As a kid back in the Sixties, I grew up in the inner south-west of Sydney. It was a district like so many others in Australia, being predominately populated by Anglo Saxons. However Marrickville was different, as it was one of the first suburbs inhabitated by immigrants. Or New Australians as they were more commonly known. I vividly recall catching the local bus through Marrickville with my brothers and playing 'Spot the Aussie'. Even back then we knew this was called 'racism'. Today, in a multiplicity of suburbs around Sydney this game would be called 'Spot the Anglo'. Check the list of 158 New Australians granted citizenship this week, proudly presided over by Acting Mayor, Clr. Wong. Click on this image at right and see how many Anglos you can find. I'm now a big fan of our multiculturalism. A once boring mono-cultural Australia has evolved into a multi-dimensional wonderland. Attention all New Australians - welcome to paradise !
Here's a deserted Hickson Road at Walsh Bay, outside the Sydney Theatre Company at 1.30 this morning. Usually the joint is packed with hundreds of hoon-mobiles which descend on the City every Saturday night for a Lap of the Main. Most vehicles are souped-up or supercharged Asian eggbeaters. Generally they are driven by descendants of Asian, Persian or Mediterranean immigrants.
Last night however, the police blocked both ends of Hickson Road, restricting entry to residents only. I delivered a female resident home to Walsh Bay who recounted feeling heavily intimidated by this crew in her neighbourhood.
And last Saturday night I ferried a photographer up and down Hickson Road for some shots. Whilst he also felt intimidated by the large groups of hyped up young adult males, he made the point as a local New Yorker, one lived downtown in large cities fully aware ones neighbourhood can sometimes be subjected to unwanted visitors. That's life, he said.
I wonder though, what legislation would the police be relying upon last night to close a public road to non-residents ? Do the NIMBY's of recently gentrified Walsh Bay have that much power ?
Here's some joyful images spotted around town last night. A bunch of oversized Christmas baubles at Botany and a large wedding party on the steps of the Mitchell Library. Then early this morning the Harbour Bridge conducted a preview of laser lights for tonights NYE show. Given what's gone down in Asia, I'd prefer a single rocket arching up into the night sky, to honour those souls lost with one brilliant burst. Accompanied by some appropiate music...
Despite this, I sincerely wish all my readers a Happy New Year in which yours dreams come true. 'Look not back in anger, nor forward in fear, but around in awareness' - Thurber
Note : 'a preview' video (1.08MB) opens in Quicktime
I pick up plenty of call girls, masseurs, prostitutes, whatever you want to call them. Lots call themselves 'receptionists'. ‘What do you do ?’, I used to ask naively. ‘Oh, I’m just a receptionist’, they'd reply. Which is a laugh given the large carry bags they tote over their shoulders, late at night.
Last decade I rented a room to a ‘receptionist’. A nice enough girl around thirty, somewhat overweight with a drinking problem. Working all night she would sleep through the day, awaking in time to attend to her daily laundry. Twenty, white face-washers strung on the back line was a constant of her tenancy. But she was 'just a receptionist’...
I’ve just watched the Mick Fleetwood story on ABC TV. The story of a man who grew up with a dream and held on to it through the good times and the bad. From the dizziness of fame and musical success to the despair of drink and drug addiction. And boy, now in his fifties he looks great. Why ? He had and has an innate sense of his own self worth and an unwavering belief in the power of family and love.
His previous pain was of the universal type. A frustrated search for identity, the longing for lasting love, a submersion into surrender and depression. Quicksand, which for regular folk there’s no escape. No respite nor hope of survival. I see these folk all night long, scurrying to score, wandering without intent, spiralling hopelessly down a sinkhole called life...
True love travels on gravel roads is a tune by Nick Lowe. Or so I hurriedly wrote whilst travelling some time ago. That’s what the radio jock said anyway.
It’s a catchy title of no real import. For I know of many solid relationships travelling quite smoothly, thanks very much. Indeed, it could equally be said true love refuses to entertain dodgy paths by unifying unquestionably, to easily sail above them.
Which is not to say true love on gravel roads doesn’t exist. Maybe it simply refers to those relationships forced to endure the rough bits, just to survive...
As promised, here's the video of the beautiful new Maserati. Note its sleek lines and stylish upholstery. Here's another video of the sporty wheels...grrrr
Oh, and Ms. Universe, Jennifer Hawkins, just happened to be hanging around. She looked very glamorous, sincere and generous to various suits lining up for photos with her. But she only had eyes for me, a man in uniform... Someone said she'd probably be paid $50,000 for the job. I'm in the wrong game.
It seems da boys from the inner-west have been out last night making a statement. Why dump 'n burn da wheels in a back lane when you can do it at the bus stop outside Dulwich Hill station. No wonder shops there have roller shutters !