Scribulator

Easy, Tiger

2009-12-04T15:02:00.002+11:00

In a week of odd and odder news stories, Tiger's takes the cake. Is it just me, or is there something phallic about this map of the route his car took that night?

When George met The Nanny

2009-11-26T20:51:00.006+11:00

In another lifetime my mother walked into a doctor's office for a job interview. Sounds like the start of a bad joke, and in a way it is. Inside the clinic, to the left of the baby grand piano and past the chandelier sat this bloke:

Not George Costanza, but Dr Geoffrey Edelsten himself. Ex-owner of the Sydney Swans during their late eighties glam-rock period. Lamborghini-driving, busty-blonde chasing, ex-criminal Dr. E.

He resurfaced in Melbourne just in time for the 2009 Brownlow Medal dinner, after many years out of the spotlight, with a bad hair tint and a blonde he met in a club in Las Vegas. I ran into him in person at the AFL Grand Final, somewhat of a highlight on a very forgettable day, meaning he has now met half of my family.

But here's where it gets weird. Warwick Capper-weird. He's now marrying said buxom lass, who has a name but it's largely irrelevant. She's a generation-busting 40 years his junior. The ceremony is to be MC'd by George Costanza (Jason Alexander) and The Nanny (Fran Drescher). And if that's not enough, he's now running around town flinging wads of cash at any big name singer he can lure to the big show on Sunday.

Could it all be an elaborate ruse to promote the disbarred doc's latest venture in Caroline Springs? All the proceeds from the wedding are going to charity, which is lovely and all, but since when do weddings have proceeds?

The whole thing is madly intriguing, but Happy Festivus to you all. And my mother? She took one look at her potential boss, turned around without saying a word and walked out the door.

Things that make me happy...

2009-10-13T15:53:00.005+11:00

No words required.

'Me and Mike are Scotch'

2009-06-21T22:32:00.008+10:00

Tuning into Guess Who's Coming to Dinner where there should have been football was a lucky break. This is a tightly scripted masterpiece. So many great but innocuous lines have been echoing around my head ever since, such as Spencer Tracy's drink order above. Only wet winter afternoons suit old movie watching, and that's why I'm looking for a place in the Shetlands.

Some notes:

- Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn live in a ludicrously positioned San Francisco house. They have a clear view of the Golden Gate and Bay Bridges, which as far as I can tell means the house floats in a cloud about 500 metres above the highest point in the city. Even though it's a set, I want it to be real.
- There is no question mark in the film's title. I will have to learn to live with this.
- Sidney Poitier knew how to wear a suit and own every scene he's ever been in.
- At the time of shooting marriage between the races was illegal in 16 states, according to Sidney Poitier's fictional dad.
- The most shocking part for me was the daughter calling a busybody a bitch.
- In 1967 San Francisco the butcher will deliver just four steaks to your house.
- In 1967 San Francisco the butcher's delivery boy dances on your doorstep to no music. Far out daddy-o.
- When Spencer Tracy reverses and crashes his car into another car, he appeases the angry driver with $50 cash, which is $20 more than the guy reckons it'll take to fix.
- Spencer Tracy was in very poor health throughout filming, although you'd never know it. He died 17 days after the film wrapped.

Who's a bad blogger?

2009-05-08T15:23:00.002+10:00

All blog experts will tell you that a daily entry is critical to success. My two-month 'No news is good news' experiment has proven otherwise - I'm getting more hits every day by doing absolutely nothing. Something else I don't understand.

My laconic blogging could be explained by multiple overseas trips, the start of the football season or discovering Mad Men. Instead I'll blame Toby Ziegler, nine kilograms of fun who adopted us recently.

Out of Vogue Travel

2009-03-16T15:26:00.009+11:00

When I look at travel magazines I see a whole lot of glossy prettiness that I might momentarily lust after, but I know that what I really want out of global adventuring is the odd, the cheesy and the so uncool it's come full circle back to cool. Slinky is nice, but dinky is forever. I once stalked a whole family with mullets through the streets of Paris for an hour, hoping for the perfect shot. I couldn't tell you a single other thing of note I did that day, week or trip.

Take a recent trip to Singapore and Malaysia. My time was jam-packed with work, so opportunities for mullet hunting were limited. I did some scrappy internoodle research before I left, however, and quickly stumbled upon my first free time activity - the fish spa.

A spa can be a jacuzzi, or a place you go to for various overpriced treatments involving shea butter, rocks and a small but violent woman who smiles while she hurts you. In this case, the spa was a toddler pool filled with fish that are slightly bigger than bait and have a keen interest in nibbling your feet.

You begin by exchanging the obligatory piranha joke with the attendant. He won't smile. When you finally put your feet in the fish will go nuts for you, having gradually lost interest in the other feet in their world (yes, it's a communal pool). These are cheese lovin' fish, evidently. Next, giggle like a lady-boy for an extraordinary amount of time until you almost pass out and topple into the thing. Finally, just as your fifteen minutes for 10 Ringgit is almost up, achieve a state of acceptance and enjoyment of this most disturbing spa treatment.

I can't vouch for any therapeutic benefits, although the sign says 'Improved Circulation and Skin Exfoliation'. That may well be true, but if laughter is the best medicine then this is a quadrupal bypass. I discovered there are other places in Singapore where you do this and can go in up to your neck. Let's hope they're not cave-dwelling fish.

As I sprinted through Great World City in Singapore for a meeting I could not help but notice a restaurant plastered with gold records, guitars and other musical whatnot. On closer inspection I saw that this was a restaurant named for that most obvious Singaporean obsession, Mr. Kenny Rogers. The restaurant was called 'Kenny Rogers Roasters' and offers 'The world's greatest chicken'. It's these moments of discovery that make the most tedious flights worthwhile. Someone had built a shrine to Kenny Rogers! In Singapore?! I stood outside, head angled like a confused dog, for some time before resuming my sprint.

Sometime later that week, and after speaking to many people about my discovery, I learned that Kenny Rogers Roasters is actually a very big deal in Asia. Marvellous! They have stores all over Asia, and are huge in the Philippines in particular. Every one I saw was packed to the hilt with punters hungry for a slice of Kenny goodness.

I note with intense personal and possibly professional interest that Australia is listed on their website as 'Coming Soon'. Oh please let it be true. Not for the food (I ate there and fillet of foot fish would be better) but for the sheer delight of seeing Kenny's face beaming down from the logo wherever I go (and note that the logo sports a pre-cosmetic surgery Kenny image. Bizarrely, post-op Kenny has more than a little Colonel Sanders about him).

It's sublimely absurd and what I call travel.

Taking a Crack at Defining a City

2009-02-28T11:12:00.004+11:00

No two people will describe the same city in the same way. I recently completed a project with my take on Melbourne for Travel Muse in the US.

Scammers are getting lazier, or we're getting dumber

2009-02-21T08:55:00.006+11:00

Trick me once, shame on you. Trick me twice, shame on me. Pay ten large into a complete stranger's bank account, you're an evolutionary oversight.

I love reading the phishing scams that come my way. All these people sitting on so much money! If only they could get it out of their country, poor loves.

And such complicated lives they lead. Well-meaning doctors who've inherited a patient's millions. UN officials with bulging bank accounts. Nephews of recently dead millionaires with no time to waste. Deposed princes of various kinds on the run. The stories are thick with glamour.

This one is my favourite. I win millions almost every week because someone in Spain wants to 'encourage' me to use the internet. Like I need encouragement.

After listing a car for sale on Craigslist I discovered a whole new level of dumbed-down scamming. Check out one of the responses I got:

>> Thanks for the email and happy new year,do let me know how much you
>> are willing to sell the item to me . I will be paying with my paypal
>> account which is the safest online payment mode.so please do reply me
>> asap with your paypal account or send me a payment request from your
>> paypal account so i can effect payment to you rightaway. You can
>> easily open an account with paypal if you don,t have one at
>> www.paypal.com.au its safe,simple and reliable also do get back to me
>> so we can arrange for pick up as i will like the item to be picked by
>> my pick up agent due to the fact that i am out of the country now on
>> job duties,so no shipping included I await your reply.
>>
>>
>> Hope to hear from you soon.
>> Regards

This guy sure loves PayPal, and talking about PayPal. He loves it so much he will ignore absolutely everything related to buying a car and just focus on how quickly, safely and conveniently he can get me my money. Now I'm no car expert per se, but at some point in the transaction I usually like to look at the thing I'm buying. I'm crazy that way. He has a pick-up agent, too, which makes me feel very secure, safe and convenient. Damn, it's catching.

But this takes the cake. I think the scammer sent me the wrong email - this is obviously Valerio Bracalone's 'selling a car' scam email:

Hello ,

Thank you for your enquiry regarding my vehicle.
The vehicle is in perfect working condition i'm the only owner and it has 2009 Rego so you will have no problem registering and licensing the vehicle.
I've worked in Australia for the past 3 years and since the birth of my son in January 2009 i came home to Italy.
The vehicle is in Australia at DAS freight department and i have full access(i can deliver the vehicle anywhere in Australia).
I will arrange delivery on my cost to your home address and you will have a 5 days period for inspection.
The total price includes (stamp duty, registration, transfer fee, and insurance).
We can use an escrow agreement to facilitate payment so that we both can be 100 % protected.
www.escrow.com/solutions/escrow/process.asp
I will also supply some more pictures as soon as i get home from work.
If you are interested,please reply with the following information's in order to arrange shipping at DAS freight department:
-Your full name ;
-Full delivery address(with postal code);

So he's Italian, he has a new son (You can trust people with kids, right? Nice touch Valerio) and has forgotten to sell his car. The price includes insurance (How does that work, Valerio?). I shouldn't be concerned, however, because a word like 'escrow' screams authenticity, doesn't it? But the website where I'll be putting my money just doesn't look right, despite the fancy word. Valerio, cheeky boy, is that you again? Well, I never.

If I only I could make money scammer baiting. Wait a minute...

Seeking Steinbeck, Finding Party Dude

2009-02-01T11:29:00.008+11:00

Anyone familiar with John Steinbeck's work will know about Monterey. This is the setting for the books Cannery Row and Sweet Thursday. He thinly fictionalised his scientist friend Ed Ricketts into the character Doc for these novels. Tonnes of sardines were pulled from these waters, and the waterfront town was alive with salty characters.

Of course it was high on my to-do list when I was in California recently. I was excited to see the physical home and inspiration for these great books.

Sadly, Monterey has become a kitschy joke. All fishing has disappeared. Any evidence of Steinbeck has been hosed away and replaced with American Fat-o-Matic Dining establishments. There was literally nothing to see related to the area's most famous son (only afterwards did I realise that The Steinbeck Center was 17 miles away in Salinas)

The day was a complete bust until I spotted this (and click the image for a gorgeous close-up):

This guy was rockin' out with a keyboard guitar and not a single person cared. Except for me. There was no irony in his choice of instrument - his haircut and spotless white trousers screaming 'The 80's will never be over as long as I'm around!' make that very clear.

It was heavenly and, dare I say it, the best gig I have ever seen for reasons no other performer in the world will be able to match.

Steinbeck can wait.

Yes He Can

2009-01-20T13:37:00.004+11:00

In a few hours Barack Obama will take the seat held mostly incompetently by Bush Jr. Over the last few days this nincompoop's attempts in the media to sell himself as having been a great president have been embarrassing. Awarding a 'Thanks for Fighting a Ridiculous War with Me' award to our own ex-Little Johnnie was equally nauseating. I hope both of them disappear forever. Falling through a stage trapdoor would be poetic.

Obama has shown us he has all the moves, and he'll make some mistakes no doubt, but I'm a believer.

Hiroshi Goes Home

2009-01-13T17:06:00.002+11:00

When I wrote about Hiroshi a while back I was desperate to know what his motives were. He's now on his way home, and while I'd still like to know what he was thinking, I'm more concerned that he doesn't do something stupid. He strikes me as a man on the edge.

Good luck to you, Hiroshi.

Revolutionary Road - I'm Watching You, Mendes

2009-01-11T19:34:00.008+11:00

The novel Revolutionary Road by American Richard Yates was handed to me years ago with a wink and the words 'It's a writer's novel'. I won't presume to know what that means, but it's a damn fine book.

Since its publication in 1961 it has surely been passed along like this many times. I've been recommending it to anyone who'll listen ever since, and had to go to some lengths to retrieve my own battered copy from tardy borrowers.

It hasn't won awards and isn't popularly celebrated like other American classics of its generation. The author's name mostly draws a blank, and I've yet to read anything else he wrote. There might not be anything else. It doesn't matter, as this book contains the smoothest writing I think I've ever come across.

Sam Mendes has filmed it with Di Caprio and wife Winslet playing the leads.

The trailer looks weak. Read the book. Don't see the film until you have.

Next on 'From Book to Film - Pass Me the Valium' is Shantaram starring The Depp. I'm almost too scared to look.

So I Know What Time It Is, Bro

2009-01-02T16:38:00.009+11:00

Many years ago a friend was working at The Hilton hotel in Melbourne and ran into Public Enemy's Flavor Flav in the lift. Despite being off the clock, so to speak, Flav still sported a large timepiece around his neck. When asked why he responded 'So I know what time it is, bro.'

Indeed.

Public Enemy are pretty regular visitors to Australia, and last night I saw them for the first time at The Esplanade Hotel in St Kilda. I saw part of the gig, anyway, as the over-crowded venue full of drunk, hip-hop tourist tough guys quickly became unbearable and we quit while we were ahead.

New Year's Day gigs are invariably attended by those who think the new year should be celebrated over several days, not just one. Hell, just carry on from Christmas - you're already drunk, eh? I'm open to you celebrating any way you like so long as you can still a) stand up without falling on me and spilling my drink and b) co-exist in the same crowded space as other humans without losing the plot. Sadly, last night The Espy was chock-a-block with tools who don't know when to quit.

Nana-rant aside, Public Enemy are something to see. They were late on stage. Very late, in fact, but I'll let them off given they'd played in Brisbane earlier in the day. And they do have to travel with Flav, which is undoubtedly like trying to herd a deranged cat.

I've watched a lot of roadies over the years, but Public Enemy's crew looked like they had never set-up for a band before in their lives. Every few minutes yet another all-in-black dude would appear from backstage, wander around touching various pieces of equipment and then disappear again. Meanwhile over a thousand people stood jammed together in mass of sweating, drunken anticipation waiting for the kick-off. When an older roadie in an ill-fitting shell suit and wearing a bum bag started 'inspecting' the roof with his handy flashlight I realised that my career path actually looks alright.

Finally two men in military dress march onto the stage, signalling that the wait has ended. They perform a little marching and saluting, then stand near the front of the stage. From time to time they sing a little back-up, but mostly they survey the crowd and glare at anyone getting a little too close to their crew.

DJ Lord began and Flavor Flav appeared in an Eskimo coat. The crowd went berserk. He stripped off the coat to reveal the clock, the gold teeth and the Flavor we savour.

In the last couple of years Public Enemy have taken to playing the entire album It Takes A Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back live and in order. He announced this was tonight's playlist, and a wicked concept, and as they launch into track 1 the room heaves.

There is a particular breed of gig idiot that is almost unavoidable. These people have no notion of personal space or gig etiquette (which essentially says this is my 20 square centimetres of space, go find your own and get out of my rib cage). By the time we got to track four the girls I was with were more than a little nervous about the crowd and the venue was quickly exposed for the small gig venue it is. More and more people were cramming into less and less space and the vibe was becoming nasty on all fronts. We left, which is a real shame, because Public Enemy were brilliant live and everything I hoped they would be.

The venue and the crowd, however, killed the joy.

Rudely Interrupted

2008-12-17T19:37:00.011+11:00

Sometimes people you know do things that make you feel...bloody jealous, actually.

My friend Wolvo went to a BBQ a couple of years back and met this bloke who had just started a band. Every second dude you meet has just started a band, so what? This is no ordinary rock band, though. The other band members have some form of mental or physical disability. Unlike many bands all are excellent musicians. They call themselves Rudely Interrupted. Nice story so far.

But there's so much more. The Wolvo machine swung into action, taking over promotion, bookings and road managing. When he relocated to Brooklyn he managed to talk his way into a gig for them at the UN in New York. It's understandable how the feeble minds of the UN were powerless in the face of his charming ways - I have fallen under his spell many times myself.

On December 3rd Rudely Interrupted played at the UN. First rock band ever to do so. In your face, Irish super group. That night they played a gig in Brooklyn, and the next night in Manhattan, then in Canada and then a few gigs in the UK before heading home. The reviews have been brilliant ('...they're already leaps and bounds ahead of Jet' is my favourite).

Every good band needs two things - talent and a hook. The Smiths' hook was being the most miserable band in the world. Bon Jovi's was being the hairiest, although Def Leppard may want to rumble for that title, and what an excellent fight card that would make. The Rudie's hook is just more real than most.

Rudely Interrupted are sniffing around for a record deal. Rock on.

No Spec for me, thanks

2008-12-05T02:42:00.006+11:00

I'm not talking about the fatty meat from a pig-obsessed corner of Europe. I can't think of a reason for ever saying no to more of that.

I'm talking about the kind of spec that involves me as a freelancer being expected to provide copy without contract or promise of payment, while simultaneously being asked to believe that if the 'editor' wants to use it they will then pay me for it. Sure you will.

This has been a hot topic on freelance writing sites since Al Gore invented the internoodle. Knocking out 1000 words and then trying to sell it to someone is the least efficient way to make a living as a freelance writer. Or the most efficient way to ensure a beans on toast dinner. Every night. Forever.

No, freelancers like certainty in their lives. Coffee. Gin. Tax deductible office goods. A buyer contracted to purchase your work before you get out of bed.

But with more and more people getting into freelancing (thanks to Al and his magical communication device) and the publishing world changing too, the economics have gone to pot. It's gotten so bad that there are people bidding for jobs for as low as a cent a word. A cent! That's a whole tenner for 1000 words of carefully conceived and thoughtfully bled-over copy. Who are these writers?

They're students, or people in countries where $10 is actually $200 and English is not the first language. So much for quality. Every time one of these low-rent scribblers takes on a job for this price the global slouch of writers suffers. That editor, and every editor they tell, will never pay full price again, and will probably want their car washed too.

A situation born of the noodle is now being attacked by the noodle. Freelancers are now harnessing their collective powers and energies against the evil spec by err, complaining a lot, selling t-shirts and designing posters (on spec, it has to be said).

Actually they're fighting the good fight. Good on them. I can't see how they can win, though. When supply presents itself to demand with legs akimbo even Marilyn standing over a metro grill won't distract from a fast and dirty consummation.

How was your day, honey?

2008-11-30T11:50:00.002+11:00

A bad day at work for me might involve a little extra deadline stress, an act of physical ineptitude involving a stapler and holes in my finger or a colleague going off message and off the planet. All retrievable situations and nothing that a stiff aperitif won't alleviate.

My white-collared brain reels at how bad this day was for two Qantas workers moving a couple of planes about. Stabbing the nose of one plane with the wing of another is surely as average a day as anyone doing that job has ever had. The moment it happened must have been an out of body experience for those in the cockpit, although I sense the bloke pictured wiping away tears of laughter wasn't one of them.

I've bumper-kissed the odd car when attempting to reverse park, and that's more than enough machine-on-machine action for me, but there's no bill attached to that clumsy work. This is going to cost Qantas millions, unless there is a Super Cheap Aero store somewhere that stocks 747 noses and wing repair kits.

The next performance review for those involved will undoubtedly be a sweaty-palmed affair.

Ten minutes of fame for seven months of sit-down

2008-11-25T23:41:00.001+11:00

There is a widely reported, and frankly confusing, story doing the rounds of a Japanese national Hiroshi Nohara who has been sitting quietly in Terminal 1 of the Benito Juarez International Airport in Mexico City since September 2nd. Until his visa runs out in March he is breaking no laws and cannot be sent home.

This raises some perplexing questions. Most obvious is 'What the hell are you doing Hiroshi?' His response to that is 'I don't have a reason'.

I have wrestled with this answer, wrestled with it long and hard when I should have been doing other equally trivial things. This is surely a man in a dark place. He doesn't know why he has imprisoned himself in an airport food court but stays anyway.

But is he really as mad as his answer seems to be? I can think of dozens of things I do that I can't explain. When I drink coffee I have to wait and let the sugar grains sink through the crema in their own good time. In moments of extreme joy I have a tendency to moonwalk long distances. Why? I don't have a reason.

Maybe Hiroshi likes the airport, or perhaps he doesn't like Japan very much. Whatever his motivation is for squatting in an international airport doesn't really matter, although I am desperately hoping for a Mexican love-interest being pursued by bandidos to appear somewhere in this story.

Hiroshi is where he wants to be, even if he doesn't know why. I've heard of worse situations.

What is a Scribulator?

2008-11-25T23:34:00.002+11:00

It's a blog name that hasn't already been taken. It's not a real word as far as I can tell, but it's now a real place. It may become my alter-ego and tax shelter. Let's see what happens. If Marvin the Martian was a writer he would use a scribulator.

If it's good enough for him, it's good enough for me.