Power.

Orwell suggested that power could only be truly expressed by inflicting sufferng on another, his image of power was a jackboot stamping on a human face eternally.

Is there another form of power? Can I have a sense of power over my own life without having to express it through actions that affect another? Even the most powerful monk can't know his own power until he displays it to another, can he?

Resources are by nature finite, that is what makes them resources, so every time we take some we are taking them from someone else. If I have more you have less and vice versa. Is the same true of power? When I feel powerful and free to do and say as I wish am I acting at the expense of someone else?

This blog is all question, no answer, clearly I have no idea. The only times I feel powerful are when I'm singing well or when I'm loving. Even love turns into a power game too often.

Feel free to tell me what you think, I'll get back when some of these questions have found their answer twins that were seperated from them at birth.

Parkstreet.

The Office And The Man.

Being Prime Minister of Australia is something to be, head of one of the longest running democracies on the planet and a damned good one at that. I respect the position and what it represents but the man who currently holds the job is a dickhead.

His latest effort to make his country and therefore his countrymen look small was a reaction to the comments of an American comedian. For a man who wants to be head of the U.N. he showed no understanding of a foreign culture or how that culteure sees us.

The comedian said something about Australians being rednecks, our Prime Minister hit back with a dig about the people of Alabama. What was he thinking? Fucking dickhead. Thin skinned fool. Socially inept imbecile. Self obsessed wanker. I could go on but you get the picture.

The question is how people like this gain positions of power in the first place? Shouldn't a solid democratic system weed out morons like this before they reach the top? We've been successfully running our own elections for over a century, surely we should have the maturity to spot a chronic masturbator before we let him speak on our behalf?

The correct response, Mr. Rudd, was to say nothing. If that proved too hard you might have shared the joke, said that if being a redneck means taking time to chill and enjoy a barbecue in the sun then redneck we are.  Comedians make jokes for a living, making a joke of yourself has just added to the reputation of the comedian, subtracted from the reputation of our country.

This one comment isn't a big deal in it's own right, it is just symbolic of what a fool the man is, how little he understands life outside his political party reality, how little he respects the job he holds. Dickhead.

Parkstreet.

Banging Stuff Together.

The particle collider near Geneva is up and running. I could not be more excited. Is there a risk I may appear to be a nerd? So be it, the particle collider is fucking exciting to me and I'm not embarrassed to say it out loud.

All the numbers associated with this device are very big or very small,  it can't be easily explained in a short blog. Fundamentally very small pieces of matter are being banged together at diabolical speeds, pretty much just to see what comes out in the wash. I'm confident these experiments will change the way we look at our universe, possibly to the point where we have to start calling it a multiverse as new realities are unfurled. I'm also sure it will change the way we produce electricity, manufacturing processes and materials, medicine, computing and communications, just about everything. Oh yeah, and it will change our understanding of the space/time continuum.

May I repeat, I'm very fucking excited.

Call me a nerd today, come back to me in twenty years when everything has changed.

Parkstreet.

Sensory Aggression.

I go into bars, cafes, shops and my ears are assailed by stupidly loud music, often music in the gay white funk genre.

No one seems to notice, I wonder how they'd react if their other senses were treated the same way? Imagine a stranger pushing chillis into your mouth, shining bright lights into your eyes, pricking your skin with needles or waving a dog turd beneath your nose? Can you imagine anyone doing that and not punching them on the nose? So why do we accept that our hearing will be crapped on every day?

I don't get it.

Parkstreet.

Big Brother Internet Filter.

In the Australian federal senate there is a religious zealot playing the child pornography card to gain support for internet censorship in the shape of a filter system. This internet filter will be set up to block blacklisted sites. Blacklisted by whom? By public servant or politician?

Naturally everyone rejects child pornography. To use it as a political tool is almost as shameful as viewing it. The number of people who do view such material is tiny, the criminally involved will find a way no matter what restrictions our government attempts. Maybe attacking the actual criminals who produce this material instead of censoring us law abiding internet users is a more apt approach, if child pornography were the real target of this exercise.

Our government is foisting a book burning technology on us, where an invisible list of sites will be disappeared before we get to see them. They kindly want to relieve us of the responsibility of choosing how we use the web. The only comparable system can be found in China.

The social engineering class, the superior, university educated  do gooding fucks who make up our government need to be stopped on this issue. This is not the time for being a laid back Australian. This is the time to write to your local member, to threaten a change of vote if they don'r resist this internet filter and other Orwellian censorship.

Parkstreet.

Congratulations To Google On China.

Google has stood up to China on censorship despite the size and potential of the market there. Three cheers and hooray for this display of commercial courage.

It is unfashionable to judge other countries,  it is seen as culturally condescending, a colonial hangover. I don't agree. If the political system in China sucks it sucks and there is no point pretending otherwise. The lack of political freedom in China sucks big elephant dicks. There, I said it.

Google is standing up to a bully. It is serving it's own interests, at the same time it is serving us, the people who want a free internet.

Parkstreet.

Moonlighting.

I've been watching the old 80's series Moonlighting in the mornings. As a saxophonist it takes me back to the lowest ebb of saxophone playing taste during that era, the rest of the show is terrific. I love the way it says,"this is a television show, we want you to care what happens to David and Maddy but not so much you miss the great gags we are presenting".

I love this healthy use of post modernism. Let's face it, post modernism is hilarious and should be fun for all. There are no new stories, no new gags, just new ways of presenting them.  In the same way there are only so many notes on a saxophone, then there is how we play them.

Fashions change, and often take over from the essential story. A lot of post modernist art has become pointless because it is a clever person shouting,"look at how post modernist I am" instead of telling the gags and stories, playing the notes. Moonlighting found the blend of a new style and old ideas like character and dialogue.

I find myself caring what happens to the people,even though they keep pointing out they aren't real people. I just wish I could record the soundtrack again.

Parkstreet.

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The Alien Intelligence Made Me Do It.

Do you remember on Star Trek when an alien intelligence would take over the mind of a crew member and make him do crazy shit? Eventually the brilliance of Spock or Kirk would oust the alien, the crew member would go back to normal and all would be forgiven instantly, everyone would understand his actions were out of his control.

I wish real life were more like that. Sometimes something gets a hold of us, an addiction or compulsion, and once we are over it we wonder what we were thinking, just want to forget it happened and go back to normal. Sometimes we find it harder to forgive ourselves than it is for others to. Sometimes it is impossible to understand what took over our otherwise sensible minds and why we let it.

If it was good enough for Kirk and the Enterprize crew then it is good enough for me, I'm going to forgive myself for some of the dumb things I've done.

Parkstreet.

High Heels For Babies.

You've probably been made aware that someone has produced high heeled shoes for babies, designed to be worn in photographs or other occasions that babies who are too young to walk are shown off.

Violence is the answer to this unforgiveable transgression of good taste. Anyone involved in the manufacture, distribution, sales or purchase of high heels for babies should be beaten without mercy. That's all I've got.

Parkstreet.

Erect Like A Stallion.

Warrior horses were interred standing up, an honour reserved for them, they could enter their heaven with the dignity befitting their class. Some romantic race horse owners continue this tradition today.

I too shall be buried standing up, not in the stance of a warrior or an athlete, rather in the pose of a godless dilletante leaning at the bar of a tiny Parisian cafe, awaiting the first coffee of the day, the one with milk.

When that first taste of French full cream blended with the all but bitter hits my lips I shall leave this world happily, enter my heaven in a style apt for the bum poet.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Who Are These Australians?

Inhabitants of Terra Australis Incognito, the unknown southern land, who are these Australians?

Indigenous Australians have been here for tens of thousands of years, long enough for their creation myths to say they were always here, from the time the land and water were divided. Genetically they are African, as are we all.

The modern Australian lives in a culture that lands somewhere between Western Europe and North America with flavours of nearly every other nation on earth. They live on the world's biggest island, the dryest continent. They are tropical Asians on one coast, ice bitten islanders in the south. Most live on the Pacific coast yet could just as easily live on The Southern Ocean, The Indian Ocean, the north coast abutts too many straits and seas to remember.

We are largely city dwellers with a bush myth, everyone feels connected to one part of rural Australia that they may or may not retire to. We are naive yet sophisticated, wordly yet distant from the events of the other hemisphere. Most of us spend time in other countries, most of us return, some of us feel the remoteness and want to move long term.

Aggression is our natural stance, once you've proved yourself you are accepted as a mate for life. We drink too much, eat food from everywhere, consume and produce art from every culture but not much of our own. We are young, it will be another couple of centuries before we really exist.

Who I am as an Australian is on my mind right now that I'm thinking of leaving. It is possible to leave a true love, a new life in the real world awaits.

Parkstreet.

Music And Colour And All The Senses Mixed Up.

When we listen to great music we experience colour. Some people actually see the colours, others have a vague feeling of their presence. When this sensation isn't apparent it isn't music you are listening to.

Touch can give us a sense of taste, try it when you stroke a lover's skin and you'll know it is true, you'll know what they taste like. We can hear the sounds in a great painting. Again, some can actually hear the individual noises, most of us receive the sensation of the sound. The silence in some paintings can be daunting and completely unlike an absence of sound.

All the senses are connected and should inspire each other.  Most of what I experience around me is aimed at a singular sense and lacks the depth to trigger other responses. I've been trying to work out what has been making me feel so uncomfortable for so long and today it just came to me. This knowledge was in me, another human triggered it.

When other humans inspire all the senses at once we know something deep and real is happening.

Parkstreet.

Melbourne G.P.

I'm watching the Formula One Grand Prix on television from my hometown of Melbourne. I used to live spitting distance from the track so it's always a nostalgia trip to watch the scenery go by. I don't give a flying crap who wins.

The girl I used to live there with went along to the track a few times, came home as horny as I'd ever known her. Seems the noise and vibration does something to a young lady's anatomy. For that reason I was in favour of the race being so close to home.

Auto manufacturers drive the commercial reality of these events. It won't be many years until electric cars are the main focus of the big car makers, so I'm trying to imagine an all electric Formula One, a silent, all electric Grand Prix. I don't think anyone will show up. I reckon they'll have to pump some sort of noise into the track to create the big powerful atmosphere that seems to attract the crowds. Maybe it will be like the cameras on cell phones with their faux shutter sounds, electric cars with fast revving recordings pumping out of their pretend exhaust pipes.

Shiny, noisy, smelly, a little dangerous. No one could care less about driving skill or engineering.

Parkstreet.

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Police Women, Women Who Are Police.

I emerge from underground Redfern Station, at the pedestrian lights I am behind two policewomen on their way to work. They are wearing boots, tough blue military style trousers, carrying their light blue shirts. Both are wearing skimpy tops, one plain black, the other soft and pink. A weird mix of feminine and butch, sweet young lovelies who could kick my arse if they wanted to.

I'm fascinated by the new gender roles that feminism has allowed. Is it weird that I'm turned on by her firm breasts and the fact that she could grapple and subdue me? One would hope this freedom would also mean freedom for men, that we can now choose careers and styles that suit our nature, not a social image. I reckon women have been quicker to take advantage of the new rules, I don't see many male childcare workers, or flute players for that matter.

Parkstreet.


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It's Not Me, It's Everyone Else.

Commander James Cook is one of the few men I see as a hero. His genius, courage and exploits are well documented but I'm also fascinated by his social skills.

After long, gruelling sweeps of the Southern Ocean he would retire to the calm sounds of New Zealand, respite and repair for men and ships. It was normal for sailors to trade anything for booze and women. Cook could see that his men were corrupting the culture of the Maori, physically with illness and morally. He saw the native population as people, the same as him, tried to limit the time he spent in contact with them and so to limit the damage.

Cook was working at the definition of the cutting edge, his voyages were the equivalent of exploring space in his time, exploring unknown space without any support or contact with his own world, just captain, crew, ship. I so admire his ability to operate in the real world, to know he was right about the way his fellow humans should be embraced but accept that his own men couldn't see, would refuse to work for him if he tried to enforce his own ideals upon them.

We all experience moments, both trivial and important, when we can see that everyone around us is wrong. In each instance we need to assess the value in trying to explain, balance our ability to get along in the real world with our desire for a better one.

Parkstreet.

The Driven, from www.parkstreetfluteblog.blogspot.com

I admire musicians who are driven by public success. Somehow they make it with or without talent. They are willing and able to put there name "out there", wherever out there actually is. They can hustle, bluster, schmooze, kiss arse, generally say all the things that need to be said.

In most professions it would be considered kind of uncool to go around telling everyone how fucking good you are. Can you imagine a plumber sitting at a groovy cafe with his good looking friends, talking really loudly about how he handles a wrench better than anyone? I can't. Plumbers get called back because they get the job done, in a quiet moment they might tell you of their pride in their work, but they don't generally brag. Musicians simply have to brag to get ahead. They have to talk about inspiration, passion, connection with something higher, nothing original, just the same words that have been spoken by admired greats.

I reckon all these words take their toll. Musicians, like other huimans, have to mature at some stage. They take stock, look back on the work they've actually produced, realize that while they were bullshitting the public they were also bullshitting themselves. All the time and energy that could have been put into the actual music was blown on the media. Instead of making love with the music they were jerking off in front of groupies who eventually found real lovers and moved on themselves.

I admire the driven but can't be one of them. I just want to put my flute together, love the music and the audience, hope to be called back if I get the job done.

Parkstreet.

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Definition Of Insanity, revisited.

I was recently told that a definition of insanity is repeating the same action and expecting a different result, which seems reasonable, but then I hark back to all the stories of persistence that created success in the music business, all the overnight successes that took twenty years of apparent madness.

To keep trying to play good, honest live music is madness in this culture of the DJ and televised Idols. In Sydney live music is simply out of fashion, and fashion dictates all here. To persist and maintain my own well being, financial and emotional, that is the problem. If I'm confident that what I do is artistically valid then I have to keep doing it, don't I?

The obvious answer is to change the context that I'm doing it in, persist in a place where repeating the action can be expected to meet with a different outcome. This balance between integral expression and real life circumstances is one every artist faces. Luckily for me the answer is simple.

Parkstreet.

God Literature.

If religion is literature, folk lore, fable and propaganda that have simply got out of hand then humans wrote god. Instead of humans being created in the image of god, god has been written by the imagination of humans.

In patriarchal cultures he is a powerful man, in warrior cultures god is men and women who represent aspects of war and peace. Deeper cultures imagine gods who are psychological archetypes, cultures that prefer not to think too much go with a simple nature essence.

Whoever we are, whenever and wherever we live, all humans write their own god. I don't believe this makes god any less valid. The desire to create god comes from the same place as all love and art, it is essential to being human. The literature of god can serve us well, it is only when we start believing that we should serve it that it hurts and diminishes us.

Parkstreet.

Wishing For Underpants.

About twenty years ago I was aboard a ferry on Sydney Harbour. A beautiful young girl wearing a tight white singlet and one of those short skirts that looks like it mightt blow up at any moment but never does was wandering around the boat, taking photographs. I found myself wishing that skirt would blow up and as she came down the steep steps from one deck to another the wind gusted and my wish came true.

Seeing a pair of white underpants isn't the highlight of my life, I've seen underpants before. I remember this moment for two reasons, one was her cute, girlish reaction and embarrassed smile, the other was that it was the only time in my life I can recall wishing for something and it actually occuring. Think about it, how often does it happen? How many times have you wished with all your heart, for something as small as a glimpse of pretty girl underpants or something as big as true love, and how many times has your wish come true?

Maybe we only get one wish in a lifetime? Maybe I squandered mine on knickers? In a way I'm glad. It was a sweet moment, and I have no idea what else I'd wish for. Maybe it was just a natural collision of short skirt and windy harbour and my wish had nothing to do with it?

Right now I'm wishing I could see a particular girl in her underpants. I don't think I can engineer a situation where she is on Sydney Harbour in a short skirt on a wndy day. Instead I might try wooing her, rely on honest desire not childish wishes.

Parkstreet.

Train Connection.

I take the underground a few stations, from home to studio. I love all the other people, all on their own missions, all other people who aren't me.

Cool Dad, hat and sunglasses, with his toddler, she wants to look out the window and dance, he wants to read the newspaper, he pushes her in behind him on the seat, back to back, her standing, him sitting, always in contact, paying attention, she knows she is loved and he can read the sports section.

Uncool old guy, must be over sixty years old, dressed like his Mum chose for him, shorts pulled up too high, white socks too white, shirt too nice, I bet he thought the word "smart" when he looked in the mirror, unless his mother was actually there to say it for him. Imagine living sixty years and learning nothing about cool, about cutting strings?

Clarinet carrying guy sits opposite, eyes off my tenor saxophone, envious, he should be, I do have a bigger cock than him.

If you lived in Sydney would you get on my train? Would you pick the carriage in the middle where it is quieter, would you sit close enough for me to say hello? Would I find an excuse to speak to you? What if the escalator down to the platforms was blocked by schoolkids and I was held up by thirty seconds, missed this train and caught the next one, would we never meet?

I love all the people on the train, I love that they aren't me, I'd love for one to be you.

Parkstreet.

The Jazz Habitat, from www.parkstreetfluteblog.blogspot.com

I reckon jazz is the  music that  celebrates the city. It is played by people who have known nothing but the city, who aren't pining for another, more rustic life, third and fourth generation city dwellers. The pulse and rhythm is of crowds and traffic, underground trains and all night neon. The tone is of car horns, ships horns, shift horns, horns horns horns. The tunes are as raw as strip clubs, sophisticated as concert halls, one can be many things at once in the city. Jazz is late night music, lit by electricity, refrigerated, transported, reliant on the city, of the city.
Jazz is the art chamber music of this age, the age of the city.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Definition Of Insanity.

A definition of insanity is to repeat the same action expecting a different result. I've been playing music for a couple of decades, without any real financial or career success. I keep doing it.

Today it was suggested to me that I should abandon playing music for a living, end the insanity. I don't have a good argument against this position.

On the other hand embracing madness is a fine tradition in the music business, what the hell, back into it tomorrow. What else would I do?

Parkstreet.

Naked Rain.

I'm a city boy, through and through, born and bred. The certainty of cement beneath my feet makes me feel secure, my saxophone plays the groove of crowds and traffic, not the song of birds.

I can count the times I've stood naked in the rain on one hand. It doesn't happen in the city, being arrested takes all the romance out of it.

I love living in the city but I firmly believe that running around nude in a summer shower is fundamental to mental health. Public decency laws should be amended to allow getting innocently wet occasionally.

Parkstreet.

Loner.

This is an actual quote from a real life conversation.

"Even if you were the love of my life I wouldn't want to see you every day."

Big call, huh?

I get it, I've lived alone for a long time, enjoy my own time and space, but these words made me wonder about the person who said them. What did she have to hide? Loners are always hiding something. Did she think I didn't have a life of my own, that I'd want to take over hers? Frankly, her life wasn't going so well that I'd want it.

The love of my life, such important sounding words. I could only define that as someone I would want to see every day, even if it were just to share a coffee and a chat on the way to or from somewhere else with other people. The desire for the presence of another is one of the obvious signs of love. What makes someone deny such a pleasant feeling? What is so good about being a loner?

There is a difference between being happy in one's own company and being afraid to share that company. To ostracise even the love of your life is an expensive freedom.

Parkstreet.

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Fear Of Success.

Is there anyone out there who can explain why some people are afraid of succeeding? Success is supposed to bring us everything we always wanted. If we get everything we want there is a risk we might become happy. I can't see what is so bad about being happy.

O.K., you've seen through my subtle reference to other people, I'm talking about me, I've dodged success at every turn my whole life. I don't know why. I pursue something until I get to the point where I can see how success can be achieved then change horses and ride another path. It seems the challenge is more interesting than the result, or am I afraid of being happy?

I've decided the only way to work this thing out is to follow one thing through to fruition, see how it makes me feel. I'll undertake an experiment with my brain, see how it reacts to completing a task and reaping the social benefits.

Let you know how it goes.

Parkstreet.

A Taste Of My Own Medicine.

In Hitch Hiker's Douglas Adams had a character invent a machine that gave people a genuine perspective; the universe being so big and infinite and all, humans being so tiny, real perspective drove people mad. Adams was giving us a perspective in his own brilliant way.

One of my characters is working on a machine that gives people a taste of their own medicine. So far this character is seeing it like a vending machine, one's words are fed into a grasping slot like a dollar bill, a foodstuff that represents your work comes out the drawer at the bottom. I'll let you know when my character has his design and prototype ready, see what comic potential there is in this invention.

I'd like to slip my blog into that slot. I have a fantasy about what the machine would give me, some savoury almond biscotti, a sweet liqueur, maybe Amaretto, to dip them in, some luscious, superbly rich marscarpone to dip even more luxuriously into, and a short black coffee so bitter and intense that my mouth retracts involuntarily on contact, that saliva duct freak out smile.

I know my writing isn't yet such a perfect blend of complimentary flavours, hopefully by the time my character lifts his plans from his drawing board, starts building the machine, I hope by then I'll like the taste of my own writing.

Parkstreet.



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Surveillance Paranoia.

When I left the house this morning I didn't get the feeling that someone's eyes were upon me. I didn't think anyone was following me, or that cameras were on my every move. I was certain no one was accessing my computer or cell phone, no one was peeking into my private life. I didn't notice if I was metal detected on my way into and out of a government building, I don't think that the camera embedded in the A.T.M. was turned on.

For a whole day I felt that Big Brother wasn't watching me, I'm worried I might be losing my mind.

Parkstreet.

Goodbye.

On a train today, a young couple on one station teaching their toddler how to say goodbye. The little boy was too young to understand, Dad was waving his hand for him.

On the return journey a gorgeous dimple faced Indian girl, Dad placed her in the stroller, started strapping her in, she knew she was leaving the train and started waving goodbye to everyone she could see. A row of charmed adults competed to wave in the most endearing style to gain her attention, children make fools of us all. This girl saw goodbye as a game, but was still learning what it really meant.

People come, people go, people are born, people die, learning to say goodbye, and mean it, is one of the great skills, to be adult enough to understand what we are losing,  child enough to let go lightly.

Parkstreet.

Clumsy Love.

Because I have low vision I'm overly careful about my physical being, I hate the idea of being the clumsy, stumbling blind dude comically bumping into everything. When I'm smitten with someone, when I'm falling, it doesn't matter how careful I am, I become an embarrassing klutz. This week I've spilled the milk from my breakfast cereal on my couch, skinned my shin on the shower door, left the security pass for my apartment building at home. There is clearly something going on.

Parkstreet.

What Does Twitter Do?

I was advised to take out a Twitter account just to make sure no one else took one out in my name, insurance against becoming rich and famous one day. I took the advice, had a look at the site while I was there. I'm hoping someone can now explain what it actually does?

I've had a myspace site for a while now. Musicians used to send off dozens of packages, cd, biography, photo, with padded envelopes and stamps it wasn't cheap. On myspace I can run ten songs at a time, change them at will, load as many photos as I want, post a bio, send the address to a million potential employers at no cost. Why wouldn't I have one? What does Twitter do?

Facebook appears to be full of teenage girls saying not much, good luck to them, but Twitter has legitimate organizations paying staff to send little notes to the web. Why? Who reads them, and what do those people do once they have read them? What do the tweets do?

What do the tweetees get out of it? What do the receivers of tweeting get? What's in ti for me?

I'm serious people, someone tell me what the fuck Twitter does? I think it is the emperor of websites, parading around with no clothes, eventually everyone will notice.

Parkstreet.

www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Food For Action.

A friend recently told me how drinking guava juice affects her, the description involved toe curling and thigh quivering. This made me think all sorts of things, but also made me consider what other sensual stimulus affects me in such a way.

Oregon summer berries make me want to kiss, really kiss. Sashimi tuna, well, you can guess what that makes me want to kiss.  Miles Davis, Sketches Of Spain makes me want to screw standing up, sweaty and hot, in a Madrid hotel room in summer. A dozen oysters make me selfish, like I could lie back and watch it happen. A big blue sky makes me want to roll around in the hay.

I want a sensual life, a life where all the senses influence the others, all the music is in all the colours. I love it when people remind me of these things.

Parkstreet.

Get Over It.

So I'm in my early 20's, at my favourite cocktail bar, the sort of place that men wear suits to, piano, classy chicks, I have my eye on one, it doesn't get any better than this.

Some bloke in a tracksuit, not just a tracksuit, an ugly tracksuit, wants to talk to me, I'd prefer to talk to the brunette I've just bought a drink for, it's hard enough to take the plunge and introduce myself without some idiot pulling on my sleeve as a distraction. I'm thinking he must have just got out of hospital, maybe his luggage is still at the airport, I give him one inch, he takes the full mile.

Turns out we knew each other when we played tennis as kids. I had, apparently, been rude about his game on some occasion. I gave up tennis at 13 so I can't remember, but I rememebr this disturbing redheaded dork who is trying to tell me how wrong I was, what a big name in tennis he is now. I was only ever nice to this guy because no one liked him. I congratulate him, try to give him the hint that he is cramping my style with the brunette, but he won't go away. I ask him what he actually wants, he thinks about it but can't really find an answer. It is an impasse but he won't fuck off.

"I'm trying really hard to care about what I said to you when I was 12 years old but I hope you understand that I just can't, I work in a bar six nights a week, on my night off I don't get paid to listen to over sensitive wankers bang on so take it to your therapist or your Mum."

The brunette is disgusted by my heartlessness, or maybe that I know  a guy who'd wear a tracksuit, an ugly tracksuit, out to a cocktail bar, so her and her friend are off. If this guy had have been cool we could have got to know both of them.

Nothing good ever comes of hanging on to past issues, everyone loses. Oh yeah, and the dude never won anything, ended up a sports bureaucrat, probably only got as far as he did because I made him angry enough to achieve above his talent.

Parkstreet.

Politicians We'd Like To Fuck.

Australia has had Pauline Hanson, America has Sarah Palin, female politicians who are strangely attractive despite being scary and, let's be honest, dumb.

Maybe these women appeal to the deep rooted chauvinist in us men folk? A woman steps into the mainstream political world, a traditionally male passtime, then proves she really isn't up to it. When she discusses foreign policy on the basis that she can see Russia from her house it makes us all feel so superior, capable, able to put our arm around the little woman and explain about the world. There is no doubt men do enjoy this feeling of knowing what's best, even if it takes a bone fide cretin to give it to them.

In her maiden speech to the Australian parliament Pauline Hanson stated that she wanted an end to foreign investment in Australian industry. The whole state of South Australia relies on foreign car manufacturers for employment. It was one of the stupidest things ever spoken in a written speech in the house, but she said it with such gorgeous wide eyed innocence that men all over the country just wanted to take her home and give her one. Hilarious.

This situation reflects badly on men, that we like idiotic women is an appalling and embarrassing state of affairs. The women themselves send the chances of gender equality in politics back a decade every time they open their mouths, and they open their mouths a lot, whenever anyone will listen.

Parkstreet.

The Prime Minister Of My Country, Mate.

I respect the office of Prime Minister of Australia, not the bloke who currently holds it. A lip service socialist middle class conservative he believes in nothing, does nothing. Politics and personal taste aside, my biggest problem is that he doesn't know how to say the word "mate" convincingly. He has clearly taken advice from media advisors, tried to get the emphasis and pronunciation right, but it isn't in him. To say mate properly one has to believe that the person one is talking to is an equal. Our Prime Minister does not believe that anyone is his equal. The man is up himself, he'll never get it right, never understand the egalitarian people he is supposed to be serving as leader. He is serving himself. Leader, my arse, mate.

Parkstreet.                                                                                                    

Cross The River, Burn The Bridge.

The witness relocation scheme denies all souvenirs of the past life, any tiny scrap can lead to that past life catching up. One wouldn't depart a life without reason, it is an all or nothing decision.

I left a life behind but have recently been toying with the idea of picking up just a couple of old threads. It has only taken me a few days to realize that just one thread is a connection, a connection defines my new life as nothing more than a continuation of the old. I had reason to depart the old, time to cross the river, burn the bridge.

I feel powerful and strong, a brand new vibrant life to live, I'm a fortunate man. I'd be testing that salty luck if I looked backwards.

Parkstreet.


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Contextual Nudity.

In Finland it is quite common for people of all genders and ages to sauna naked together. In the context of the sauna nudity is a natural state.

Right now there is a young couple in Helsinki undressing for each other for the first time. The moment is just as intriguing, exciting, sweet as for people anywhere else in the world.

Parkstreet.

Rich People Are People Too.

Coincidentally, in the last few months I have heard three people discuss J.D. Salinger's The Catcher In The Rye from an economic viewpoint. All three found the lead character, Holden Caulfield, annoying and unsympathetic because he was from a wealthy family. The character is a vehicle used by the author to illustrate an idea, in this case to illustrate mental breakdown. Poor characters are often used because they make us feel worthy, simple children we are. J.D. Salinger could write a bit, he picked a rich character for his own reasons. The characters in his other stories come from all walks. Holden Caulfield works because of his priviliged position. Those who are anti rich miss the point.

Parkstreet.                                                                    

Parkstreet, Flute, Perhaps?

Ten years ago I was a serious flute player. I practised every day, every day, played five nights a week, made a living doing what I loved. I was also a serious drunk which makes the achievement of being a full time contemporary flute player even more remarkable.

As I tried to change and improve my life I left many aspects of the past behind me, moved cities, stopped drinking, took up other instruments. I can't help thinking that leaving the flute behind was a mistake. I wonder if I give it the same dedication now with the advantage of an organized and clear headed life whether it could be a fulfilling and hopefully financially rewarding career? Without blowing anything up my own arse I was pretty good, could be again.

My doubt is in the nature of returning to the past. Having created a new life is it o.k. to go back and pick up some treasures from the old one, dig the jewellery out of the smoking ruins of a home I burned down myself? I'm thinking that the change is inside me, that my choice of instrument has  nothing to do with past or present, but somehow feel that a split from the past should be an all or nothing kind of venture.

I'm undecided, open to advice, asking for opinions, looking for signs, hoping I'll have one of those dreams that will make all clear. Don't be shy about dropping your own two cents worth in the comments box. Please?

Parkstreet.                                                           Le Crueset

http://clickserve.cc-dt.com/link/click?lid=41000000030679143

When Nice People Do Nice Things.

I knew a bloke, old, tired, worn out, a little disappointed by the world but still true to his own spirit. He'd been generous and honest his whole life, many painters and writers owed him, but he found himself alone and destitute. The only places he could afford to live were miles from the things that sustained him, art, smart people, ideas, street life.

A lady I know owns a small, comfortable apartment around the corner from where I live, in the heart of Kings Cross, the natural habitat of the bohemian and free in Sydney. She asked this fellow if he would do her a favour and rent her place for around a quarter of the market value, she was sure he would take care of it, he'd be helping her out. They both enjoyed the lie, he moved in, he has a lease until he dies.

Ran into this bloke recently. He won't be dying soon. His health isn't great but his life is. He has just enough money to live happily, eat well enough, meet friends for coffee on the street. He is happy. The lady who rented the flat can afford to take a loss for a few years, she is happy that she helped. Everyone is happy. I'm happy telling you this story.

When nice people do nice things happiness can sometimes occur.

Parkstreet.                                                    

Brainwashers, Bullies, Naggers And Mindfuckers.

From the day we are born we encounter people who do nothing themselves but know full well what we should do. I reckon one of the primary purposes of education is to teach us how to resist these brainwashers, bullies, naggers and mindfuckers but unfortunately most teachers are perpetrators not educators.

Find your own way people.

Parkstreet.

Suicide.

Suicide is the conviction that life can't get better put into action. In most cases the conviction is incorrect, the result of skewed perception, but the action is final. Skewed perception has many causes, the most common being mental illness, alcohol and drug abuse and brainwashing.

Some of the best minds in the world are working on the mental illness epidemic, I don't have much to offer. on this subject, apart from suggesting that any suicide threat should be taken seriously, an attempt made to connect a mentally unwell person with a mental health professional.

The drug and alcohol culture is the primary and most influential culture for many. To get off one's face the prime directive. The chemicals that give pleasure are designed to alter perception, is it any surprise that some minds are altered beyond redemption? Obviously most just suffer hangovers and embarrassment, but some will be affected so badly that life will become intolerable. Because the culture tells us drug and alcohol excess is cool many feel uncomfortable pulling a friend up, voicing concern. I can only tell you that being called a dick and a wowser now is nothing compared to the regret  you'll feel forever if you say nothing and the worst happens.

Parents, religions, cults, pop culture, brainwashers and mind fuckers surround us from birth. Like hypnosis some are more susceptible than others, some more exposed. Any extreme view of the world that excludes the wider perspective will result in extreme actions.

I'm not claiming that suicide is never justified, or a sin. Put me in a third world prison without hope of release and I'd do the job, but in a country like Australia life never gets that bad. It can be perceived as that bad, but it never is. Once a crisis hits it is too late to change that perception for any but skilled mental health professionals, even they fail on occasion. The crisis is brought on by years of misinformation, setting people free from constricted or broken perception is the only cure I can see.

Parkstreet.

A Town Called Battle.

There is a town in England called Battle, it is located on or around the site of the battle of Hastings. There is no town with such a name in Australia, for a number of reasons.

The main reason is that there have not been any battles of signifigance since white settlement a couple of hundred years ago. Naturally colonists didn't keep records of armed hostility with indigenous people, the company line was that all was antipodean peace and harmony. There was a one night skirmish suring the 1850's gold rush which let the authorities know that they were too far away from troop reinforcements to push the people around too much. A few Japanese bombs landed on Darwin during World War Two but it was hardly the blitz. Australia is justifiably proud of her military record, but it has largely taken place on the other side of the world.

Another reason is that we would have given the town a different name. Great Battle Town, most likely, to fit in with Great Barrier Reef, Great Australian Bight and Great Sandy Desert. This trend towards naming everything "Great" wasn't completely unjustified. The Barrier Reef stretches a distance longer than the distance between London and Moscow, so it is pretty great, it just looks small compared to the size of our island. Our island is great.

I also can't imagine Australians going for anything as English and stoic as Battle.  In a country that calls redheads "Blue" we'd probably have called it Peace, or Serenity. If we'd won the battle we may have gone with Pissed It In or  Beat 'Em Easy.

I like that the English went with Battle. They assumed people would have a broad enough view of their own history for it to be enough.

Parkstreet.

The Culture Of Apology.

Probably on the advice of her publicist, convicted con artist and one time athlete Marion Jones has made another public apology and appeal for forgiveness. She didn't say anything about betraying everything Olympic athletes are supposed to stand for or anything about actually taking some action to redeem herself. How dumb do you think we are, you drug cheating bitch?

I wonder if hard working church goers in Ireland are aware that their collection plate offerings are being sunk into media advice for senior church fat cats? Those who are accustomed to living in palaces with servants are not about to give up their lifestyle just because they are guilty of aiding and abetting paedophiles, they'd prefer to apologise repeatedly, use their well earned politics to weazel out of the unforgiveable. Bastards.

At least we expect politicians to say anything to save themselves but we expect more from Olympians and men of god. They both appeal to the higher parts of the humans who follow them and therefore have a greater responsibility. Actually politics should be a calling of the same order, it's a shame we are so jaded after being let down so badly so many times.

Very young children get away with insincere apologies, we can never be certain how much they know of wrong and right. Marion Jones knew full well she was a cheat and a liar, her sham apologies confirm that nothing has changed. Senior Irish clergy can pretend they had good intentions but I don't believe a word, self advancement was more importatnt to them than the lives of children in their care. It doesn't get any lower, these men should be in jail, receive some of the treatment they allowed their priests to give others.

In some ways the insincere apology is worse then the original crime. The undignified worming adds insult to all those they have injured. Next time a public figure tries to use an apology to save his or her own skin don't feel bad about being suspicious, they are probably lying.

Parkstreet.

The World's Toughest Man.

Yesterday I met the toughest man in the world. He is a rabbit farmer, been in the business for two years, he breeds, rears, feeds up then sells fluffy bunnies for their meat and pelts.

Can you imagine the first time he'd raised enough rabbits, received his first order, had to send a consignment off to the abatoir?

"Fluffy, Buttons, Peter, Mr. Whiskers, Twitch, Jessica, Bigs, Bags, Hoppy, Honey, Thumper, Bright Eyes, Playboy, Warren, Benny, Bonnie, Miss Greedy, Twinkle, please take one step forward, you are all going on a special holiday." I can hear the Watership Down soundtrack playing as the truck heads off.

The man who can get used to sending his cute fluffy bunnies off to market is the toughest man I know.

Parkstreet.

Are They Real?

I met a girl tonight who promptly announced that she had spent five hundred dollars on a hair treatment but should have waited because she was getting extensions the next day, couldn't wait for it to grow, then she'd have to do the treatment over again. Her pert young breasts were created by Dow Corning, not God.

She noticed I have different coloured eyes. A friend at the table made some sort of joke about them, she got the impression I'd used contact lenses or some other trick and was genuinely disappointed. Apparently it would have made me fake in some way.

Parkstreet.

the naive e.p. by Kent Parkstreet, live, solo, available for download on itunes, or via this link to cdbaby

Guilt.

When a senior clergyman makes a publicity apology for knowing about criminal paedophile actions by junior clergy and failing to stop them shouldn't he then go directly to a police station and hand himself in for the crime of aiding and abetting criminal paedophile actions? Shouldn't the police come and arrest him if he doesn't? We live in the 21st century, no church should receive special medieval treatment, an eye for a blind eye.

Parkstreet.                                                                              

Always The Cool Kids.

There's always been the cool kids, the rich, the risk takers, the physically attractive.. Looking back I can see that most of them were vampires, sucking out the cool of others.

The cool kids encouraged the genuinely wild children, egged them on, then when it hit the fan paid or fucked their way out of the charges. They frolicked on the banks of the river that crosses over to the dark side, basked in the reflective glory of those who had the guts to dive in, swim, get wet, truly explore other realities, but didn't care if they made it back alive or not.

Those of us who were sucked in, went deeper than we should have but made it back, have no time for the cool kids now. They are the shallow end of life. They look more and more ridiculous as they age, living on past glories, terrified the money and looks will pass, knowing that their day is done, they'll never be anything but the cool kids, always the cool kids.

Parkstreet.

The Packing Room Prize.

The Archibald is an Australian art prize for portraiture that captures the public imagination every year, especially in Sydney. The Packing Room Prize is awarded by the austere, gruff men in grey dust coats who pack and unpack art for a living.

The idea of the working man awarding a prize for their favourite portrait is typical of the rogue Archibald, great publicity and great fun. It makes me wonder how much these packers know about art? Some of them have been working for the gallery for over forty years, try to imagine how many beautiful objects they have handled safely? I wonder if this hands on relationship with art, the constant exposure, might lead to a deeper knowledge than the university educated?

I remember being a ballboy at The Australian Open tennis tournament when I was about twelve years old. My game improved vastly, just from watching the best in the world play for twelve hours a day for three weeks. I didn't learn anything concrete, just got a feel for movement on the court, the shape of a swing, how to build a winning point. I can't believe the packers can carry paintings and sculpture, hang and place them, without gaining an eye for what works.

I admire men who work for a living, who turn up every day and achieve an aim. The Packing Room Prize is their annual moment in the sun but maybe they have the best job in the world for the rest of the year?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Madames, Pimps, Hookers, Johns.

At some time all of us have been madames, pimps, prostitutes or clients. We've played different roles at different times. We've sold our talents and beliefs, or sold others, we've sold out love for wealth or status. Occasionally two innocent, artless believers meet up, together they are the exception that prove the rule.

Some day my princess will come. I will find true love and experience the petty joy of being  proved right at the same time.

Parkstreet.

Players And Stages.

If, as they say, all the world is a stage, all us men and women players upon it, then it is essential we play from the heart, improvise our own lines so they are true. If we derive ideas from past performances, rehearse scenes, we will never be true to ourselves or interact with our fellow actors sincerely.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Toasted Cheese And Tomato Acid Test.

When you meet a new cafe it is important to know who it is, where it is at. One of the fundamental skills of the cafe cook is toasting a sandwich, applying enough heat to melt cheese without burning bread, so my first test is always a toated cheese and tomato sandwich.



It is amazing how many cafes can't get this staple right, yet expect me to come back another time and try the scampi. Why would I? I believe that many cooks have no interest in my humble sandwich, don't treat it with the respect all food deserves, they'd prefer to be cooking something more complex and exciting.



Simple joys are no less joyful than complex ones. Complexity of itself doesn't add pleasure to anything. Is the best fish you've ever eaten just been freshly caught and cooked on a basic grill? The best chips, fries I've eaten have been from unassuming suburban fish and chip shops where the potato was pealed, chipped, blanched quickly in hot oil then cooked to order. Not so complex, just the perfect application of heat, oil and salt to a normal potato.



What's more important in a hotel room, Swiss chocolate on the pillow, or the pillow itself being comfortable? If the basics are right the luxuries are welcome, bring them on, but don't try to sell me sizzle until you can cook a steak.



I tend to apply this test to most pursuits. With a new band I'll suggest playing a simple blues, see who honours the basic forms before we move onto anything else. In an Italian restaurant it is the pasta with simple tomato sauce, a steak cooked rare at a grill, the steamed dim sum at a Chinese restaurant.



Our culture offers us a wide range of complex possibilities. More and more I find myself drawn to the simple, honest pleasures that have been tested by time, and more and more attracted to the people who feel the same.



Parkstreet.

The Blues Is A Steam Train.

The blues is a steam train.

The drummer is the engine, the machinery, the beating heart. The bass player is the driver, he pulls the levers, decides what pressure is needed to climb the mountains, to cruise the flatlands. The rhythm guitarist shovels the coal, he is in tune with engine and driver, ensures there is enough power without overheating.

The passengers ride in the carriages behind, the singer, lead guitarist, saxophone player, many believe these luxuries are the leaders but they are being dragged along by the rhythm section. The section is happy with this arrangement, let the public enjoy the illusion of the dining car, the glamour, leave them in peace to work the groove.

Parkstreet.

Horror, Not Thriller.

Given the lyric, the Vincent Price voiceover and the characters in the music video I can't help thinking that Michael Jackson's Thriller should have been called Horror, the movie genre he was actually invoking. The word horror doesn't sit as easily in a chorus but thriller just didin't make sense, he may as well have picked out any film genre, Western, Disaster, War, Romance.

At the time this combination of song and video was described as genius and groundbreaking, but only by people who'd never seen a classic M.G.M. musical, only by people who thought pop music was the centre of the universe and not the frivolity it is meant to be. Pop songs don't really need to make sense, be complete works, as long as the words are easy to sing along with. 

I don't know why pop music is irritating me so much right now. Maybe I'm disatisfied with the music I'm playing, looking for excuses to not take the plunge into deeper creativity, and therefore deeper poverty. Deep isn't popular. Mr. Jackson was just doing what works, even though it was silly, just like that chick singer who recorded a three minute pop song called Ironic without nailing one irony. I guess I'm at a point where I have to leap one way or another.

Parkstreet.

Withdraw.

The best way to confuse your brain is to feed it dopamine via a third party food or chemical, then suddenly withdraw that food or chemical. Sugar, coffee, cigarette smoke, heroin, women, it doesn't matter what it is, the confusion is the same.

It is amazing how little control we have over our brains, if we had as little control over our bodies we would be hilarious. We know that whatever we are giving up is no good for us, we know that our brain will crave it for a while, we know the easy way out is to crumble, that our brains will play tricks on us to get what it wants, yet knowing this doesn't really help. Why not? Surely just understanding the processs should make it easy, shouldn't it?

What is this edgy, cranky feeling? Just withdrawal, it will pass. It should be that easy, but it isn't. Our brains tell us we can have just one more, give up again tomorrow, we need it until we get through a tough day tomorrow, then we can give up. Unless we tell our brains who is in charge this processs can go on forever.

I'd like to think that each time we conquer an addiction demon we gain strength, get better at controlling our brains. I'd like to think it but it isn't true. I've given up a few big ones and my brain was a traitor each time.

Parkstreet.


the naive e.p., live, solo, available for download on itunes and via this link to cdbaby

Farmer Kent.

The chilli plants on my balcony were regular characters in this blog for a while, the last few months they haven't rated a mention. It's like how people don't mention their kids unless they're doing something brilliant or wrong, the chillis are just hanging out being chillis.

They are an essential part of my life. I know it is morning because I'm on the balcony, tipping water in, pulling off dead leaves, checking for bugs. Routine is comforting, and each day my vigiliance is rewarded with more growth.

I'm a city boy, I've never grown anything from seed to fruit before. Who said farming is hard? Dirt, seed, water, easy. My first crop is coming in, two long green babies are turning red as I write this, they'll be just right tomorrow.

Each chilli at my looal Italian grocer costs me a few cents, there is no reason to grow my own. I don't get any particular thrill out of watching stuff grow even though I know I should. I do like the seasonal aspect, watching a plant change with the different climate just as i do. I've no idea what happens next. Do chillis go dormant in winter? Will they keep cropping? I guess I'll find out.

Occasionally I develop plans to cover the entire balcony with soil, go into the mail order organic chilli business, individually signed and certified chillies from the Parkstreet boutique balcony. Other days I consider value adding, growing tomatoes too, making the Parkstreet chilli relish. I might have to rent the apartment next door to increase my growing space. I'm not sure about the economic wisdom of this idea.

Each morning I'll head out onto my balcony, organic and nude myself, have a chat with the chillis, feel like the day is beginning. Rest assured they are doing fine unless I tell you otherwise.

Parkstreet.

It's Hard To Be A Saint In The City.

About seven years ago I gave up booze and pot. The world seemed a very boring place at first, then I realized it was just because all my friends were still drinking and smoking and that drunk and stoned people are the most tedious people on earth. I hadn't noticed before because I too was drunk or stoned.

Living in the inner city and being in the music business I'm still surrounded by the inebriated. I'm getting better at walking away from them, not engaging. The main difference between a drunk and a scratched record is that although it keeps saying the same thing over and over again the scratched record doesn't poke me in the chest and insist that I listen.

I know I'm the odd one out. Sobriety is weird. Weird, huh? I also notice that I have nothing to hide. The habitually stoned are always full of excuses and lies, hiding the regularity of their use, until the lies become habitual and the truth a stranger. I wonder if the paranoia is a result or a cause?

Clearly it is me, I'll have to move on, but I don't want to give up the inner city or the music business. As Springsteen said,"It's hard to be a saint in the city."

Parkstreet.

The Ten Million Dollar Test.

We've all fantasized about winning a lottery, let's say ten million U.S. dollars, enough to invest safely and never have to think about money again. I think it is an interesting test to ask yourself what you'd change about your life? You might discover that just by looking at possibilities many of them are achievable without waiting for the big one.

I don't want a jaccuzi or a jet ski. I don't like women who are attracted to money. I might eat more oysters. I'm certain I'd go a little nuts for a few months, hang out in a ludicrously plush hotel in Paris while I thought about what to do next, but then what would change for me?

The only thing I'd want to do is travel more, but what stops me from travelling now? The obvious answer is money, but all I have to do is brush up my saxophone playing skills so I have a plausible busking act and I could easily pay my way around Europe. I'd probably have a better time busking around, meeting people, getting a real feel for the life of each city than I would first classing around in the five star bubble.

You see? It isn't the money, it is taking the time to sit back and fantasize, dream, imagine what is really possible. I wouldn't knock back the money if you were thinking of giving it to me, but I can get along without it.

I'd really love to hear what you'd change, what possibilities open up to you when you take this test?

Parkstreet.

Pebbles Against Her Window.

I'm a fan of the romantic gesture, tossing pebbles against her window 'round midnight, taking the risk she'll lean out and tell me she has to get up early for work and to fuck off. I'd write her a love song that includes an in joke between us, one she can explain to a favourite niece when I'm gone, and I'd sing it for her under her window, naked, with a rose clenched between my butt cheeks.

She is deaf and blind to romance, prefers a couple of drinks and a rough pick up.

Mercy mercy me, things ain't what they used to be.

Parkstreet.

Kiss Me Hardy.

"Kiss Me Hardy", the dying words of Lord Horatio Nelson. No Australian man, death bed or no, could ever utter these words to another man. Australian men live in terror of being labelled as gay.

This homophobia has historical roots, back to the convict past of this country. It was natural for inmates living in crowded circumstances to be afraid of buggery. The authorities were concerned about what they saw as moral standards considering the lack of women in the new colony, discrete homosexuality was reserved for the gentle class.

The strange thing is that most Australians don't believe being gay is a big deal. Most have gay friends. Most have experimented once or twice in their youth. I did. It was fun. Yet this intense fear of being seen as gay persists, leading to all sorts of macho nonsense. Most fights are chest beating foolishness aimed at displaying manliness. As if gay men can't be manly. It really is an anachronism we should grow out of in 2010.

If the great warrior Nelson wasn't afraid of being labelled, then it's good enough for me. I might wait until my country matures a little more, or my deathbed, whichever comes first.

Parkstreet.

Vale Joe's Cafe Deluxe, from www.parkstreetcafeblog.blogspot.com

Saturday, March 13, 2010
Vale Joe's Cafe Deluxe.
When I'm in Sydney I always find myself at Joe's Cafe Deluxe on Victoria Street Potts Point for coffee at about eleven a.m. I've been a regular for eight years.

I wander in, say g'day to Stan, the proprietor.

"How are you mate?"

"Good mate."

Take the Sydney Morning Herald crossword outside, watch the girls from all the backpacker's hostels up the road go by as they head off to Bondi Beach to fry in the sun. One of the backpackers who has to work for Stan brings me a strong white coffee, life is sweet.

Stan sold Joe's recently. I went away for two weeks, came back to find renovations underway. I'm heartbroken. Everyone tells me I should embrace change, and I know they're right, but some change just sucks. Joe's was a rock, my day started there, wherever I was headed each day the journey started with coffee at Joe's. For those of us without a proper job these small rituals are the routines that keep us sane.

Stan is off to sail around the world, lucky bastard, I wish him well. He's worked too many hours for too many years, the Greek islands are beckoning him. I know it is his right to sell his cafe, but somehow I reckon us regulars should also have a say in these things. Maybe cafe owners should form a committee of regulars to vet any potential buyers?

I guess it is the sign of a good cafe if the customers feel like they own a share of it. Stan was a great host, always made me feel welcome, loved, I'll miss him and his cafe.

Now I have to start interviewing new cafes, see which one is worthy to be my morning coffee venue.

Parkstreet.


the naive e.p., recorded solo and live in a cafe, available for download on itunes and via this link at cdbaby.

The Great Ocean Road.

After World War One a road was cut out of the cliffs along the southern coast of the state of Victoria, Australia. It is called The Great Ocean Road.

Today it is a tourist route, the coast line is gorgeous and the small towns on it's route are delightful. Very few peole know it is a war memorial. It was built by ex servicemen who came home to no job, no home, often no wife or girlfriend. Many of these men couldn't settle back into normal life so working with other men who'd seen and done what they'd seen and done made a lot of sense. Whoever came up with this idea was a psychologist of great powers, we could learn from him today.

One of the major problems for Australian veterans of the Vietnam Police Action was that they were in action one day, sitting at Mum's kitchen table the next, trying not to say fuck and pretending to care about the day to day of suburban life. Some settled soon enough, others joined motorcycle gangs, others lost everything. Only other vets could understand, there was no easing down period, no long talks about nothing with mates who understood.

What happened to leaders and governments who took on big challenges and defeated them in imaginitive and constructive ways? The men were given work and solace, they built something great, the country received infrastructure, it wasn't charity. Everyone gained from a decision made by a leader. Our leaders spend their time backpedalling, trying not to make decisions so they are never wrong.

When you drive The Great Ocean Road, stop in Port Fairy for fish and chips, watch the fishing boats coming in, remember that you just drove down a living, working memorial to men who sacrificed friends, limbs, hearing, sanity.

Parkstreet.

Dumb Luck And Joy.

Over the last few months I have been lucky enough to find a vocation, a path, a medium to express myself through. It didn't happen because I went searching for it, in fact I resisted it like a fool for years, but dumb luck and circumstances have shown me the way.

I've seen this happen before, one friend who was down on his luck had to take a dishwashing job then found the kitchen was his element. He's now a successful cook and a happy man. While it does happen I think there are many people who never find their way, who toil at jobs they hate their whole lives.

I have to wonder at our education system. I can't remember one teacher telling me to ignore the multitude of distractions and seek a path that was true to my heart. Not one. Looking back it seems ridiculous that this one idea never appears on any cirriculum. It is one of the first lessons for Buddhists.

Maybe parents are responsible for education like this? I wouldn't know. It was never raised in my home, maybe it was in yours? Did your parents ever suggest you take time to get to know and love yourself, then let that self knowledge be your guide for your choices in life?

Now I think about it I guess it wasn't just dumb luck that put me on track, I have spent the last few years examining my life, I did open the door that the light shone through.

Love is all.

Parkstreet.

Hooray For The Financial Crisis.

Mainly due to bad timing Spain is suffering more for the the financial crisis than most countries. The Spanish government was in the middle of a debt funded infrastructure building program that in normal circumstances would have modernized the nation and improved the lot of all.

It seems I might finally be able to afford to visit Barcelona as prices go down. Am I wrong to see the situation this way? Good fortune often rides on the back of others misfortune, in this case millions will be unemployed so I can view some architecture.

Athletes gain a place in the team when another player is injured, a business going broke can be bought up cheaply, promotion can be at the expense of another's firing. Should we feel guilty to take advantage? In an ideal world everything would be fair and honest, we'd all produce quality work and sell it for a reasonable profit. I guess I'd like to live in that world.

My desire to take advantage of impoverished Spaniards isn't a big deal in the overall scheme. Large corporations exploiting cheap resources and labour in impoverished countries then selling their goods for sickening profits is a big deal. How do these people sleep at night? I can tell you how. They simply don't care about anyone but themselves.

How to achieve social and political justice for all has been the life's work of better brains than mine. I don't believe there is one system that will fit all. I do believe that the greed of individuals, the collective greed of investors, is the root of injustice.

I can only hope this recent financial crunch has made some stop and think about their own actions, how their investment dollar is managed. It's only a daydream, I don't have a concrete method for making this happen. I'll have to sit on a beach in the south of Spain and think about it for a while.

Parkstreet.

Light, Cornflakes, Cats.

Centuries ago great men with brilliant minds drove themselves mad, grinding lenses and prisms, trying to understand the nature of light. Turner painted light in a way that changed the way we view art, landscape, light itself. Modern physicists are still investigating the properties and qualities of light, it may never be fully understood.

The screen you are reading this on is light distorted to suit our purposes. The next time you read a tweet about cornflakes or cats take a moment to remember the talent and dedication of the men that made it possible. I'm certain they'll feel their work was worthwhile.

Parkstreet.

Roxanne.

I was playing the Sting song Roxanne last night. It's a sweet chord progression and a heartfelt lyric.

I like the idea of finding love in an unlikely situation. I've had friends who've fallen for hookers and sadly in real life it has never ended well. No matter how open minded a man thinks he is the idea of the woman he loves having sex with another man will eventually destroy him, even if she tells him she only does it for the money.

I used to walk past the same working girl every night, she liked me because I was polite when I declined her offers of sensual pleasure. At first we'd say hi, after a few weeks we'd stop for a chat, I'd give her a cigarette. I knew we were friends when she offered me one of hers. For a hooker to give a man one of her cigarettes knowing he isn't going to buy any services is a rare and beautiful moment.

I wished she worked in a pie shop. I could go in and buy a pie every night, tell her that I'd get fat and die of a heart attack, or a broken heart, if she didn't agree to go out with me.

But she didn't work in a pie shop, she was on the game, and I knew I couldn't deal with that. I couldn't share her with another boy. Even if I were rich and could buy her out of debt, her drug habit, whatever put her in that job in the first place, she would always be in debt to me, it would still be a transaction.

I still wonder how she would have been in the sack. I'm guessing there would be nothing she wouldn't know about sex.

I've previously fallen for a drug addict and a woman with bipolar. I can pick 'em. As much as I loved both of them I've realized people have to be living in roughly the same reality if it's going to work. sad but true, love cannot conquer all. Writing a beautiful song for her won't change this reality, I've tried.

Parkstreet.

Dancing And Loving.

Today a very attractive young lady informed me that there is a direct correlation between the way a man dances and the way he makes love. This idea has been torturing me all day, I can only hope it isn't true. If it is true I'll be forced to take out a personals ad seeking women who are turned on by a man who makes love like a self conscious square. I don't expect to be overwhelmed with responses.

A man can be taught how to dance, can get better with practise and confidence. A man can be taught how to fuck, train to be in shape. A man cannot be taught how to make love because love is a feeling, making love an expression of it.

Come to think of it, when the reggae tunes are grooving my hips do take on a life of their own. Maybe most dancing is just showing off, displaying for the opposite gender? I guess I'm happy to wait for the right tune, and the right girl.

Parkstreet.

Rock And Roll Reviewers.

So this bloke I know lands the live band reviewer job at Melbourne's most widely read entertainment publication, he's making sure the whole bar knows about it.

"I'm going to be living the rock and roll lifestyle", he brags.

I can't help but reply,"Isn't that a bit like the guy who operates the machine that plastic wraps Playboy Magazine thinking he's Hugh Hefner?"

In one sentence I guarantee that the live band reviewer at Melbourne's most widely read entertainment publication will never attend one of my gigs, ever. Possibly a foolish thing to say, I know we need reviewers to get our names out to the public, but today when I look back I believe this moment of self sacrifice was one of my finest. Someone had to tell him.

Like any trade there are good reviewers and bad, some can portray an impression of how a gig came across to him and the crowd, most are inane fashion monkeys throwing their own shit around the cage to gain attention.

If we sit beside the side of the music river long enough we can watch the bodies of reviewers floating by as they go out of fashion, get beer paunchy and tell tall tales of their glory days in the rock and rock lifestyle. Fuck 'em.

Parkstreet.

859 9054

859 9054. The first phone number I remember, I was four years old, my family moved cities, my mother wanted to make sure we could get home if we got lost.

Eight five, double nine, OH! five four, we'd sing it, I'll never forget it. I don't remember much from before that age, and I'm suspicious of other childhood memories, how much is my memory and how much listening to the accounts of adults who were there at the time?

I distinctly recall visiting my grandmother in New Zealand, but only the bit where I sat at her kitchen table and ate fantastic sausages, the best I've ever had. The rest of the trip has been talked about, so I know it happened, but I don't have a personal memory of it.

I'm even suspicious of adult memories. Do we remember events how we wish they happened? Are the memories tainted by the following conversations, how others recall those events? I guess the question is does it matter? Is recalling facts of any value? If the basic feeling about a time and place are in my heart and mind does what actually happened on a particular occasion make any real difference?

Reciting a phone number takes me back to an innocent part of my life, it feels good. Phone numbers are longer now, I can't call it and get an answer, the actual digits are of no importance.

On my death bed I'll probably be drugged up and singing eight five, double nine, OH! five four, making all around wonder what the numbers mean. They mean nothing.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Hooray For The Creepy Guy.

Today a creepy weird guy helped me meet the most beautiful girl. He didn't mean to, she was the silver lining in an annoying cloud.

I was at a cafe, he sat beside me and immediately gave off the strange vibe. I used my Jedi mind tricks to avoid conversation, maybe turning my back helped. He attacked a trio of young lovelies a couple of tables away, when they blew him off he changed focus to a single girl, asked her a lot of too personal questions, made her uncomfortable.

I had to hold myself back from intervening, the modern woman can deal with creeps in her own way. Man I hate this modern world some days, I so wanted to tell this idiot fool to shut up or fuck off but I knew it wasn't my place. Eventually he did both anyway, and the girl he'd been harrassing chatted with me about the experience. When I told her I kept out of it because she appeared to have all under control I must have hit the right button, she warmed up. It could have just been that I looked good in comparison.

No experience is all good or all bad. This dude was all bad but the girl is terrific, I probably would have sat near her a hundred times before I spoke to her, all it took was a creepy guy to break the ice for me.

Parkstreet.