Ben, the two of us need look no more

(image ganked from the net by someone with a better vantage point and camera than we had. Go here for more.)

Over the past decade, we've been to see Ben Lee, Ben Folds and last Friday night we completed our trifecta of Bens (yt) and caught Ben Kweller doing his thing at the Hyde Park Hotel. (A geographic note: the HPH is a five minute stroll down the road from ours - sometimes the mountain does move to Mohammed.)

Opening with "The Rules", Mr Kweller and the two other gentlemen that comprise his Trio performed a set of songs as preternaturally excellent as the man himself. He seemed appreciative of performing before a crowd whose intimate knowledge of his body of work (from "Falling" through to "Sundress") allowed him to let them do half his singing for him.

Unfortunately as Gem and I are both somewhat petite in stature, it was a little difficult to get a good constant squizzie. At certain points, the band sounded like there were definitely more than three of them onstage with Mr Kweller alternating between guitar and keyboards.

I was disappointed that "Wasted & Ready", (to me, his "Hello, I'm Ben and this is what I do" breakthrough hit) didn't make the setlist. Nevertheless, the man had no shortage of equally catchy power-poppy tunes to make up for it.

Sartorial appreciation note: loved the red jacket. Made him look like an Oompa-Loompa....or, if you like, a Kweller-Loompa.


/ducks

A Perfectly Cromulent World

Stop wasting your time here. Try some philanthropic boondoggling.

Howard, I Know If He Really Loves Me

Yesterday's news of our Dear Leader's perceived epiphany on Aboriginal reconciliation has been predictably welcomed with derision and contempt by SMH readers in their "Your Say" opinion box. Overall, most of the problem appears to lie (no pun intended) on Mr Howard's timing, which is seen as either ten years too late, or ten weeks too early to be considered a genuine change of heart.

Sometimes, these things are best expressed in verse and buried somewhere deep in the comments is this little gem from "axelnelson":

Under Shameful Stars

Whitey stole Australia,
killed blacks near and far,
johnny won't say sorry,
Under Shameful Stars.

Nation made of bigots,
ruled in fear by one,
all hail little johhny,
Under Shameful Sun.

Selfish heartless Nation,
born of Howard's hand,
greed our greatest virtue,
Shameful Southern Land.

Suckered into Battle,
lied to with contempt,
johnny's in on war crimes,
Shameful Southern Friend.

Nauru the death camp prison,
source of johnny's pride,
lifes nothing but disgraceful,
Under Shameful Skies.

Stumbling blind in darkness
Under Shameful Stars.

The provenance of the piece is unknown, unless it is indeed the work of axelnelson. If so, bravo. Whether it's an original or not (Google had nothing for this), it's as good an ode to the last decade of Federal Liberal governance as any.

Oh and the bastard STILL won't say "sorry".



PS On an unrelated note - 3 posts in as many days!! Holidays are rad.

Imogen has no hair, then...

Watching this (Youtubery) brought me back to the 90s. Not just the fond memory of an America before it went all green and "MERRKA SMASH!!" on us, but also the memory of an assembly held at one of my old schools as an inauguration for our new chaplain. This was back in '94 and on the agenda was a special item presented by the school choir - a rendition of Mr Lennon's imaginary sort-of-hymn.

It was a smart choice - a tune simple enough for even the most awkward of pubescent voices to carry in the midst of 30 others of similar timbre along with lyrics of a mildly radical sentiment bound to be received with grey nods of approval from aging baby-boomer staff members.

Except there's that bit where the listener is asked to not only imagine no country (what would Johnny Cash say?) but also: "and no religion, too."

As an audience member with a passing familiarity with Mr Lennon's body of work, I was waiting to hear a group of kids tell the chaplain what to do with her calling.... in song. However, our music teacher was a dear sweet soul whose intentions were essentially, good. Having anticipated the possible effrontery posed by the lyrics, he applied some judicious editing...

And so the line sung by our children came out as, "and no more fighting, too."

(which in turn reminds me of Mr Lennon himself applying some retrospective political correctness. In later years he would sing of "a brotherhood and sisterhood of man". Um, sisterhood of man?)

Incidentally, Mr Lennon would have been 67 years old two days ago.

Imagine that.

In Which Cary Admits to Being A Big Fat Lying McLiarpants

Yes, I am, indeed.

Having promised to continue blogging ahead after the travel tales and subsequently doing NOTHING AT ALL, I can only offer prostatey apologies to anyone who might have wasted a couple of clicks here expecting an update. I could also offer a feeble excuse about the rhythm of life and its various vicissitudes that have prevented me from updating this here blog but that would fall far short from a proper excuse, like the loss of a complete set of fingers or a comprehensive bout of amnesia that requires a special flashback episode of reminiscence.

Nevertheless, I'm still uncertain about the future of this blog. Ideally, I'll post something of interest once in a while but I don't think I can commit to a regular schedule.

Gem & I are currently planning a trip to Kuala Lumpur in January 2008 to use up some frequent flyer miles. I'm sure there'll be something to report then...

This Post is Brought to You By the Letter 'H'

Our last day in London begins with the now-mundane task of packing up and checking out. A steady regime of plain bread, carrot sticks, prescription drugs and plenty of water brings Gem back to some semblance of life.



And then we say Happy Trails to John who will go on to enjoy an extended trip to Ireland with Marty. Their wacky adventures on the Emerald Isle remain undocumented but the morbidly curious are directed here to demand full disclosure.

Whittled down to a party of four, we have a few good hours to kill before our flight. With fewer pounds to spare than Posh Becks on a diet, we decide to pass our time where there would be little chance of us spending any money at all. Naturally, we choose Harrods.





Once again, we have to be selective with our photography as most everything here is a "design original" which is a great excuse to apply price tags that look like telephone numbers. Obviously, they are concerned at the possibility of us taking a snapshot of their Jimmy Choo originals, then running back home to our sweatshops and start pumping out Gimmy Poo knock-offs.

No one seems to mind so much down at the food hall, though, so that's where most of our photies ended up coming from.



Of course, the idea of eating any of this stuff is patently ridiculous. It's way too pretty and to be able to afford any of it would probably require taking out a loan of some sort.



(Click on the yummy treats for embiggenment and a closer look at the prices.)

As we're leaving, Robin spots the coolest thing ever. It appears to be the bastard offspring of a pair of stilts and pogo-sticks.



There's no doubt that I'd be fitter if leaping and bounding were offered as a pedestrian option. In the future, we will all travel like this - it's the only safe way to get off a flying car.

After lunch, it's off to Hyde Park for a long slow amble around all that pretty green. It feels like we're in limbo now - looking forward to home, but NOT to the 18 hour journey to get there.



With our time effectively murdered, we head towards Heathrow Airport where the next two hours are spent in queues waiting to be probed, poked and prodded before we're declared safe for flying. This time, they're especially worried about carrying liquids on board which means Gem is forced to bin the bottle of water which is keeping her alive.

On the flight home, there's sleep aplenty for me and none for Gem. We part ways with Robin and Girly in Singapore as they prefer to spend the night there rather than face another 6 hour flight. Gem and I, however, can't wait.

Because Coming Home is, as always, so very very sweet.



(This isn't actually us at home - but it's the one of the nicest photies from our trip's final day.)

Next: Well, we're home now and have been for quite a few months. If you clicked on John's link above (or here if you're too slack to scroll), you'll know that his gallery is up and running and well worth a visit if you're a Perthling with a penchant for pretty pictures. The rest of us are back on the treadmill and gunning it like hamsters, looking forward to the next escape attempt.

Without any more trip to blog, I'm not entirely sure what to do with our little spot on the web. I assure you it won't be abandoned like the last time. I'm not a diarist either, but once in a while stuff happens and it's nice to have something to look at after it does.

So, what I'll aim for is slightly more frequent blogging but with shorter posts, perhaps.

To keep y'all amused in the interim, I've just added a brand new widget up the top that keeps track of the stupid stuff I find on the interweb.

Stay tuned for more, kids....

Pills, Thrills & Bellyaches*

Oh dear.



(Not a great day for photies. This is about as close a graphic depiction of Gem's day as I can offer.)

I suppose it was only a matter of time before our gustatory indulgence would inflict its ass-biting vengeance on us, or to be precise, on Gemma. From the wee hours of the previous night, the contents of Gem's stomach have been staging a re-enactment of the Titanic's last hours, with repeat performances throughout the day. Apparently, it's a riveting tour de force that keeps her gripping the edge of her oval plastic seat.

While I stick around making appropriate husbandy faces and noises, Marty leaves for Sussex to bash some relatives and the others do more of London.

By about 6 in the evening Gem decides that the show really needs to either end its run or find another venue. This requires the services of someone with a "Dr" in front of their name. Unfortunately, at this hour, the only one available is the 24 hour Dial-a-Doc, who arrives hours late, pokes about a bit, prescribes some pills and charges us 200 quid (around $425 AUD) for the privelege. Hint: never EVER take the word of anyone who says travel insurance is a waste of money.

As it turns out, the pills do what they say on the packet and are therefore worth every pretty penny.

The next day, Gem feels a-bit-better-but-not-great so stays behind while the rest of us head out to Notting Hill where the fringes are floppy and stammering is sexy. The Portobello Road Markets are open and chockfull of antique shoppers as well as shoppers of antiques.



John stops by at the local military recruitment centre. An ex-Army reserve man himself, he has fond memories of his belly-crawling, whistling days when he got to play with cool guns and stuff.



Just before he's about to take on the Zulu uprising, John has a change of heart.



Not much chance of adding to the Coalition of the Willing around here.



Better off helping Robin fight world hunger.

Later on we head back to the hotel where Robin, still feeling a bit tender, tags Gem, who is now as pilled-up as Elvis on a good day (youtubery) and feeling well enough for a stroll. So out we head again, this time to Camden Lock, because Saturday is Market Day and also most likely our last opportunity to pick up cheap trinkets and tat that we will later pass off on our friends as exotic curios of the Antepodes.

We meet up with Angie again and stop for refreshments at a posh wine bar where John wonders why we can't get fries for half the price at the KFC across the road



The Camden Market is all kinds of super sexy awesome as we shop, drop, shop again and only stop when our wallets start giving us that "don't look at me" attitude.




Later that evening, we meet up with Martin fresh out of the kitchen. As both Robin and Gem are still on the mend, we opt to stay in Earl's Court for the night. After dinner, we say goodbye to Angie and then many drinks later, to Martin.



It's been a rough couple of days but our evening with family and friend sticks a big fat J-curve in our collective mood. As local minstrels Chas 'n' Dave would have it - mustn't grumble.

Next: Harrod's, Hyde Park and (ugh) Heathrow

*Today's title is a tribute, via the Happy Mondays, to the late and great Tony Wilson.