As I wandered home today, I reflected briefly on the sorely-missed Hopetoun Hotel. It must be four or five years now, or maybe longer, since it closed. What was once a vibrant live music venue, has remained empty ever since. Without use and maintenance, you can imagine the lovely old building is starting to decay. Hopefully one day it will re-open in another form. I mean, we’re in desperate need of some more wine bars and coffee shops in Surry Hills.
A friend of mine has been dealing with a lot of currency today. He’s going to Sweden on the weekend and went to the bank early to get some Swedish currency. Roughly $1000.
At about the same time, he got a call from a real estate agent to confirm the bid he and a friend had made on an apartment had been accepted, and as the process for a sale, they asked if he could make a $1000 payment (or something like that). “You should have asked if you could pay in kronor?”, I joked.
After a slightly crazy day at work I didn’t feel much like Swedish class tonight. Chatting about Swedish currency and watching some of Robyn on Youtube tonight went part of the way to assuage my guilt, I guess.
Oh yeah, and Robyn is coming back to Australia. How cool is that? I saw her perform live in Sydney in 2007, and it was honestly one of the best live shows I’ve seen. She writes and performs great pop songs with heart-breaking lyrics. In the midst of joyful tunes are sad, sad lyrics. She’s a little ABBA-esque in that regard. I guess. Happy songs, but tragic lyrics…
Take for example her song “Dancing On My Own…”, one of those classic, plaintive broken hearted love songs against a disco beat…
I’m in the corner, watching you kiss her (Oh, oh, oh)
I’m right over here, why can’t you see me (Oh, oh, oh)
I’m givin’ it my all, but I’m not the girl you’re takin’ home (Ooh, ooh, ooh)
I keep dancin’ on my own (I keep dancin’ on my own)
And this one… from her song “Cry When You Get Older”…
Hey girl in the strobing light what your mama never told ya
Cause love hurts when you do it right you can cry when you get older
Young boy by the traffic light what your daddy never told ya
cause love hurts when you do it right you can cry when you get older
What a great line… “love hurts when you do it right”.
The song which opens her latest EP, BodyTalk, though, and which had the most impact on me first of all was “Don’t Fucking Tell Me What To Do”.
The song opens with what sounds like an AA-admission…
My drinking is killing me
My drinking is killing me
My drinking is killing me
My drinking is killing me
My drinking is killing me
My drinking is killing me
My drinking is killing me
My drinking is killing me
My drinking is killing me
My drinking is killing me
My drinking is killing me
My drinking is killing me
My drinking is killing me
My drinking is killing me
My drinking is killing me
She then goes on to talk about the other things which are “killing” her, including smoking, diet, shopping, ego, email, nagging, PMS etc… until finally she declares…
Don’t fucking tell me what to do, do!
Don’t fucking tell me what to do, do, do, do, do!
Don’t fucking tell me what to do!
Don’t fucking tell me what to do, do!
Don’t fucking tell me what to do, do!
Don’t fucking tell me what to do!
Don’t fucking tell me what to do!
Don’t fucking tell me what to do!
Don’t fucking tell me what to do!
I am soooo excited she’s coming back to Australia. All I’ve seen advertised so far is a musical festival on November 27, though HOPEFULLY, she’ll do some intimate venues as in 2007.
A bit of Robyn and all of the stress and strain of the day was forgotten.
Towards the end of the regular Wednesday night at the pub my friend asked me if there’s anything he could bring me back from Sweden. After saying “a boyfriend”, I concluded I’d like a couple of Swedish newspapers. “Nothing too complicated”, I told him, “I’m not looking for a Svenska Dagbladet or anything… I’d be happy with a Aftonbladet or a Metro”. As much as it’s terrific to read the papers online, there’s something kinda intimate and lovely about reading a real newspaper also.
“After four years at art school, and that’s the best they can do? It’s outrageous”, my friend said tonight as we commented on one of the works on display at the National Art School’s annual exhibition in Sydney. My other friend was a little more comfortable with the work. “I think it’s possibly one of the best works here”, she said. I was a little more sanguine about it all. I just thought it was slightly funny. We were all talking about the work “Focal Point” which consisted of just a couple of dots on an empty white wall.
Though we talked about this work. We were all much more impressed by the work “Burton Street” which consisted of a series of drawings, and a video. “It was only $700 for a terrific work”, we all noticed, and we all commented to other people we chatted to tonight. A lovely work, demonstrating really great craft skills, we all agreed.
I also really liked the work which consisted of a video and hundreds and hundreds of crushed egg shells. One of my friends knew the artist, Pamela Leung. “It took her two years to collect the eggs”, I learned. It’s a lovely, joyous work, and worth checking out.
I recently made the decision to sponsor another child and received a package in the mail tonight from Childfund Australia, confirming details of my new “sponsor child”, Nancy. For the last six or seven years, I’ve been sponsoring a young boy in Ethiopia, called Nureden. He’s almost twelve now, and although I don’t know him in the way you’re “supposed to know sponsor children” (aside from the occasional updates on his progress), I certainly feel a strong commitment to maintain monthly payments to support him and his family… because I can afford to.
Unfortunately I sense amongst some people in Australia a degree of cynicism about child sponsorship. At the heart of this cynicism are concerns some of the money is wasted along the way and that the idea of child sponsorship is inherently paternalistic. In his song September 10, Eddie Perfect (who I really like), also offers the idea child sponsorship somehow “picks winners” while condemning others. And yes, there are probably other organisations which may do a better job in assisting communities. But even if all those issues are true, I still think it’s great there are schemes like the one offered by Childfund Australia, where people like myself can do something to help families and communities in need. Yes, I know I could hop on a plane and go to Africa and be “hands on”, but I don’t know if I’d be very good at that, and I’m not sure how much help I could actually be.
In the meantime, I have a well paid job and I live in a wealthy country which, by and large, looks after its people well. As I don’t have children of my own (and no, this is not some kind of child replacement therapy for myself), I can afford the $70 per month it costs to provide support to the families of these two young children. I also give money, by the way, to Medicins Sans Frontieres, which I think does a terrific job in providing volunteer medical assistance to people in many needy countries.
In the grand scheme of things, $25-30 per week, is a small percentage of my income, which I’d probably otherwise waste on useless crap I don’t need. It’s a no-brainer, really.
“I hate those f***ing bikes,” a random bloke recently told me after I witnessed him push one over, not far from home. It was one of those hire bikes which have become popular in most Australian cities, and in particular, in my part of Sydney.
While I’d never actually push one over myself, I get where that anger comes from.
The rise of hire bikes and the proliferation of delivery riders on both bicycles and electric or motorbikes have brought about significant shifts in our cities, and we probably haven’t arrived at the right equilibrium,
One of the things that really grinds my gears is the apparent disregard for road rules. I’ve had more close calls than I can count with cyclists speeding along footpaths or just going straight through pedestrian crossings. I’ve had a few instances where I’ve almost been knocked over because cyclists or home delivery riders have just barreled through.
It’s that feeling that riders don’t seem to have any sense of road rules or footpath rules that really gets to me, especially when you feel vulnerable, like when you’re just trying to walk down the street. And for me, as someone with a physical disability, I need to take things a little more slowly, and keep a closer eye out for what’s happening around me. When someone comes quickly in front of me, or too closeby, I run the risk of losing my balance.
Footpaths have been widened, and parking options have been limited, and that directly impacts residents and other road users. Personally, that doesn’t worry me so much, in fact, as a pedestrian I think it’s a good thing, but I can understand why some people feel the anger they do.
On a more personal level, one thing that really frustrates me is that hire bikes are often just left in the middle of footpaths, creating huge obstacles. When I was getting around in a wheelchair, these often thoughtlessly placed bikes could turn a simple trip into a frustrating ordeal.
And don’t even get me started on what they’ve done to our restaurants. Sure, when COVID first hit, those delivery riders were a lifeline, helping keep businesses open when no one could go out.
But now, as things have gone back to normal, I really hate what they’ve done to our restaurants. Places that used to be buzzing with people now often have just a handful of patrons.
It feels like the rise of delivery apps has, for some, contributed to a decline in people dining out, and it’s really changed the vibe of our local eateries. I often find myself wishing people would get up a go to their local restaurant instead of ordering take away.
I totally understand why they do, especially during winter when it’s cold. When I was largely using a wheelchair, I would often order it myself.
For the restaurants too, I’ve often found myself dining alone, and the only other people who come in are food delivery riders. Last night, while negotiating my way into the nearby Indian, a driver in a hurry came in quickly, almost knocked me over, and then left the door open, letting in the cold night air, much to the annoyance of the patrons.
I totally understand and appreciate the food delivery riders are probably being paid only a tiny salary, and their need for speed derives from the fact they need to do as many deliveries as possible to make a living. But I also wish the riders would slow down a bit and be a little less eratic when they ride and drive around my area.
Like every change, it takes time for things to settle down, and I think that’s likely what’s happening now: we haven’t quite found the new equilibrium.
‘My leg has fallen off,’ I told a colleague yesterday when she asked about my activities in the foyer at work. I was seated “reattaching” my prosthetic leg which had come loose.
The connection between my actual leg and my prosthetic relies on a latex sleeve and a bolt. Somehow, the bolt had come loose. Initially puzzled by the difficulty I had in fitting my leg into the prosthetic, it only became clear after I detached my leg and reattached the bolt. Should I call it minor surgery?
Yesterday marked a significant day in my rehabilitation as I embarked on my first ‘training session’ for participating in this year’s ‘Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras’ with the ABC float. While I’ve marched several times previously, this will be my first year with a prosthetic limb.
Is the distance too daunting? How will I tackle the hills? Is it too soon after the amputation to undertake such a physically demanding endeavor? These concerns surfaced when discussing it with my physiotherapist, who, encouragingly, deemed it a realistic goal with some extra gym work to enhance strength and a couple of trial runs.
Waking up yesterday, I wasn’t confident about our initial test run from Hyde Park to the Captain Cook Hotel. The route spans 1.7 km, featuring hills and uneven sections of roadside and footpath. Doubts crept in, but I decided to stick to the plan we had devised. There’s nothing to lose, I concluded.
To my surprise, I completed the parade route in about 30 minutes, maintaining a pace sufficient to keep up with the group and feeling remarkably un-fatigued. It was only when we returned to Taylor Square to catch the bus home that I started to slow down a bit.
We have a few more test runs scheduled before Mardi Gras, but at the moment, I’m feeling confident in my ability to meet the challenge. The only lingering concern for the night revolves around the possibility of it being too hot and humid on the night.
I had every plan of watching a fair bit of television tonight, but somehow the only thing I managed to watch properly was the Oprah in Australia special on Channel 10.
It was another monstrously busy day at work, and then after heading over to visit my friend who has been in hospital, my plan was to come home, sit quietly and watch a fair bit of television.
After all of the hype of the last few months, how could I NOT watch Oprah? Although I missed last night’s episode, and probably won’t see tomorrow night’s either, I was determined to watch a least one episode.
“How was it?”, my friend asked as we chatted on the phone later in the evening. “It was actually pretty good”, I told her. I really like the way Oprah seems genuinely committed to bringing a little magic into people’s lives, and how she never forgets her impoverished roots. I raised my eyes at the yoga on the beach at Byron Bay scene, but that’s all because of my own personal North Coast “baggage” more than anything to do with the program. Otherwise, it was quite an interesting program, the scenery looked great, I definitely decided I must go and see those penguins near Melbourne some time, and boy did Oprah look pissed off when the chopper ran out of fuel when she was atop the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
My friend and I then got into a chat about Oprah and the nature of her relationship with her friend Gayle, which is often speculated to have certain Sapphic qualities. “What’s happened to the husband – Stedman?”, my friend asked. “Oh, I don’t know, although I don’t think he’s been around for a while”.
We then got into a discussion about the sexuality of tennis players currently in the Australian Open. Sam Stosur? Really. Allegedly, of course. Henri Leconte? What? But hasn’t he had three wives and four children? Hang on, they keep describing him in newspaper articles as flamboyant I noted.
Anyway, Oprah was the only show on television I managed to watch all the way through.
I was looking forward to seeing Keanu Reeves on Graham Norton, as I’ve long thought he was quite attractive. In fact, my ex and I had a discussion once that we would have an open relationship if Keanu was part of the equation. Not sure about the acting, though I loved The Matrix, but definitely cute. But guess what? Keanu was quite boring and I fell asleep watching the show, even though I quite love the program.
Sophisticated conversations, eh? Must check the biorhythms. Intellectually strong but physically and emotionally weak. Sounds right.
At the end of the night, I’ve managed to add significantly to the number of recordings on the PVR and on my computer that “I must get around to watching”. I don’t have much planned for the weekend – except taking delivery of a new washing machine – so I’ll make another attempt at watching a bit of television then.
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Hope for Hopetoun – I am trying to locate the owners of the old girl with a concept for a fabulous re-birth. Is anyone able to help me locate the owners? I have a great idea along the lines mentioned. Everyone will love it! Cheers!
Good luck with it Ian.