FOUR MONTHS???

Has it really been four months since I last wrote on this thing?? Outrageous! Let’s see, what’s been going on since the last time I plonked my musings on display…

Went For An Ekka Show Day Surf At Happy Valley, Caloundra - 12 August

Solo effort, and the surf was bigger than a big Big Thing...... well, for someone at my level, anyway. Anything taller than my shoulders and longer than a bus qualifies as big, right? Thought you’d agree. Paddled for 30 minutes+ to get out past the break, getting thumped all the way. Arms very nearly decided to stage a revolt against the madman giving the orders upstairs. Didn’t catch a single wave. Realised it was time to go in when the gun surfer next to me got utterly pole-axed by the same wave that angrily devoured me and his board popped up next to my head, snapped in two. Beat a tactical retreat to shore via cowardly “dump board and swim for it” manoeuvres. Photo of what it was like provided (Author's Note: size of wave may not be exact representation of actual proportions on the day).

Weekend of Snowboarding in New Zealand - 14 - 17 August
The great thing about discovering you’re completely physically incapable of something like snowboarding is that you can remove it from that annoying list of Things You Must Achieve Proficiency In Before Dying and avoid the stress of striving for yet another less-than-essential leisure skill. Went to Christchurch to ski Mt Hutt over a weekend with Matty P and his chum Andy. The lads had fun. I was utter rubbish. Two 1-hour+ lessons and I couldn’t make it down the green run in under an hour.

Good stopover in a tremendous country pub on the way back to Christchurch from the slopes though. Plus we got a superb racist diatribe from the first Kiwis we met in Christchurch (just wanted to congratulate us on the job we’d done on the Aborigines in Oz – you stay classy, Christchurch). Had a wee return flight debacle involving a bump-off, sleep deprivation, an overnight stay in Wellington (naturally), fantastic Cuban coffee, the stonking TePapa museum, a viewing of Peter Jackson's "District 9" at the local cinema, a severe conversation drought (caused by aforementioned sleep deprivation) and, finally, our bedraggled return to Brisbane.

My 35th Birthday - 28 August

Celebrated moving into a brand-new age bracket by walking into the new flat we’d just signed the lease on to find it filthier than a Formula One boss’s home videos. Birthday was spent scrubbing surfaces and quietly singing Yazz and the Plastic Population’s “The Only Way Is Up” to myself when no-one was around.

My Sister’s Wedding - 12 September
My beautiful sis Donna tied the proverbial with her beau Clinton in a charming little ceremony in Woolloongabba, followed by a spiffy reception at Mirra in the Valley while Riverfire got all sparkly’n’boisterous outside. Highlight (apart from the obvious things) was my wee neice Ava getting the gee-willikers scared out of her by the F-111 dump-n-burn and then earnestly telling everyone throughout the night that the plane had been “LOOOUUUD”. How good is it seeing memories that will last a lifetime created right in front of you, ey?! Ooo, and big plug coming up - Sharon Pappas (http://www.sharonpappas.com.au/) did the photography. Tremendous photies. Get on board. She rocks.

Went Camping at Caloundra - 18 - 20 September
Camped. Surfed. Was having a grand old time. Then my tailbone got a truly delightful thumping coming off my board in the shallows at speed. Stood there doubled over for a good 20 minutes wondering if anyone would notice me coming into work on Monday with a Zimmer frame and an inflatable donut ring. Came home to find bike stolen out of garage. Decided to remove this particular weekend from the calendar completely next year. Obviously doesn't suit me.

Boogied On Down At The Sounds of Spring Festival - 26 September

Wicked tunes playing from intimate, tree-shaded stages. Cops clustered around the big screens showing the live AFL Grand Final instead of working. Drunk punters vigorously scrounging for empty cans to cash in at the bar for a freebie. Brisbane's second dust storm making things look eerie and feel gritty. Not in that fashionable urban way either. But still kind of cool. Saw Root (with one of TISM's ex-band members as lead vocalist) plus bits of Shonen Knife, Butterfingers, Living End, Frenzal Rhomb, Children Collide and others. And the obligatory hilarious public transport trip home surrounded by fellow festival-goers in various states of inebriation, exhaustion, come-downs or plain ol’ tired’n’emotional funkage. Not a bad festival experience.

Mexican Party At Our New Place

Had another party at our new place, this time with an el Mexicano flavour. Somehow took it upon myself to perform magic tricks, like making a bottle of vodka's contents vanish into thin air without any conscious thought on my part. Am still meeting people who, when I introduce myself, give me "that" look and tell me they met me at my Mexican Party. Yeahhhhhhhh, haven't lost the touch, me.

Informal Longreach High School Reunion At The Ship Inn

Some looked the same, some looked different, some I wouldn’t have recognised if they’d rocked up with the exact same perm and/or short shorts they used to rock back in the day. Large amounts of loudmouth soup were consumed. Reminiscing was undertaken. Marvelling at the changes in each other completed. Slideshow of photos from high school days confirmed that the 80’s were, as suspected, the Decade That Style Forgot. Generation Y, pull your head in.

Straddie Weekend for Island Vibes Festival - 29 to 31 October

Got to Straddie and set up for long weekend at the big house Sarah’s friends had rented on the hill above Cylinder Beach. Relaxed. Munched. Drank. Surfed. Attended the blues / roots / ska / dub / reggae festival on Saturday (nice, chilled-out, funky, small enough to navigate and friendly – get there next year if you can). Avoided getting snacked by any lurking 5-metre white pointers with too much press coverage while surfing. Spotted numerous whales, and even more kombi vans. Not to mention white-collar architect types with carefully-maintained dreadlocks and tie-dyed weekend attire.

Tried surfing twice at Main Beach, only to be given The Big Whatever each time by King Neptune and his hired goons, Wavey McDumpalot and Mr. Rip. Managed to snap garage key off in garage rollerdoor lock prior to game of beach Frisbee football. Anger didn’t increase sand-sprinting stamina one iota. Luckily, the bodysurfing session after our exertions was tremendous. Apart from the drunk dude who infiltrated our group, demanding the Frisbee and splashing those who didn’t cough up the goods on demand. Less than tremendous. Good opportunity to work on my Dealing With Difficult People skills, though.

Les Claypool Concert, The Tivoli - 1 December

Rubber masks, strange instruments, eerie lighting and a bass guitar virtuoso…. but too short.

Yowza. First time I’ve seen the ex-Primus lead singer and mind-bogglingly talented bass guitar wunderkind live. Decked out in a natty Victorian-era-vest-and-bowler-hat combo, and with a backing band consisting of a cellist, drummer and a multi-percussionist/jazz xylophonist all clad in tuxedos and identical rubber masks, Claypool definitely brought the weird.

I’m not that au fait with Claypool’s solo stuff, but anyone in the average-sized crowd could tell the majority of the punters were there to see Claypool unleash some old-school Primus – the few times he teased the crowd with a few bars, or when he re-appeared on stage midway through the set wearing the Mr Kringle pig-mask and carrying his electic double bass, the crowd amped up like someone had just told them they were all getting free booze at the end of the show.

Alas, no Primus was forthcoming. And apart from one of the most amazing drum solo/two-drummers-call-and-repeat sessions I’ve ever seen and some wicked solos from each of the band members, the set never seemed to reach a crescendo. There were other exceptions – a few sing-along funky rhythm gems, and Claypool’s other “costume change” that saw him re-emerge from the shadows wearing an ape mask, loping about like a chimp, mugging to the audience and playing one blistering song on a single-string bass instrument with a pull-down handle at the top (no idea what it's called) was utterly bizarre and grinningly fantastic at the same time. But the set was too short, and ended after one encore, leaving everyone confused and milling about like gobies in a fish tank.

But the atmosphere Claypool created was just like that solitary monkey-mask song – weird, twisted, off-kilter, funky, rhythmic, dark yet very whimsical and tongue-in-cheek. It would’ve fit perfectly as the soundtrack on a film like 12 Monkeys or One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Like my brother said, you won’t hear music like it anywhere else in the world. And when Claypool did decide to get his crazy-fingers on, the Tivoli seemed to shrink down to just the man and his instrument. Ridiculously, head-shakingly amazing.

Drew’s 21st - 7 November

My youngest cousin hit the Big 2-1 on the 7th of November. Hard to believe he’s now 21, but watching his mates turn up at the party was more of an eye-opener. Were my mates that beefy when we were 21? Does every high school in Australia now have a pro-quality gym for these elephantine young dudes to use free of charge between classes? Seriously, have a shufty at some photos of guys that age circa 1950 and it’s Rawbones Central – compare that to a photo of, say, Cavill Avenue on a Schoolies night and it appears that you’re looking at the same young guys after they’ve been pumped full of helium or something.

Tom Tom Crew, Judith Wright Centre - Dec 9
Once again, another reminder of how some people really did win the genetic lottery. Utter b*stards. Went to this show, (apparently billed in the States as a “hip-hop circus”), and basically tried to stay dry as Sarah and her friend Di drooled themselves dessicated next to me in our second row possies as a bunch of shockingly good-looking, athletic and multi-talented men gyrated and flexed their way through a circus tumbling / gymnastics / breakdancing / beatboxing / taiko drumming performance onstage before us.

The all-male troupe put on a good show for sure – the beatboxer was talented and comical, the drummer (despite having the ol’ kwazy eyes look) was a demon on the skins and the integration of all the different performances was tip-top. But having to wring my shoes out from the puddles of saliva forming on the floor from the ladies sitting around me was a tad icky. One lass in front of me even let out a little involuntary whimper as the spunkiest gymnast saluted the crowd with his abs within tackling distance of her seat. I swear she tensed her legs for the leap.

By the end of the show many of the women in the crowd looked a bit wild around the eyes, like a roomful of lionesses about to pounce on some tasty wildebeest. Many of those with attendant partners looked…ahem…. pent-up, shall we say? No idea why.

Excellently, I escaped being trampled in a frenzied she-stampede in the bar outside because we left before the lads made their promised post-show appearance (“Hi I’m Mandy, can I rub against you while I congratulate you on such a thought-provoking performance?”). Ahhhh, the glories of being a performer, ey?

There you go - the highlights from the last four months. Hope you all have a stonking Christmas and an arrest-free New Year's Eve.

10 Things You 10 THINGS YOU NOTICE WHEN YOU RETURN TO BRISBANE FROM OVERSEAS

1. The accent

Like being slapped around the moosh with a Vegemite-slathered dingo steak as you get to Passport Control at the airport. Maaaaaayt, somebody get this country some VapourDrops. You know it’s true.

2. The smell of greenery as you drive away from the airport

My favourite. If you’re lucky enough to arrive back in summer and have your windows down, that thick, raunchy, pungent smell of green plant life steaming in the heat assails the senses and triggers all sorts of wonderful olfactory memories. Just don’t drive off the edge of the Gateway Motorway while you’re in the grip of a reverie about picnics in New Farm Park or some such.

3. How quiet suburban streets are

Is it just me? Is it the countries I go to? Seriously, whenever I come back and walk the streets in Le ‘burbs during the day I feel like I’m in a post-Apocalyptic movie and that I have to keep an eye out for zombies creeping up on me. Or maybe that suburb everyone lived in at the bottom of the hill in Edward Sissorhands. There is NO-ONE on the streets here. Every now and then you’ll get a sleek new broom-broom gliding past, looking like a metallic-paint-finished road whale cruising through the de-populated landscape, to verify that the rest of the human race is still in attendance, but compared to most other countries I’ve been to, where daily life happens on the footpath, this place is spooky at times.

4. How much sunshine there is

Particularly relevant if you’ve returned from a northern hemisphere winter. The non-stop rays combine with that luxuriant heat Brisbane gets to make you feel like you’re wallowing in a daily golden air-bath. Or something. Ahem. Either way, for someone solar-powered like yours truly, it’s delish. I don’t care if we’re nicknamed Skin Cancer Island for a very good reason. At least we don’t get SADS like Londoners or Norwegians. Or Melbournians.

5. The sheer amount of space

Good, but bad. Good, because it feels, well, spacious. I suppose. Err. Yes. But bad because, chances are, if you’ve come back from, oh, just about anywhere else on the planet, you’ll be keenly aware of just how disgracefully corpulent we are in our consumption of physical space. We have road islands bigger than entire city blocks in most other cities!!! And is it written into the Brisbane charter that it’s the right of every citizen to own a four bedroom house with three bathrooms on a 600sqm block? Does every Brisbanite really need (not want, need, people) both a front and back yard (and don’t forget the grassy footpath thanks!!!), in case they go utterly berko one day from claustrophobia?

The average Brisbanite will often respond to such a slight on their locale with something along the lines of “Oh, but we need a yard for our rugrat/s to play in, it’s not healthy otherwise”. Right. So how have the populations of New York, Rome or London (as a short list of cities not exactly swamped by a tidle wave of detached houses contained within grassy yards) not been swiss-cheesed by infant and child mortality and mindless-violent zombie teenagers? Oh that’s right, they actually produce some of the most vibrant, creative and intelligent people on the planet. Might have something to do with fact that kiddies in those cities HAVE TO PLAY WITH OTHERS OUTSIDE THEIR OWN PRIVATE LITTLE CONTROLLED SPACE.

Just a thought. But hey, look at how spacious it feels here in Brisbane. Is that the nearest shop on the horizon over there?

Urban Planner Rant: Complete.

6. How aggressive the drivers are

For the love of Zeus, don’t p*ss them off – they’ll kill us all! If you have the temerity to change lanes in front of their Getz or work ute without indicating, Brisbane’s motorists will haul you out through the driver’s side window and set about you with their stilettos, their Blackberry, their third McMuffin, whatever’s to hand when the red mist descends. That, or tailgate you at 120km/h screaming and gibbering at you in your rearview mirror like an extra from 28 Days Later.

Yessir, Brisbanites can be nice as pie when ambulatory, but get most of us behind the wheel and suddenly you’ve got a potential call-out for the Men In White Coats. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Brisbane drivers are hands-down the narkiest, most fiery and most aggressive 2-tonne-weapon-steering citizens anywhere outside of perhaps the USA.

Cross against the lights at your peril, tough guy.

7. Public transport

Maybe this is why Point #6 is so prevalent. When you can use public transport to zip around more easily in the rural backwaters of the god-awful-poorest region on the planet than you can in Brisbane, you know there’s something a wee bit skewiff, no?

I’m not saying it’s absolutely atrocious here, or that our safety standards are comparable to clapped-out, bulging-at-the-seams Ghanaian mini-bus rides that begin with a local priest leading the passengers in a prayer for the upcoming journey, oh heavens to Betsy, no. Just that when you burn over three quarters of an hour of your life to travel from Mt Gravatt to Carindale by bus, for example, The Irrits start setting in and you start to grasp why tourists find this place……”difficult”. And don’t get me started on the half hour wait for busses.

Just on tourists; They could, and often do, take their chances on Brisbane’s roads in a hire car, of course, but to my knowledge, BCC hasn’t started funding What To Do In a Club-Lock Attack courses for said tourists (again, see Point #6). Needless to say those unsuspecting innocents who’ve rented a car in Brisbane are often seen pulled over on the side of the road wearing the frightened, bewildered look of a small animal that’s just escaped a large predator. Says it all, really.

Someone take Can-Do on a junket to Curitiba for god’s sake. Please.

8. The parochialism of the local media

Hutus versus Tutsis. Jews versus Muslims. Sudanese Muslims versus Sudanese Christians. Cuba versus the USA. Hell, even Irish Catholics versus the Orangemen.
The Queensland media apparently still think Queensland versus New South Wales is on par with these contenders for World’s Greatest Rivalries. Rightyo.

Okay, okay, I’ll admit that the Queensland media does contain more coverage of events in other parts of the country and the world than the media in other states, and more than most American media as well (CNN = newstainment, don’t start with me on that one).

But, to paraphrase Andrew Bolt (I feel dirty even mentioning The Man Who Can’t Spell Research’s name), it’s always horrifyingly mortifying to come back and be subjected to the coarsening of Queensland culture via the media, and with such a blatant pro-Queensland slant too. AND, if you’ll allow me my obligatory Class Snob moment (too bad, I’m taking it anyway) the opinions of people who seem like they either guzzle a slab and beat up their wives/husbands every weekend or who talk like a coal miner trussed up in a $2000 suit can be pretty disturbing for someone fresh off a QANTAS international flight home (We made it!! Thank you Jesus!!).

9. How soft we are in dealing with our climatic “extremes”

Honestly, boo-frickin-hoo. It’s dropped below 20 degrees so it’s time to dig out the scarves and polar fleeces?? Suck it up, you whingers – we live in paradise. Get out of the office a bit more and you might actually discover the Amazing Heating Qualities of Sunshine. Is there any other city on Earth so marshmallow (or so badly designed to cope) when it comes to changes in temperature?

10. The Range of Fresh Fruit and Vegetables.

Seems like a basic one, but shucks it makes a difference. Some cities have fruit and veg that’s as fresh as ours here, but if you’ve got a hankering for anything other than yam, cassava or beetroot you’re sh*t outta luck, Huey. Some cities have as big a range as us, but every goddam bit of it is waxed, sprayed, sealed in Styrofoam boxes, mummified in shrink wrap and generally looks like it could last through a nuclear holocaust……… yummy.

The food we can get here in Brisbane rocks. Pure and simple. We can grow almost anything AND get almost all of it without the dreaded High Food Miles black mark against it. Now, if only we could get back to growing more of it actually within the city…………

KUMASI: THE KEJETIA MARKETS

(L to R: First 6 pics are the Kejetia Markets; Last one is view from my room, first day. As you do).

DIXICOVE

(L to R, top to bottom: View from Fort Dixicove over the bay; From Fort Dixicove again; View from bay up to Fort Dixicove (check out the trash on the shore); Road through the bush from Busua to Dixicove; Harvested palm nuts - these are everywhere on every roadside)

BUSUA & OTHER PHOTOS

(L to R: Entrance to Black Mamba Point path; Black Star Surf Shop - best food in Busua; Brekky view from Black Star; Afternoon storm a-brewin'; Local's house built into the side of my hostel; The path between the buildings from main road to beach; Locals on the beach, every afternoon; Looking towards Black Mamba Point; Fishing boats and dragnets; Tro tro rockin' and rollin' with the "co-pilot" calling out the destination from the side door; Secret Women's Business.... on a roundabout)

CAPE COAST PHOTOS

(L to R, top to bottom: Fort Victoria - only allowed up there with a "guide" (aka guard) because of the muggings - view from my room's window; Cape Coast Jubilee Park hoops court - no one out at midday, packed at 5pm daily; Cape Coast Post Office (abandoned); Squatting family in abandoned church; Cape Coast beach at end of the day - party time; Asofo Company emblem; Plaque commemorating the cessation of the African slave trade; View from door of one of the slave holding cells into Fort Cape Coast's main square; the infamous Door of No Return, through which uncounted Africans were marched onto slave ships moored just outside; View from Fort Cape Coast across eastern tenements and fishermen; View from behind main coastal battery at fort; View along Cape Coast beach to the fort; Fishing boats; Typical Cape Coast street scene from the roof of my hostel.

ACCRA PHOTOS

(Top To Bottom, L to R: Locals across the road from my hostel; Dusty Accra sunset; Side street outside my hostel; View from hostel rooftop across Accra towards the Atlantic; Typical suburban Accra street; Damien and Victoria getting an impromptu drum lesson at the markets; Crystal Hostel courtyard.)