Getting kids to sleep on a long weekend
I recall 1980s as two stages. Edgier part of the decade, when post punk music emerged; ABC "Sweet and Sour" and a local girl could be seen wearing fingerless gloves and black and red glamour flannel shirts with fluffed up fringe; later 80s, shoulder pads; every guy in primary school with mullet.
I got caught up in 1983 last night, when I read the Jimmy Barnes biography. I know.... I was surprised to discover something like nine solo albums be incredibly successful, I've never rated his music, always imagined his fans would be like the girl from primary school that wore acid wash jeans and a Ford windbreaker every day. But thanks to this biography I paid too much for (cost per book brought down by all the $3 books I'd bought the previous day at the Lions Book Mart), I have become a big supporter.
At Semaphore Music Festival, I bought two Cold Chisel albums, an Icehouse album, Dragon and Split Enz. My friend only approved the latter; associating the audiences of the others, with the quality of the music. WRONG! Cold Chisel is Don Walker, evocative wordsmith, both sister and mother share his literary skills. I loved SHOTS and was amused he'd spent more than a decade living in the Plaza Hotel, happy in the centre of it all. It made sense-compared to stagnancy of country towns, and dusty plains north of Adelaide, one would be happy in the centre of cosmopolitan bustling energy, even if seedy. Of all fantasy places, I'd choose the centre of a dense city in a room with a view; or else as I lived in northern NSW, a seaside village on a headland overlooked by mountains.
Something I read today evoked something else: outdoors weather, days of travelling by foot, bike or bus, hours spent in bus shelters or incomplete shelter, in rain, waiting for a bus up to an hour away, long journeys crawling in traffic, you the only passenger, you have to walk from bus stop to destination.
The music festival was okay, David Bridie and his fellow muso were good, I heard glimpses of Huckleberry Swedes from workers club. We walked along the jetty, water gently chopping and flowing, viewed from close and a glinting haze from the esplanade. We drove to Outer Harbour, to view shipping yards and a commercial liner, a long circuit so we could get the kid asleep. It worked, he was exhausted from running laps of the playground. Bumped into two groups of friends, which was great, ate at My Tho on Hanson Road with Rachel and Adam. Adam laughed at my explanation of how I entertain the kid (letting him do housework) and my relief I'm providing him with appropriate sensory experiences.
I got caught up in 1983 last night, when I read the Jimmy Barnes biography. I know.... I was surprised to discover something like nine solo albums be incredibly successful, I've never rated his music, always imagined his fans would be like the girl from primary school that wore acid wash jeans and a Ford windbreaker every day. But thanks to this biography I paid too much for (cost per book brought down by all the $3 books I'd bought the previous day at the Lions Book Mart), I have become a big supporter.
At Semaphore Music Festival, I bought two Cold Chisel albums, an Icehouse album, Dragon and Split Enz. My friend only approved the latter; associating the audiences of the others, with the quality of the music. WRONG! Cold Chisel is Don Walker, evocative wordsmith, both sister and mother share his literary skills. I loved SHOTS and was amused he'd spent more than a decade living in the Plaza Hotel, happy in the centre of it all. It made sense-compared to stagnancy of country towns, and dusty plains north of Adelaide, one would be happy in the centre of cosmopolitan bustling energy, even if seedy. Of all fantasy places, I'd choose the centre of a dense city in a room with a view; or else as I lived in northern NSW, a seaside village on a headland overlooked by mountains.
Something I read today evoked something else: outdoors weather, days of travelling by foot, bike or bus, hours spent in bus shelters or incomplete shelter, in rain, waiting for a bus up to an hour away, long journeys crawling in traffic, you the only passenger, you have to walk from bus stop to destination.
The music festival was okay, David Bridie and his fellow muso were good, I heard glimpses of Huckleberry Swedes from workers club. We walked along the jetty, water gently chopping and flowing, viewed from close and a glinting haze from the esplanade. We drove to Outer Harbour, to view shipping yards and a commercial liner, a long circuit so we could get the kid asleep. It worked, he was exhausted from running laps of the playground. Bumped into two groups of friends, which was great, ate at My Tho on Hanson Road with Rachel and Adam. Adam laughed at my explanation of how I entertain the kid (letting him do housework) and my relief I'm providing him with appropriate sensory experiences.
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