Life is Beautiful

We got just got back from a weekend in Melbourne. It was bags of fun and, strangely enough, nothing went wrong. We arrived in Melbourne at 10:20am and picked up a hire car. We got upgraded to a flash Camry instead of the hatchback rollerskate I had booked - a good start. We met the girl's grandmother at the museum and handed over the precious little creature for a weekend with her Dad. Then we went to the hotel. I had booked a two bedroom apartment (since the delinquent was with us) and it was really cheap, only about $150 per night. I was worried. After the debacle with our hotel in Sydney and considering our luck in general I was expecting the worst. But it was all good, they even gave us a free late checkout for Sunday.
We packed a bag with food (no fruit, it was forbidden), unopened bottles of water and plenty of sunscreen and made our way to the Soundwave Festival. The first thing we saw upon arrival was a young man collapsed in the tram stop covered in vomit. Poor thing, he hadn't even made it in the front gate and it was only 1pm. The other thing I was really worried about was our tickets - they were "print at home" internet delivery and VERY plain. I could have printed them 200 times and handed them out to friends, I was worried some part had got lost in the ether and we would be refused entry. But, no problem. I had read on the forum that umbrellas would not be permitted, so I lamented my inability to carry a parasol and left it at home. I was a bit worried that I wouldn't be allowed in because I was the only one without ink showing, but security didn't seem bothered and were only concerned about confiscating cans of deoderant (??) Once inside we found a good spot in the grandstand and had some lunch. The band playing were Underoath, and they were quite good. The drummer, who appeared to be female, was going off. She made animal from the muppets look like a limp wristed sook. I was impressed. I WAS impressed until the singer started spouting about God and Jesus. Seriously, I'm here to listen to music, not get preached at. FUCK OFF!! We wandered about, listened to music, wandered about a bit more. Poison the Well were very good. That was generally the gist of the whole day.
We were easily the oldest people there, but it was a friendly crowd, and at least we weren't there with our parents (dig at the delinquent, who was very good and not embarrassed by us at all). Unfortunately Lacuna Coil were playing on the only indoor stage and it was hot enough outside, without being in a huge shed with a seething mass of head bangers. I was brave. I was determined. I made my way to the front during the soundcheck and nabbed a great spot. After 10 minutes of "check check" I was ready to collapse. Security came out and sprayed the audience with cold water which revived me enough to convince me I could hack it. Two bars into the first song I turned and ran. Up the back, near the open door, I found some friends and hung out with them for the remainder of the set - the husband having dissapeared in the crowd. Lacuna were great, really very good.
Alice in Chains were good, apparently not suffering without Layne. Nine Inch Nails, not being satisfied with merely causing their audience permanent hearing loss, had decided to blind us as well. The epilepsy warnings on the tickets were justified. The delinquent went off for a mosh with Lamb of God and we hung around outside. At one point Randy called for the audience to "sing along" which amused me no end. How does that song go again? Oh yeah, "roar, scream, roar, roar, scream and wail".
We eventually went back to the hotel, happy.
About a month ago I got a very bad haircut. It was so bad the first thing I did when I got home was look in the yellow pages for wig shops. So I had made an appointment with my old hairdresser in Melbourne, hoping he could fix it. He did. I now have gorgeous gun metal grey and black hair, the man is a genius and I will never be unfaithful again. I will put up a photo soon.
On Saturday night my dear friend had organised a gathering to celebrate my 40th birthday. So about 20 friends joined me in a restaurant/bar type place and we ate and drank and laughed and drank. I snuggled my friends new baby, got a bit sad about my lack of, so drank some more. It was a lovely night.
The next day we met the older son in the city - his wallet had been nicked and he needed his Dad to help him get some more ID. After we sorted that out I took the boys to Max Brenners for a hot chocolate in a vagina shaped cup. The cup was the same but the chocolate wasn't as good. They no longer do the Ecuadorian cocoa with orchid oil, which dissapointed me, but I thought since it was the first bad thing all weekend then I was bloody lucky.
On the way to the airport we stopped at our favourite Goth shop and I bought a new shirt - an oriental style lace and pvc number. The girl's Dad dropped her off on time and she was very excited to see her step father and brother, almost ignoring me. I didn't mind, I love it that she adores her new family. She is really growing up, and turning out to be be a very interesting person. Last week for "news" at school she took a stuffed bat in a shoe box. I was so proud. Life is good. And I have a new bike.
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The Cramps

Lux Interior has died. It is a sad day in the music world. Lux Interior, co-founder of The Cramps, has left us. The Cramps were one of my staples when I was in my mid-teens, A Date With Elvis one of my favourite albums. I moved away from them as my Goth tastes developed but I always remained very fond of them. I recently found a copy of A Date With Elvis on CD, which I was chuffed about as my vinyl copy of the album dissapeared long ago.
Thanks Lux, Gods bless. Read more!

Blue, Blue Moon

I hate bus trips and I hate Sydney but I felt like a little kid on Christmas Eve as I boarded the Greyhound after work on Friday. We were going to the Under The Blue Moon festival in Newtown, it promised to be a day and a night of shopping, street theatre, music and lots of Goths. Wonderful.

Two hours into our bus trip my back was starting to hurt, I was so hungry I was considering eating the packet of Quick-eze I had in my bag and I was bored because the gothy magazine I was reading had black font on a dark background and the dim reading light was totally inadequate. I looked at the clock at the front of the bus, 8:35, oh it must have stopped, I'm sure it said that ages ago. So I sat, fidgeting, until my annoyed husband told me off. I looked at the clock again, it flicked to 8:36. I wanted to scream.

Eons later we arrived at Central station, hailed a taxi and made our way to the hotel. We were booked into Australian Sunrise Lodge on King St, just up the road from the Sandringham Hotel where the gig was on Saturday night. It was the perfect location for us to be able to wander Enmore road all day, have a home base easily accessible and be able to relax, refresh and reoutfit any time we liked.

As we were checking in the receptionist handed me a phone, saying the manager wanted to speak to me. He explained that although we had a room for that night, the hotel was overbooked the following night and he had relocated us to a "lovely boutique hotel in Darlinghurst". I don't know Sydney, names of suburbs mean nothing to me, and I didn't know if Darlinghurst was around the corner or across town. I asked if it was far away and he changed the subject. The husband grabbed the phone to find out what was going on, got angry, calmed down and finally reached the same level of defeat as I had.

Trying to find something to eat at 10pm wasn't that easy either. We eventually found a cafe that agreed to keep the kitchen open if we ordered quickly. We asked for a mezze platter to share, figuring the chef wouldn't be too pissed off if all he/she had to do was scoop stuff out of jars. It was good. We sat at the table on the footpath with our food and wine and watched the rabble of Newtown going past. Several Goths, a few yuppies and the occasional dero. A gorgeous looking hippie chick carrying her yoga mat sat at the table next to us and proceeded to devour a huge piece of chocolate cake. I hated her.

Pleasantly sated we went back to our hotel. The room was nice, a small balcony covered with wysteria was the highlight, the warm night air wafted the perfume of the bunches of purple flowers into our room and I started to get depressed, the husband got angry again. We decided to argue with the manager the next morning and attempted to sleep. The first rays of light were beginning to creep in the window as I finally managed to drift off. My upset and disappointment at our hotel fiasco had kept my mind racing for hours so it was with only two hours sleep that I faced Saturday.

Dressed in my best lamb impersonation I went downstairs and rang the manager. I made my point, voiced our extreme disappointment, our dismay. Argued that I had made the booking with him personally several weeks prior, made him explain why others got to stay when we were sent away, made him explain how it was possible to overbook in the first place (did you forget how many rooms you have??). It was all futile, he wasn't going to back down, and we just had to accept defeat.

We stowed our luggage and headed out into the rain. The list of things to get upset about was growing. After collecting our festival show bags we walked further up King Street to find some breakfast finally stopping at Cafe C (no, that isn't an abbreviation to protect their identity that was their name). While we waited for our food I went through the show bags, not bad for $5 really. A couple of novels, a few CDs, some velvet gloves, a small, pink teddy bear, stickers and discount vouchers for our shopping spree. Coffee arrived, it wasn't the best but I didn't really care, it was hot and caffeinated and I figured I would need significant amounts of caffeine if I was to get through the day. My image of toasted Turkish bread, fluffy ricotta and lovely runny honey was destroyed when my plate of cold, stale Turkish bread, runny ricotta out of a tub and two little plastic packs of crystallised honey arrived. When my husband's fruit platter appeared - a roughly chopped orange, a hunk of watermelon, a hunk of cantaloupe and a badly sliced apple – all we could do was laugh.


We laughed about the weird hotel manager, only contactable via the telephone and his staff composed entirely of young Asian women. Was he morbidly obese and unable to leave his room? Or deformed in some way? An agoraphobic midget was our final guess. We laughed at the rain and how a bunch of Goths were going to cope with running make-up. We laughed at Cafe Crap and the blind, machete wielding chef who couldn't cut fruit. We laughed at our misfortune and agreed that the next thing would be for one of us to step in dog shit. We laughed at who or what we must have been in our past lives to have warranted the bad luck that seems to follow us both. So trying our best to be optimistic as Adolf and Eva, we went shopping.

Most of the footpaths were covered by verandas, so the rain wasn't too difficult to deal with as we stepped in and out of the several Goth shops along Enmore Road. Most of the shops were tacky and not worth the effort, the best being Reactor Rubberwear and Gallery Serpentine (where our wedding clothes had come from). These shops had put an enormous effort into their decor and the quality of their merchandise - it was a joy to behold. In Gallery Serpentine I purchased an umbrella, a gorgeous Morticia Adams type thing. As I signed the credit card slip the girl said to me "it's not waterproof, so if you want to use it in the rain you will need to scotch guard it first". Of course, it makes perfect sense. Only in Goth land can you buy an umbrella that can't get wet. At the end of our spree I had my umbrella, a pair of shoes and a patch saying "Are you dead yet?" (an appropriate item for my line of work). The husband had a long sleeve shirt with a cobweb design on the yoke, and "Schitzo" a baby living dead dolly.

The market stalls didn't impress us and the events on the "main stage" (an area with a tarp over it to the side of the town hall) weren't thrilling us either so we decided to check out our new accommodation. The hotel we were supposed to be staying in was going to pay our taxi fare to Darlinghurst and the girl at reception gave me $20 (toward what turned out to be a $22.95 taxi ride) and the details of our new hotel. L'Otel may call itself "boutique"; I called it "beyond redemption". It was awful. It turned out we were a block away from the Cross, so we went for a walk, worked out how to get back to Newtown on the train then found a nice pub and had a couple of much needed drinks.

Dressed to impress we arrived back at the Sandringham hotel and asked the boy on the door for our tickets. He didn't have them, in fact he wasn't even aware that tickets had been sold online. Fortunately I had a printout of the confirmation email and we got our wrists stamped. Hunger overtook our desire for loud music and we decided to try a Macedonian place called The Europe Grill. It was good. It was very good. I ate until my corset was bursting at the seams. Perfectly cooked, flavoursome, no-nonsense, top quality food. We were in heaven.

Back at the Sando the bands were loud, the wine was cheap and the crowd was friendly. We were happy. I ran around taking photos of the people I thought were the stand outs of the evening. A girl with elaborate spider web make-up,
a stunningly beautiful amazon-goth woman,
Mr Curly,
a bride in black, a beautiful girl who when I told her she looked like Mina Harker replied "who?".
Oh dear, Goths aint what they used to be. But the commonality that holds us all together remains - we are unusual, swimming against the current. Only one boy refused to let me photograph him (which was a shame, his look was unique and powerful) everyone else was only too happy to pose for a photo. We're a vain bunch. Sadly there was not a great deal of elegance; the romantic Goths were greatly outnumbered by the cybers and the just plain scruffy.
We were easily the oldest people there, by ten years (and then some). Where do all the old Goths go? But as is usual in a Goth crowd everyone was very sweet and very friendly. I could have made some friends if I hadn't been a bit tipsy and didn't think to ask for names or contact details. Nobody seemed to notice I was older than their mother and I chatted endlessly about corsets, PVC, jewellery, hair, make-up, music and shoes. When all else fails, the camaraderie and the look remains.
The bands were good, even Lycanthia who I was sure I hated, were entertaining. We bought CDs and a t-shirt, socialised, drank some more then hailed a taxi.

Back at L'Otel and overcome by alcohol, tiredness, disappointment and the oppressive nature of our room we fought. Our stress won. Another disappointment.

In the morning, convinced that the clocks had gone back, we moved slowly. Had a fantastic breakfast (poached eggs with smoked salmon on toasted brioche and homemade hollandaise sauce which was perfect and coffee served in a bowl was utterly wonderful). At the train station our hung-over and addled brains finally worked out that clocks had actually gone forwards and we were running late for our bus. Fortunately we made it with 60 seconds to spare and even managed to sleep most of the way back to Blandberra.

So with all our Gothic finery in the washing machine, the first coat of scotch guard drying on my umbrella, our new CDs playing and wearing my Nevetherym t-shirt I am sat in front of the computer reflecting on what was the best of times and the worst of times. It was Sydney after all, and I fucken hate Sydney. Read more!

Burning ring of fire

What a weekend. Our first weekend without the little kid and our dance card was full. It was to be an Opeth and alcohol fuelled two days of music, theatre, shopping and eating.


First glitch was at the airport: I had decided that since most of the little kid's textas were stuffed I would buy her new ones at the newsagency at the airport. Except some kind staff member had plonked a very tall and wide stack of heavy boxes right in front of the shelf that housed the textas and the tiny little woman that was serving had no capacity to move them to access the pens. So the girl was trapped on a plane for an hour with no colouring in. She coped reasonably well, I was somewhat flustered however.

Once in the city, the girl having been whisked away by her grandmother, we located our hotel. We had booked accommodation using the points on our credit card and judging from the photos on the net I was expecting something fairly crappy. It wasn't. The room was clean, comfortable and in fairly good nick. The bedspread wasn't hideous and they had foxtel. My only gripe was the Lipton's tea and I thought "if that's the worst of my problems I am doing well". The three levels of rooms looked onto an interior courtyard, which had simple but elegant wrought iron railings and a few palm trees and picnic tables. It would have been lovely – if it wasn't undergoing renovation. We pondered if we had been in a hotel over the duration of our relationship that wasn't undergoing renovation – the only one we could think of was in Venice, but then the entire city was undergoing renovation. We decided it was fine and were happy with what we had.

We headed off into the city to meet with the oldest son and go to the husband's favourite music store. Surprisingly, we didn't buy a thing. Lunch was a pretty good Caesar salad, although the husband's burger was apparently awful. Then more shopping. The new Goth shop in the city had nothing for us so we hopped onto a tram to go to Brunswick Street. At the next Goth shop I bought a hairclip which I can't use because I had my hair cut short last week and a make-up compact which I can't use because my current pressed powder is rectangle and the new compact is round. The son told us that when he tells people his parents are Goths they look confused and ask "isn't that a phase you grow out of when you turn 20?"

After heading back to the hotel for a rest and a shower and to glam-up we attempted to meet my friends for after work drinks but were completely befuddled by the trains and peak hour chaos so decided to give it a miss and go for dinner instead. We chose a Korean restaurant, which was ordinary. They were playing Air Supply and we couldn't decide exactly how bad it was that we not only knew the songs but some of the lyrics.

There was a huge queue outside the Metro, where Opeth were playing, and it seemed to be composed entirely of young, long haired boys having a shouting competition. I asked the bouncer if there was a second queue for old people as I couldn't possibly join those children over there it would just be humiliating. He said "no". I tried to reason with him but quickly realised I was wasting my time.

We went around the corner to a bar for a glass of wine to while away the 15 minutes before the Metro opened. The cheapest glass was $10.50 so we thought why not just get a bottle? Why not indeed. Because there was not a single bottle on the list for less than $100, most of them being several hundred, and even one bottle for $10,500. The waitress asked how we were going with the wine list and I replied "it's highly amusing", she looked down her nose at me and said "I'll get you some water". The $10.50 glass of merlot was very nice and while we were drinking and wondering who the hell pays $10,500 for a bottle of wine, why, and if it could ever possible be worth it. The man at the table next to us finished his drink and bolted. Usually I would be disgusted at such uncouth behaviour, but after the derision from the snooty waitress I just laughed, suggested we do the same then dealt with the disapproving looks from the husband (15 years in hospitality - he doesn't take kindly to disrespecting waiting staff).

So we eventually wandered into the Metro, to be confronted by a sign announcing that the support band was Virgin Black and I momentarily added my wails to the ongoing shouting competition. I can't stand Virgin Black. Their music is boring, unoriginal, self indulgent waffle. I was not happy.

We managed to get a good spot on the balcony and we waited. I heckled Virgin Black as loudly and as obnoxiously as I could. I had a small amount of support from people around me – apparently Virgin Black had supported Opeth at a previous gig and had been booed for the entire time they were on stage. Mercifully their set was short. But by the time Opeth started it was late; I was very tired and had perhaps indulged in a tad too much wine. I sat on the floor and rested my head against the railing. Eventually the husband woke me and we left. He was disappointed in the music, only one original band member remained - he said it was like watching a cover band.

The next morning we were woken by workmen hammering in the courtyard and then our hangovers hammering in our heads. Once out in the world the yellow hurty thing in the sky made us feel worse.

By evening we had recovered significantly and glammed-up again for our night out at The Burlesque Hour. What a hoot! We got splattered with milk and well and truly entertained. The only drawback being that neither the husband nor I can now get the song Total Eclipse of the Heart out of our heads.


Afterwards we found a Schezuan restaurant and gave our mouths and stomachs third degree chilli burns with some of the best food I have eaten for a long time. I pondered on how all the regular endorphin producing activities like skydiving, vigorous exercise, child birth etc only upset me but a good chilli meal – without fail – leaves me feeling elatedly happy. It was a lovely end to a hectic but thoroughly enjoyable weekend.


Back at the hotel we discovered that a mob of teenagers had moved in, were unsupervised and had decided to party all night. We would have gone out and yelled at them but the husband saw signs of ICE usage so we stayed in our room for fear of being stabbed. When we were leaving the next morning I took the "Do Not Disturb" sign off their door and threw it in a pot plant. It was a petty act, but the thought of them being woken by housekeeping amused me.

So now we return to the world of Blandberra, of work and of parenting. Are we too old to go to a death metal gig? Are we too old to stay up drinking all night? Are we too old to dress as we do? Absolutely. Will we ever stop? Absolutely not. Read more!

Religion

My (ahem, cough, splutter) of an ex has finally paid me some money he has owed me for a considerable amount of time. It is a great relief. We now have the money to buy tickets to get the plane to the city to go to the V festival, which we bought tickets for ages ago. The Jesus and Mary Chain are playing, I am very excited. I saw them about 20 years ago, I was totally besotted with Jim Reid, I listened to little else. I bought everything of theirs I could get my hands on, of course it was all vinyl way back then, I even have a "picture disc" which has an interview on it. I listened to it once, then shelved it with my other treasures. I didn’t play my records, I taped them then put them away. They are all in mint condition, these days probably worth oh, I don’t know......bugger all?
All those years ago my friend and I arrived at the concert venue several hours before the doors opened, we weren’t the first there. There was a young man, resplendid with mohawk, chains and big boots, sitting on the footpath with a book titled "Social Anarchy" next to him, while he perused the Financial Times.
Eventually, when the doors opened, we got rushed and almost lost our great position, but managed to run inside and be right at the front, quite literally crushed against the stage - the bruises on my ribs lasted over a week. Died Pretty were the support band and they were great. Our anarchist friend went beserk, he was leaping around, stage diving, going absolutely spako and eventually collapsed and had to be carted out. Poor thing. I didn’t see him again and I don’t know if he actually got to see J&MC after all.
I was, of course, dressed to impress. I was wearing a very tight, low cut mini dress with knee high lace-up boots that had 4" stiletto heels. My hair was HUGE! Towards the interval the pain in my legs got so bad and the air was so thick with cigarette smoke that for one of the rare times in my life - I feinted.
My dear friend organised a chain of people to get a glass of water from the bar to me. I discovered that the air on the floor was much cooler and much less smokey than the air at head height, and I recovered reasonably quickly. I also found a watch. After I had revived I took my shoes off and was able to remain upright for the spectacular performance that I had come for.
The boys were late coming on and were obviously pissed off about something. Life? They wandered about on stage without communicating with each other or acknowleging the audience. They played several songs, then mid song Jim just walked off. Eventually when the other band members realised he had gone, they dropped their instruments and walked off too. That was it. I was elated, I thought it was brilliant. Their sullen disrespect for their fans and their arrogantly short set impressed me immensely. Most of all I was over the moon because Jim, at one point, had looked me right in the eyes and held my raptured gaze for a few seconds. It was pure magic.
In later years when J&MC lost their niave, raw grunginess I lost interest in them; I moved on. I discovered PJ Harvey. I listened exclusively to women for many years having decided I was sick of hearing what men had to say/sing about.
My music for most of the nineties consisted of PJ, Kate Bush, Sinead O’Conner, Cyndi Lauper, Siouxsie, Lene Lovich and few others. I immersed myself in the gutteral screams of PJ, the ethereal beauty of Kate, Sinead’s power, Lene and Cyndi’s shrill individuality and Siouxsie was the bread and butter that all the others were served on.
I have seen PJ three times, she is brilliant, although I didn’t like her last album. Kate, well, only a handfull of very lucky people have ever seen her perfom live and sadly her last album was rubbish. Cyndi I have seen three times now, she is fabulous. Siouxsie I have seen perform with the Banshees and with The Creatures, she is also fabulous and I suspect has a very scary looking portrait in her attic. Sinead is this week playing Melbourne and Sydney, she has never toured Australia before. Unfortunately I didn’t find out about her tour until after I had purchased tickets for Cyndi and I couldn’t do both - unreasonable financially and for the child. I am very sad I won’t get to see her, I know Sinead went totally loopy and probably still is, but I believe she is doing a mix of old and new stuff on this tour and the opportunity to hear her magnificent voice live would have been worth the wierdness.
I have always loved music, it has been an important part of my adult life and is no doubt responsible for my bad hearing. It makes perfect sense that I have married a man who owns over 3000 CDs and it also makes sense that while discussing future renovations we are more concerned about the wiring and placement of the stereo and speakers than the heating.
My love of live music has been diminished ever so slightly over the years by the behaviour of the crowds these days - the commeradere of old is gone. If I feint at J&MC this time the best I can hope for is to not get trampled, I doubt total strangers would assist in the procurement of water or even help me to my feet. Fortunately with age comes a certain amount of wisdom and a love of sensible shoes.

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The only goths in the villiage

We just got back from Sydney, we bussed there yesterday to go to the Cyndi Lauper concert. I put the girl on a plane to Melbourne in the morning, which meant getting up at 6 to get her to the airport by 8 for a 9:15 flight. Unacommpanied minors need to check in 1 hour before departure, I don't know why, perhaps to give the parents time to reconsider. She was aprehensive - she doesn't love going by herself - but she was a very brave little girl and didn't cry. She looked so tiny as she walked off, holding the hosties hand, teddy clutched in the other.

I then came home, ate the scrambled eggs my husband had cooked me, drove him to work, came home again, packed, printed out bus/hotel details, locked up the house, fed the animals, got the bus into the "city", got my nails done, collected the husband and got on the bus to Sydney at 3pm. I dozed most of the way there, being startled awake by some idiots phone going off several times (why do people have to have such loud and annoying ring tones? That said, the husband constantly complains that he can't get hold of me because I never hear my phone ringing.)

At the hotel we got changed into our full goth regalia then headed off down George street to find some dinner. We ended up at a Korean BBQ place, which was really good. The pan fried dumpling were particularly good, mind you, after constant dieting ANYTHING with fat and carbs in it would have brought me ecstatic pleasure.
We then waddled up to the State Theatre. I had never been there before and it is gorgeous, utterly stunningly beautiful. In desperate (literally) need of more female toilets, but one of the more elegant theatres I have ever been in.
As we are now grown up and I had bought tickets not long after they went on sale we had really good seats - the last row of the stalls, so about 6 rows from the stage. I was stoked. This was the third time I had been to see Cyndi, the first was in 1989, I was at uni so couldn't afford a decent seat, she played at the Tennis Centre in Melbourne and I was so far up the back I needed binoculars to see her. I didn't mind, she was brilliant. The second time I saw her was a couple of years ago, I was up in the balcony so had a good view but was still a bit far away. That concert was also brilliant. It was not long after the release of her At Last CD and she did a great mix of old, new and in-between. She performed for two hours and was vey entertaining. In spite of being there by myself I had a ball.

Last night, being night before madi gras and being Sydney, her show was very gay-centric. She did mostly old classics with two songs from her upcoming album but nothing from At Last and hardly anything from any albums newer than True Colours. I was a little dissapointed she didn't do Shine, which I adore, and she played for less than 1 1/2 hours. Don't get me wrong, she was as good as ever, full of energy and her weird, spastic Elvisesque dancing, but I didn't think it was as good as her Melbourne show a few years ago. The husband, who had accompanied me out of loyalty to me and who had no real desire to se Cyndi, stood there with sunglasses on, arms folded and looked more like security than an audience member. I bounced around and danced and got mildly annoyed by the girl next to me who kept clapping out of time and very annoyed by the man behind us who kept bellowing like a cow. Why do people do that? Why do people pay all that money to go to a concert then just drown out the performer with their own stupid noises? Why do people clap and cheer OVER the music, why do they applaude BEFORE the song has finished? Why do people scream out "I love you" at totally inappropriate times - like when the poor woman was mid sentence and had to stop so we could all listen to some random imbecile declaring his stupidity for all the theatre to hear? I paid and travelled to listen to HER not YOU, shut-the-fuck-up you rude arsehole. OK, I don't expect people to sit in silent rapture and I am totally fine with declarations of love and admiration, but at the appropriate time. Cranky old-fartness - here I come!!
I love Cyndi, I have loved her from the minute she hit our screens in the eighties. I had shaved bits of my head and wore elaborate clothes and when I first saw her I immediately felt she was a kindred spirit. Then I read an interview in which she said she was bullied at school because she was weird and I KNEW we were soul mates. She has the most incredible voice, and it's unique, she doesn't conform and she can belt it out big time. But I only want to listen to her music, respectfully quiet while she is performing then cheering my tits off between songs. I don't want to hang around out the back of the theatre waiting for her to come out so I can grab at her and I don't want to loiter around her hotel. People who do that are creepy and a bit sad.
On the way home we did the math: $130 for the bus, $140 for the hotel, $120 each for tickets - that's over $500 for and hour and a half's entertainment.
I'm sorry Cyndi, you're an ace performer and I adore your work, but in hindsight - you weren't worth 500 bucks. And just for the record - Sydney SUCKS!!

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I'm not dead

Long time no blog.....many things have happened - here is the condensed version:
The vauxhall is registered and going reasonably well. We have had the distributor recoed and it is booked next week to get the electrics sorted out, stereo and alarm installed. Then it's just seat belts and we're done. We've pretty much decided not to get it resprayed (save ourselves several thousand dollars) as we gave it a cut and polish and colour restoring wax and it looks ok.
My car, however, is at a garage, has been there all week and will most likely be there into next week. It is getting the front end rebuilt and several bits replaced. Hopefully after this it will be easier to drive. The front end was damaged just over a year ago when the car was stolen - but that's another story.
The husband and I spent 10 days in Tassie, attempting to escape the Blandberra heat. Unfortunately Tasmania was at the time experiencing a heat wave, it was yuk. We basically ate and drank our way around the isle and I put on 4 kilos.
My girl has started school, much to her dismay. I put the tandem on the back of my bike and we pedal there each morning. Tag-along tandem thingies are commen in Melbourne, I appear to have the only one in Blandberra - we attract quite a bit of attention and the girl loves it.
I've been looking for a job, without any luck. I am restricted to school hours so the jobs themselves are hard to find and the ones I have found I haven't been successful with. I get very angry when I spend ages on an application, email it in and then get an almost immediate reply "the position has been filled", well then take your fucking add down you time wasting morons! But even though the credit card is maxed and we have expenses and bills coming out every oriface, I'm not worried. We aren't starving and something will come up. We are happy and healthy and cask wine isn't so bad these days so why panic?
I've been reasonably good on my diet and at the gym and have lost my holiday 4 kilos. My new goal is to get into my size 14 jeans by my birthday. It is achievable although I would quite happily commit murder for a toasted cheese sandwich right about now.
I am still officially the world's worst housewife, my husband is on the verge of a nervous breakdown because there was a hairbrush on the bathroom floor the other day. My mind boggles....
Oh, and I've started listening to Pink. I think I need to get out more. Read more!

Vincent Furnier

I squeezed into a brocade corset and the husband put on his mid-life-crisis-leather pants and we trundled off to the Australian Institute of Sport arena. I was curious as to what sort of crowd the countries most conservative city would produce for an Alice Cooper concert. As we were driving I asked the husband if he thought Alice would finish with School's Out or Poison.
We arrived and mingled with Blandberra's AC fans. Mostly middle class, middle aged and chubby public servant types surrounded us. Also quite a few slightly embarrassed looking people who had blacked their eyes (but wore their ordinary clothes) shuffled amongst us, I'm sure they all thought it was a good idea at the time. A few young 'uns and even a couple of gothy looking metal heads (as well as us) were wandering around as well. The highlight for me was a rather tubby guy with a ponytail wearing a T-shirt which said "no I will not fix your computer". Classic. We went to our seats, which were quite good as we had paid for grown-up seats in the stadium, not teenage seats on the floor and sat through what seemed like an eternity of a really boring support band. I was amused by the Dencorub billboard next to the stage.
Eventually Alice, in his white top hat and tails and cane, appeared. Then Alice in his black leather gear also appeared, stabbed the top hatted Alice and began singing No More Mr Nice Guy. Good start. Things progressed and I was impressed by his level of fitness (and cane twirling), unless you saw him in profile you couldn't see the jowls or paunch and he looked great and was energetic. His backing band, a rather gorgeous quartet of death rock boys, were excellent. He went through the standards, quite a few songs from Killer, before having a break. The boys played and impressed us with their talent while Alice did whatever aging rock stars do back stage (gasp into an oxygen mask? Have a cup of tea?) before re-appearing in a different costume and launching into more classic Alice. He did a rather violent dance routine with a life size rubber bride doll before swapping the doll for a dancer and going through a somewhat misogynistic version of Only Women Bleed. He then stabbed a baby through the heart, was put into a straight jacket and eventually gallows were wheeled out and he was hung by another Alice persona. The band played the chorus of I Love The Dead and Alice re-appeared for his final song – School's Out. After the obligatory few minutes he came back with Billion Dollar Babies and then Poison. His grand finale was Elected, complete with flag waving (US and Aus) and marching. The husband, who has excellent 20/20 hindsight, said "I knew he'd finish with that". Alice introduced and thanked the band, the dancer (who turned out to be his daughter) and then thanked us, and I am sure he said "Thank you Brisbane" but I could be wrong.
All-in-all we gave him 8/10 and drove home contented. Read more!

Gabba Gabba

Yesterday afternoon I was in a Ramones mood and put a couple of cds on the stereo. I bobbed around to the music for a few hours until the stepson emerged from his room "what's this?" he asked his father with a grimace. I was flabbergasted, this boy is hugely talented musically and has a broad knowledge of music from most genres. He made a mumbled disparaging comment and left the room. We called him back. "The Ramones are legends, founding fathers, don't you like it?" I asked "Nah" was the response. "But I've seen your friends wearing Ramones T-shirts, I thought you lot must listen to them" "They probably don't even know The Ramones is a band" he said and sauntered off. So it's come to this: one of the most influential bands of last century have become to today's teenagers merely a cool T-shirt design. Not only have The Ramones provided hours of musical listening pleasure, they have also helped me seduce for physical pleasure on two occasions. Years ago I used them as a topic to start a conversation with a boy I was interested in and more recently, I pretended the friend I was going to the Ramones film with was a date – thus causing the man I was pursuing (and boy was he playing hard to get) to become so jealous he not only showed up at the cinema but was in my bed two days later. The power of The Ramones is awe inspiring.
Old Fartery is not just creeping up on me, it is well and truly engrained. A few years ago my significantly younger brother and I were driving and Cyndi Lauper, True Colours was playing on the car stereo. He asked me who was stuffing up the Casey Chambers' song. I almost kicked him out of the moving vehicle. I know imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but one must give credit where credit is due.
Tonight the husband and I are going to see Alice Cooper. Now that is guaranteed to be an over 30's only event. We are very excited about it, having both spent our teenage years listening to Alice, in different decades of course - me being the child bride. But it proves his music is timeless.
I shall report on the musical extravaganza tomorrow. Read more!