Okay so the weekend ritual is over, thanks to all who made it happen. Thanks and happy birthday to Chris Clements. And Jane Birkin flew into town, which is spooky because my obsession with Serge and Jane B had reignited 2 days prior, with no knowledge of her impending performance. Melbourne is my Paris. Is Melbourne a romantic city? I believe yes. It smells romantic. That heady aroma of ammonia and faeces. It is a beautiful city. But its also a sports mad pit. And soon, as the 'footy' season kicks off, we won't hear the end of it. The fucking footy. Footy this , footy that. Magpies this, small tree dwelling marsupial that. Scarves and gawdy colours and neo-tribal rivalries. And yelping and hollering. And hoopin'. Woop woop. I do share one thing in common with the hoards - a pathological and dangerously unhealthy love of beer (a kind of fermented beveridge brewed with hops).
Crude plans for the next while - to continue the low fidelity outbursts, and to assemble the Aesthetics together for party performances and the odd pub gig. Got some new material down, some internal struggling rendered as chanson, nothing like the monotony of the workplace to get the creative juices flowing. Just think Charles Bukowski and his Post Office. Ian Curtis and his job at the Welfare Office.
So to the week ahead - whatever will be will be. We try. We do what we can with our lot. Melbourne is a city that i call home whether Melbourne cares or not. (it dosen't - ed) I couldn't find work in Dunedin, no matter how hard I tried. So we packed up and left - all in the nick o' time to avoid the stealthy structural adjustments planned by our beloved 'National' Party.