autumn, and looks likely to continue for a few days yet.

Yesterday I met with Cheeseboy down at Elwood Beach for a coffee. I was early and walked along the beachside path looking out to sea and towards the city, obscure in the haze. I was passed by sleek women in leggings jogging while listening to a nano strapped to their arm. And pudgy men in shorts walking pudgy dogs. I felt a visitor, out of step with local society in my jeans, but taken with what I saw. How nice would it be to have the beach on your doorstep like this (as I have had in the past), to venture out the front door and to have the sea and the world beyond there before you?

I continued on waiting for Cheeseboy and a couple power-walked by in silence. Their grim determination to power on mutually abstaining conversation seemed bleak to me. I turned around and went back the way I had come. I was meant to bump into Cheeseboy and his kids, but when they failed to appear I wondered momentarily if we had not somehow slipped into different dimensions, invisible to the other. The thought passed, ridiculous as it was, and proved so when the Cheeses emerged.

We had coffee while the kids played in the playground. We talked about the usual things, including my desire to have a baby. That raised an eyebrow. What, you? Well, I conceded, I'll get a woman for that part.

I returned home, I worked, I made Diablo chicken for dinner and got myself organised for my short trip away - tomorrow I go to Byron Bay.

Bob Franklin, Northcote & desire addiction

Headed into the smoke last night to finally catch some Comedy Festival action. As always at this time of year the place was chockablock. While I waited I spotted yet another woman I had once gone out with. I backed into the shadows before she saw me, thinking you've lived too long in the one place when you keep bumping into ex-girlfriends - or had too many ex-girlfriends.

Anyway the yoga teacher arrived, we had a drink and then popped into the Town Hall to see Bob Franklin do his much lauded schtick.

I love Bob Franklin. Love that dry, deadpan humour and sense of the utter ridiculous. He may be a pom, but he's been out here long enough now to be one of the greats I think, a much respected and occasionally revered member of the comedy fraternity.

In this show he channelled an old English actor regaling us in his 'one man show' with tales of his career, most of which are beautiful nonsense, and occasionally borderline defamatory - though I'm sure Bert Newton doesn't mind being accused of being a mass murderer of drifters anymore than Kate Ritchie does being alleged as a coke fiend. It was a great stuff in a small room with an appreciative crowd well represented with people from Northcote.

That seemed a theme for the night - lot's of Northcote people. Of course I don't know if they really are from Northcote, but they had that look - alternative, grungily civilised, wearing duffel coats and quirky glasses, with back gardens full of home grown vegies and definite views on feminism, music and border protection. And, going by last nights experience, comedy.

There were a few more in Hairy Little Sista, where we went for a meal after the show. I'm sympathetic to Northcoters, though we have a different aesthetic. I don't know where I fit in, but it's somewhere more sensual and stylish. Somehow that became much of what was a surprisingly interesting post-show conversation over eggplant chips, saltimbocca and churros.

The yoga teacher and I have been ring-a-ring-a-rosy for a while now. We're friends, though it's hard to categorise our relationship beyond that except to say she is what I think of one of my 'spares' - spares being one of my reasonably numerous female friends I'll go out with occasionally for a drink, a meal, the odd show, etc. Last night she wanted to talk about relationships, a popular topic amongst many women.

I won't go through the ins and outs of our conversation except to say by nights end she had suggested I come to an arrangement with some suitable woman to have my babies; and that she was open to the friends with benefits concept (which I'm not - too formulaic for me).

The other thing was a minor insight that has come to me much too late. Our conversation was frank and honest throughout, and for one of the rare occasions I felt I could speak pretty openly. We discussed sex and one night stands and the difficulty of finding the right person. At one point I was explaining how much I still desired women on a raw, visceral level - and how I couldn't imagine losing that. We were talking about random sex when it occurred to me that what I really craved was that sense of desire. The sex is lovely, but uncoupled from the elements leading to it - the flirtation and seduction, the anticipation, the slow undressing - then it is merely mechanical. That's why booty calls and paid sex don't work. I'm addicted to desire.

Southside

Struggling today. It's not an hour into the working week and I feel like curling up into a ball and falling asleep again. It's days like this I feel most like one of the drones. Given free choice I'd be unconscious to the world. Why must I conform to the routines and schedules of the world? Why is it so unprofitable to be out of step? <End of rant>

I complain about the trials of the weekly schedule, yet I had weekend that conformed to a classic pattern. Pizza and beer for lunch Friday; after work drinks at World bar; then a short trip to St Kilda for vodka and more pizza sitting out doors at the Secret Garden on a balmy evening.

Saturday out early to take Rigby to a vet appointment in Glen Waverley, then the usual, some shopping, a load of washing, the newspapers read before heading out again.

Saturday night was Moonlight Cinema with the yoga teacher. It was a lovely evening. I loaded up with a bottle of bubbles and another of pinot, so cheese, some dips and some of my home made bresaola, then drove to the Botannical Gardens.

There were people everywhere and traffic searching for a place to park. I knew a spot and safely parked in one of the back streets before meeting up with the YT.

It's a great event this, though not necessarily ideal for the close watching of any movie. It was a lovely evening and we joined the crowd streaming into the park and found ourselves a small patch of free ground to spread our rug. There were people everywhere with picnic baskets full of goodies. I reckon at nights end there may have been 600 people or more in attendance.

We sat and drank our bubbles and talked while the sun slowly set over the distant peaks of the city. It was a beautiful scene, the sky blue and the city in the distance through the trees amid all this lush greenery. For some reason I was reminded of the movie Cloverfield, as if about to intrude upon this tranquil scene was some great Godzilla type beast.

Then the sun set. The bats flew overhead in the dying light in ever greater numbers, and then the movie began.

It was The Social Network, a well reviewed movie I enjoyed despite the occasional difficulty in discerning all the action through the outdoor speakers. It was a fascinating story about a fascinating phenomenon. Two things kept running through my mind as I watched it. I felt myself roused to greater aspirations, to do something wonderful or great or just simply big: why limit yourself? Why consider yourself an also ran when you don't even line up at the start?

The other was much more prosaic. I am building an intranet for work and my mind is saturated with it. I've read several books, conducted endless research online, and have completely and thoroughly immersed myself in the subject. I'm becoming a bit of an expert, though I'm a bit over it right now. In any case I have high expectations and am looking to incorporate many of the principles of social networking into my site. And so watching my mind ticked over looking at the beginning of all of this.

Yesterday I had one of my semi-regular massages before catching up with Becky for a drink. We ended up visiting the PA - The Prince Alfred - in Chapel Street, Richmond, re-opened finally after 3 years of doors closed.

The PA used to be one of my favourite drinking holes. I used to live nearby and would often find myself there before, and more often after, a match at the MCG. One of its great features was a beer garden where I spent many an hour with a beer, friends, and a counter meal. It's closure was sad and, I thought, a sign of the times.

That it re-opened then was great news for me. Arriving there yesterday in blazing sunshine we walked through the front bar, not dissimilar to before though a bit more elegant. Out the back there used to be a pavilion I always thought a bit incongruous, around which were arrayed long rustic tables with bench seats. The pavilion is gone now and against the far wall is now a bar.

There are more upmarket tables and sun umbrellas on tile paving. It seems a smaller area than previous, but that may be my imagination. As you would expect on a day like yesterday it was doing good business.

Back in the day the PA was a bit of a student pub - uni students and ex-private school types happy to let their hair down in convivial surroundings. It was laid back, relaxed, you'd often bump into someone and end up chatting about the footy or latest scandal. While I was not exactly of that mileue (though a private choolboy myself) I found it easy to slip into and the vibe easy and welcome to me.

I'm older now and maybe seeing things with older eyes, but while it retains some of the clientele it seems different - maybe it''s the same crowd older and more established? In any case there was a sense of casual affluence. I doubt there was anyone there who did not belong to upper middle class or above. Most of the men were dressed as I was, in shorts and casual shirt, a beer in their hand. Many of the women there wore high-heeled shoes with shorts - a look I hate - and it felt a little too cosy and self-satisfied.

I'm not sure why I should object to this. I fit in seamlessly. By and large I am a lot of what the crowd there represented. I don't know, I guess I just wish it was a little more ragged at the edges. I know people who hate going south of the river because they feel uncomfortable with the general polish (though technically, this is north of the river by about 200 metres). I've never had any problem rubbing shoulders either side of the river, but I am by general upbringing a southerner. It's never meant anything to me, but yesterday I felt it.

I'm sure my assessment is premature. There was nothing objectionable yesterday, and I'm guessing through the week and in footy season it will have all the spontaneiety and general rough and tumble of any good pub. It was okay yesterday, if a bit contrived, a little without soul. It's only been open again a little over a month and guess must find its groove.

A golden glow

It was a warm day yesterday and after work as we do usually we adjourned for a few cooling ales. I left a little after 6 to catch up with a girl on the other side of the city. We had a spicy Thai meal together and then went back to her apartment for a bottle of wine.

It was still light when I came out. The heat came from the ground and the sunlight seemed infused with an extraordinary glow. It was as if the light came from all around, reflecting a golden glow. I walked amongst it with my eyes wide taking it all in. In the street tourists waddled by in their shorts and attractive Asian girls in cotton dresses that hitched up with every step. I turned the corner wondering at all this until I caught up with a friend at a rooftop bar for another drink or two. I made mention of none of this beyond the prosaically obvious what a lovely evening.

Later, when it was dark and I was in a taxi on the way home I thought about the light earlier. It delighted me somehow, as if it was peerfect, as if that is how it is meant to be. I looked out the window at the passing scenery, shops with sale signs in the window, people waiting for trams. I realised that what I had been witness to earlier was like the perfect summer of our memories, where everything is bathed in the golden glow of nostalgia.

We paint those colurs in in retrospect normally - yesterday I was lucky enough to have it for real.

Today it's winter

On the riverfront not far from the office a temporary ice skating rink has been set up. Surrounding it in makeshift stalls you can buy a currywurst or some poffertjes; warm gluhwein is on sale, as are cold German lagers. For the last few days the rink - and Melbourne itself - has been bathed in lovely, Springlike weather. Today it is different. It has rained for most of the day and the upper third of every skyscraper is obscured in a combination of fog and low cloud. It is a classic winters day, lovely if you're warm and out of it, not so pleasant in the open. The ice of the rink needs nothing artificial to keep it frozen, but it will be a hardy soul who ventures out on it today.

This is the weather we are to expect for the next few days, and worse. Tomorrow we aare forecast a dump of rain - just in time for me to return to my old routine walking to work. No matter. It doesn't worry me overmuch. I enjoy the variety even if it is occasionally uncomfortable.

Last Thursday night I ventured out to watch the inaugaral game for the new Melbourne Heart soccer team. Somewhat to my surprise I have become a member. It was a bitterly cold night. I went with Cheeseboy, not long returned from a trip to Holland and Dutch by birth. This was what they call rain cold he said. It was clear, there were few coulds, which in fact account for much of the chill. Rain was remote, but that was not the point. The cold, as he explained, had something wet and clammy in it, a cold that seeped into your bones to which no amount of layered clothing made any difference.

We sat amongst 11,000 other fans in the new AAMI stadium and cheered on our new side whilst trying to get warm. All around us people shivered and clouds of breath billowed into the frosty air. It was a test of endurance, a challenge to remain attentive to the action on the field which, nevertheless, we found occasion to comment upon often. By and large the crowd was subdued, not yet familiar with the new team and the patterns of supporting them that will soon emerge; and locked down by the chill.

Afterwards we all shuffled towards Richmond station. On the exposed and elevated platforms the cold was even worse. Waiting at our platform were two trains to Glen Waverley, but our train was 15 minutes away. We were forced to wait, walking up and down, stamping our feet and cursing that this was the coldest it had been for a long time. Still, the comforts are extra welcome when finally they arrive - when our train finally arrived the warmth of the brightly lit carriage seemed a luxury fit for a king.

All in all there are no complaints. The days pass, cold sometimes, wet others, the fog wreaths the city in mystery and in time the sun will return and before too long we'll be in shorts complaining about the heat. Everything is different, but always comes around. That's one of the things I like best about Melbourne: the ebb and flow of the seasons.

Old friend

I organised to catch-up with Cheeseboy for drinks and dinner last night. I left the office and walked along the river towards Princes Bridge. The go-home crowd still lingered, though much of it had already departed. The sky grew dim with the approaching dusk, and the river wended its way ever so slowly by. I walked by easily, past familiar places and old memories of other times, listening to my music through a pair of my 'winter' cans - big, warm on the ear, crisp and rich to listen.

The music shuffled, one random song and then another, a jangly guitar tune, a 2 minute pop classic, and then some Frankie. I brightened at the Sinatra tune. He's a favourite, part of my life from as early as I can remember, and his songs resonant in so many ways to the man I've become. Last night the song was That's Life, a rollicking, bouncy tune of jaded but defiant attitude. I listened, wanting to join in as I wandered through the crowd at Southbank, and thinking fuck yes that's right at the same line as I do every time, "...Many times I thought of cutting out, but my heart won't buy it..."

I climbed the stairs winding up to street level and waited leaning on the parapet looking out over the river. Cheeseboy came and we had a nice meal Walter's Wine Bar and a 2002 Yering Station Shiraz Viognier that had kept very nicely thank-you and then we were out again.

The city was lit up across the river and the sky dark but clear. There was a sound that at first I thought must be simulated, but sure enough, there was a large duck paddling down the middle of the Yarra leaving a v-shaped wake and insistently quacking. It was surprisingly loud and in a funny way it reminded me of Rigby and his love of attention. The duck seemed grumpy in a way, and didn't care who knew it. In the middle of a city of 4 million people on a cold midwinters night the duck couldn't give a fuck about anything more than it's own concerns. Both Cheeseboy and I smiled triumphantly at it.

This morning I got off the train and walked along the old railway brifge that angles across the river. I don't know what it was, but I felt aware of the landscape much more than I do normally in that half-asleep state heading into work. Across the river the office buildings loomed, a general slate grey colour. That's the colour of Melbourne I thought spontaneously, slate grey and variations of it. In that moment it seemed quite pretty, gradations of shade like charcoal rubbed thin. It was a moment of great affection, of ownership of this place, my hometown, an affectionate familiarity like that in recognising the idiosyncracies and habits of an old and dear friend.

Winter how it used to be

I’ve been walking to and from work for the last 6 months. I enjoy it. It’s a good way to ease into the day and I get some exercise on top of it. In the last couple of weeks I’ve begun to reconsider this. In the last few days particularly Melbourne has been at its most frigid. Every morning I get up to find it has been raining overnight. There are puddles in my driveway, the leaves drip with water and more often than not the sky is clouded over. If I’m unlucky a few drops will fall for nuisance value as I walk into work. On the days that it is fine the temperature plummets. While the sky is a pretty blue the cold stings at the exposed skin of my cheeks. I’ve been wearing woollen gloves and thrusting my hands deep into the pockets of my coat. Often lately it has been windy also, icy blasts that drive the wind chill factor up. By the time I get into work I’m in a state of semi-frost. 

In a way it’s good. The rain is certainly welcome, and even the weather in general has a nostalgic aspect to it. It reminds me of the winter weather we had when I was growing up, at least how I remember it anyway. For the first time in years we seem to have an old fashioned winter – genuinely cold with regular rain and occasional drizzly days like Melbourne was once famous for. 

I’ll keep walking. It’s not snowing yet and for all my complaints I don’t expect it to get that cold (though I look forward to the skiing this season). End of the day it’s good exercise and takes me somewhere different for a while, neither work nor home but somewhere in between, literally.

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• What it means to be a Melburnian (hieronymous.typepad.com)

Love the place you live

In town the other night I walked up Collins Street up towards the Paris end. It was a little after 6, it had become dark and the after work crowd were window shopping or heading off for a drink or, most commonly, on their way home.

I walked up the slight rise past the Athenaeum theatre, past the antiquarian bookshop that’s been there as long as I can remember, and up to the corner where the old Scotch Church stood. Across the road the fancy boutiques glittered, Versace, Tiffany and Louis Vuitton. The traffic went by dimly, the trams coming in or going from the city stopped and started, brightly lit and full of passengers, and the streetlights glowing yellow in the darkness filtered their light through the leaves of the elegant trees lining the street.

I missed this I thought.  If you must work then it really should be in the cbd, wherever you live: that’s where the action is. I missed the comings and goings, the thriving activity of people doing their thing amid the multitude of available choices. So much was familiar that I thought the city, Melbourne, has become imprinted in me. I know it so well, not just the streets and laneways and the arcades that make up so much of the city’s charm, nor the bars and restaurants and the best cafes for coffee, though they too seemed written into my sub-conscious, more than anything it was the feeling I would experience, I thought, even with my eyes closed. It is an aura of grace and style and elegance comingled with a certain intellectual hauteur. It is both easy and laid back and discerning.

Like most Melburnians I love my town. It regularly gets voted the most liveable city in the world, or close to it. True enough I’m sure, but a truer indicator I would guess is that it would be one of the city’s most loved by the people who live within her. It is our own and we love her.

Later I had dinner in a cosy restaurant in Flinders Lane. It was frigidly cold out, and we stopped before a series of restaurants looking to choose one. The restaurant we chose had a fire burning in the grate and a warm, homely feel to it. I sipped my red wine and looked around, everything familiar to me after years of living this same life but in different incarnations. Our conversation touched upon that: look at the men drinking at the bar? They look like boys. I looked and sure enough the men she spoke of dressed in fine suits had the clear skin and innocent eyes of boys. I was one of them once I thought, and commented to that effect to our mutual amusement. I’ve journeyed through life since in this town and away from it, returning always as it changes and remains the same, much as I have done. We have matured together.

We left and it was late. Look she said, it really does look like Paris.

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• Melbourne's bar scene will make your head spin (thestar.com)

Endlessly fascinating Melbourne weather

You can’t beat Melbourne weather. A lot of people would like to, but it goes its own way regardless. Though the climate appears to have changed some in the last few years it still retains its quirky charms. Like most Melburnians I have a grudging affection for it: it’s ours after all, and pretty unique. It’s like a kid whose face is always dirty, his knees are skinned and his shirt perpetually untucked. You may scold him for his untidiness, but end of day you love him for all his individuality.

Once more Melbourne lives up to its reputation for unusual weather patterns. Much of that reputation is founded upon its extreme changeability. Normally the weather  varies not just from day to day, but from one moment to the next – sunshine one minute, rain the next. In an odd sort of way the latest weather quirks belie that, and not just because it hardly ever rains anymore.

What became remarkable for a while was just how consistent the weather became. Until recently the record for consecutive days with a daily high of over 20 was 78; that was broken a while ago, and the new record finally stopped at the weekend at 123 days. That’s pretty good. 123 days in a row of roughly warm and sunny days. Of course there has been some variability in that. Some days topped 40 degrees. As reported elsewhere there have been days of violent storms within that period. By and large though, if we are to measure the mean, most days have been lovely, sunny, clear days with a top somewhere between 23 and 28. Perfecto really.

Like most years the change of season has been pretty marked. Every year the transition from summery autumn to wintry autumn is pretty marked, as if the shades have been turned down. This year it’s been very easy to measure. After 123 days over 20 degrees we’ve had 5 days in row under that. In keeping with past years that’s not the end of it. Every autumn we have a last hurrah: next week we have forecast 5 days over 25.

Melbourne, marvellous innit?

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• Massive Rainstorms Wreak Havoc On Melbourne (brainz.org)

Good Evening

Peter Cook via last.fm

Thursday night was comedy night.

Left work early to get home to feed Rigby and make my way into the city. Met Cheeseboy and had a couple of quick beers sitting on the balcony of the European Bier Cafe. Walked down the road, collected Whisky, and entered the Comedy Theatre.

It’s a nice venue, but the Comedy Theatre is a throwback to a time when people were smaller and less accustomed to comfort. The fold down vinyl seats seem vintage now, and the narrowness means that you are rubbing shoulders with your next door neighbour. Unfortunately that means that when you have a couple of big blokes like Whisky and I sitting together it becomes pretty uncomfortable. I spent half the evening on a tilt towards Cheeseboy on my left, or else with my hands clasped in my lap.

That complaint aside the show was pretty good. It was Shaun Micallef and Stephen Curry reprising some of the great skits of Peter Cook and Dudley Moore. I was very keen to see this from day one, but for most of my friends the names Cook and Moore roused little interest. Their heyday really was in the late sixties to early seventies, an era before culture became ‘popular’ for my generation.

By the time that ‘we’ were following our culture Peter Cook and Dudley Moore had parted ways. Cook remained an unpredictably hilarious figure, tall, thin, silver haired and with a manic glint in his eye. There was something of the air of an unsound genius to him, destined for a troubled end – and so it proved.
By comparison Dudley Moore became everyone’s favourite short, funny Englishman for a while. He graduated to film where he played the role of the slightly befuddled, cuddly Brit to a tee. Always Cook’s sidekick, he became a star in his own right for while, before he too died early.

I remember many years ago purchasing an old fashioned LP of the pair in their Derek and Clive guise. It was a hilarious, deplorable album of comedy. The language was crude and there seemed no boundaries to what they – Cook particularly – might try. I can recall listening to the album and laughing before getting up to turn the volume down lest the neighbours hear this terrible stuff. I would sit and laugh some more before getting up again to turn it down a few more notches, just in case. The Worst Job I Ever Had skit is burned into my memory, and I was sad – though unsurprised – that it was not reprised last night.

Micallef and Curry are a good pairing to play the roles of Cook and Moore. Like Cook Micallef is tall and silver-haired, and while he does not share the slightly shabby, louche aristocratic air of Cook, he resembles an occasionally manic patrician. I think there is some genius in Micallef. He is one of those people you watch waiting for something to laugh at, and it comes easy. He is particularly gifted at physical comedy. His double takes, facial expressions, the odd positions he bends his long body into, the unexpected gestures all  combine to inspire sudden burst of laughter.

Stephen Curry is the contrast, just as Moore was to Cook. He is smaller, more lively, with a quickness that comes from a more earthy, cheeky humour. In the pairing of Cook and Moore, Moore was often the canvas for Cooks inspired and unlikely humour, as much giggling audience as sidekick; and Curry was likewise last night.

It’s not a comedy style everyone will like. I think it’s something you have to grow up with. There is a lot of the ridiculous in this humour. At times it is downright silly. Mostly it works, delightfully so, but some, for me, drags on a little too far. Still it was very enjoyable.  I wonder actually if this is a type of humour that is dying out. It says something about us, and my generation who love this, that we can appreciate this quirky and creative humour. I don’t know if there are any comics today who parlay this humour anymore.

The rest of the night went by for us in a predictable sequence of events. Dinner in a small Chinese restaurant in Chinatown, a Tsing Tao, a bottle of red, a plateful of satays before a whole cooked chicken. Then cocktails at 1806, and a train home just before 12. A good evening.