Lunch With Diana.

This afternoon I crossed town to take lunch with my friend Diana. She is a passionate, heartfelt girl, every time I see her I just want to pick her up and squeeze her like a big tube of lifepaste.

We speak frankly to each other. That doesn't sound like much but I reckon it is. We are both in creative trades so feeling free to whine like a child, to shout out our dreams, to hope, is a rare and beautiful moment. We both take time to appreciate it, to feel lucky to know each other. We pump each other up, I think we both feel like good, decent honest people when we leave each other instead of self indulgent music dabblers.

I guess Diana and I are friends. We appear to tick all the friendship boxes.

Parkstreet.

Executive Sleepouts.

Every winter here in Sydney a bunch of well meaning but ultimately condescending multi millionaires sleep on the street for one night as a show of solidairity with their less fortunate brothers and sisters who are homeless and to draw attention to their plight.

Wankers.

They could offer some of their less fortunate brothers and sisters a job. They could sleep on the street without bodyguards, media and police attention and see just how scary it really is. They could just cough up some bucks and give one homeless person a $70 a night motel room for a week thus giving him or her a chance to get well slept, clean, presentable enough to find their own job. They could do something useful instead of grandstanding for cameras.

Wankers.

A homeless person doesn't even have a private place to go for a wank and here are these show offy tossers doing it for the mums and dads at home in television land.

Wankers.

Parkstreet.

London Is Drowning And I Live By The River.

Get a song in your head and it is guaranteed to follow you around for a few weeks.

I recently used The Clash album London Calling, or more accurately my copy of it, as a literary device to illustrate how tiny imperfections in a love affair often end up being endearing. You see there was a tiny scratch in my copy. So the song London Calling has been in my head ever since, tonight it came on the radio in a cafe. The radio show was a hits and memories sort of affair. It makes me sad to realize that the music of my youth is now the stuff of snuffly nostalgia.

When I was a kid nostalgia music was jazz, old age pensioners would flock to hear the music they danced to, had their first fuck to. Then Elvis took over as the baby boomers who were slick teenagers when he was alive got crusty and sad. Now it's my turn. I hope I die before I get old.

Miles insisted on continuing to pursue the new until he died. I'm no Miles Davis but I hope I can take his example. I'm at a turning point in my life, musical and other.

I won't start wearing blue and brown and working for the clampdown.

Parkstreet.

Southerly Buster.

There is a deathly calm over Sydney right now. It's nearly winter but I can feel the humidity in the atmosphere building, there are no birds in the air, there is a southerly storm about to hit. It's going to be a big one. Sub tropical excess is one of the joys of living here.

Everyone who has lived here a while will have seen it coming, closed up the house, cancelled outdoor plans. I expect the electricity to go down for a period. It always does. Sydney is a city in decline, it has grown too quickly for it's infrastructure to keep up. I live near the centre of the city, my power will be back on an hour or so after the rain but some suburbs will be out for hours, possibly all night.

People go a little crazy on days like this. All the inner city nut cases will be out enjoying their type of weather. Our governments went a little silly over human rights a while back and closed all the mental health institutions, set all the loonies out to live in the community. For some reason they all chose my community here in Kings Cross. We don't mind so much, most of them are gentle folks, only harmful to themselves. We keep a caring eye on them. Storms and heavy rain are the natural element for those with disturbed minds. The chaos feels natural. The craziness is infectious, apparently normal folks join in the random behaviour. There is bound to be events of public nudity and fountain swimming before the night is done.

As for me, I'll see out the worst of it in my local cafe, watch the streets fill with water, the young girls running in their heels trying to keep their hair dry, keep an eye out for who looks like cracking first.

I don't like a lot about living in Sydney but the southerly buster is worth the price of admission.

Bring it on.

Parkstreet.

I Don't Believe Them.

I hear the young pop princesses howling away at nursery rhyme words and three note melodies, autotuned and music video'd within an inch of reality and I have no emotional reaction at all. None. I just don't believe them. Sound and fury signifying fuck all.

Occasionally I'll hear someone with an acoustic guitar and a voice and a song they've written. The performance can be anything from brilliant to crap, it really doesn't matter, if there is heart and soul and I believe them I'm happy, I feel something.

Surely music is supposed to make us feel something? Surely. Give me a caveman banging two rocks together, banging those rocks together with spirit. Give me a monk full of god chanting to the dawn, give me a tradesmam whistling purely of the work.

Keep the idols, I just don't believe them.

Parkstreet.

Opening Hours, from www.parkstreetcafeblog.blogspot.com

Friday, May 28, 2010


Opening Hours.

I know the provision of coffee is in no way an essential service. Not like fire and ambulance anyway. Well, maybe a little like ambulance for me some mornings.



This afternoon my local cafe was closing as I arrived, three hours earlier than usual. It isn't a big deal, I'm now at another cafe down the road, actually trying their five dollar breakfast special. My local may have lost a customer if the breakfast is good.



A cafe isn't a normal business, it is a contract between coffee maker and coffee drinker. The closest comparison is the relationship between drug user and dealer. Both rely on each other, they need each other even though the product can be considered a luxury. Consistency and quality of supply are essential.



To be let down by one's local is a great let down. He doesn't have to be there to make me coffee, but he's broken the contract. I'm a footloose and fancy free coffee bachelor, seeking a new coffee relationship.



Parkstreet.

Guilty Pleasure.

A plumber came to my apartment today. He removed a tiny rubber nozzle from inside my shower head. The nozzle was the device that reduced water flow, by removing it the plumber has increased the water pressure in my shower. I'm very pleased.

Australia has just come out of ten years of the worst drought on record. Every day we receive what our governments are want to call "messages" about conserving water. Guilt is the tactic most often used to get our attention. The advertisements are designed to make the governments look caring and forward thinking.

Fuck them. The drought is over, I'm going to enjoy my long, hot powerful shower tomorrow morning.

Parkstreet.

Australian Women Are At War With Australian Men.

It may be an undeclared war, but make no mistake, Australian Women are at war with Australian men. They have claimed the moral high ground, taken control of the propaganda machine, made a list of demands. So many demands, most of which appear to involve men jumping through pointless hoops.

Like most war it is irrational. Men have surrendered. Men are so confused they are just mouth the platitudes they are told to and pretend they know what is going on. It's only when they travel abroad, meet women who are interested in conversation not combat, that they realize what is going on.

Australian men are exhausted by feeling guilty, like they've always done something wrong. It's easier to go into exile, plead for romantic asylum in a far away land.

Parkstreet.

The Long Playing Record In My Heart.

My copy of The Clash, London Calling double album had a tiny scratch thet stretched across most of the song Lost In The Supermarket. As the vinyl rotated thirty three and one third times each minute a tiny click would emit from my solid state speakers just under every two seconds.

At first I was devastated, furious, heartbroken. I questioned who did it, why they did it, how they did it, whether it was possible that I'd done it, if there was something I could have done to prevent that scratch being made in the first place? After a while I'd heard Lost In The Supermarket with the scratch more times than I'd heard it without the scratch, the scratch became part of my experience of the song. Side A of record One would have sounded strange without that familiar click.

I've only once loved a woman as much as my fifteen year old self loved The Clash, London Calling.

I miss her tiny imperfections too.

Parkstreet.

I'm My Own Grandfather.

If the past is a foreign land then myself in the past is a foreigner. I can't imagine what he was thinking because he was from a different culture, saw the world through different eyes. I don't need to understand this ancestor, he brought me here today, that was his job, now it is my time to live.

I can't imagine who the future me will be. Maybe he will look back, maybe wonder who I was, why I did what I did? Maybe he won't.

Parkstreet.

Gentlemen's Hours.

I work nights, have done since I left school twenty six years ago. I like working nights. I like going to bed late, I like getting up late. The sun is shining on the part of the planet I'm on at that moment by the time I rise, all is warm and wonderful.

Today, due to circumstances beyond my control, I am up early. The clock hasn't even hit double figures yet. Well dressed folk are walking in the same direction, to the train station and so to work I imagine. How very strange, to be one of the many. It must be heartbreaking.

Choosing a night time occupation means choosing to do without public transport after work, choosing to do without a normal romantic relationship, choosing to never be available for any social occasion that your friends see as important, like their weddings and such. It also means refusing peak hour, refusing the road commonly travelled, refusing being bored unto the death by a job that may as well be painting rocks. And we get to dodge weddings, unless we are playing at them.

Scurry little humans, cardboard coffee in hand. I admire your good cheer at this hour, your gumption, your ability to keep the proverbial wheels turning so the culture is wealthy enough to pay for parasites like me. I admire and love you all, but how do you ever stay up late enough to come to a gig?

It's too early, more coffee please.

Parkstreet.

Big Brother Isn't Watching You.

The feeling that there are cameras everywhere is justified. There really are cameras everywhere. Closed circuit security, cell phone, television, satellite, they are out there. Everywhere. The feeling that those cameras give a crap about you is the usual human coimbination of paranoia and egomania.

The only way to get that vast array of cameras to pay any attention to you is to do something so outlandish that it really isn't you any more. You can grab your fifteen minutes but it won't be yours, it will be for an imitation of what we believe the owners of the cameras believe the public wants to see.

I prefer to live as if no one is watching me. The only person I want to impress is future me when I'm sitting at my writing desk, celebrating a birthday of some immense number, glancing out from my attic apartment over the rooftops of Marseille and the sea beyond, writing a memoir, chuckling to myself about what I did when I was past me.

That's the guy I want to impress. That guy doesn't give a crap about television or what appears on it.

Parkstreet.

To Sleep Like A Bear.

Bears always appear content with their lot. Even when they are distressed they have the anger and aggression to express it fully, contentedly.

Last night I slept like a bear. I caught up with a couple of weeks of sleeping like a shark. I guess I'm feeling like all is as it should be in the my own little world for the first time in,  . . . ever. A little self belief goes a long way. Last night it gave me twelve hours sleep.

It's hard to imagine a bear not believing in itself. It was recently suggested to me that self belief is a natural state, doubt is self indulgent foolishness. A bear is just a bear, it knows what it is , it doesn't need to know much else. Sometimes this is a more difficult question for a human, we can be pushed and pulled and stretched in all the wrong directions.

I guess knowing what sort of bear I am is the first step to being a compete and happy human.

I like bears.

Parkstreet.

Bear Country.

A friend and correspondent recently introduced me to the idea of Bear Country. Deep down I know that bears are far too busy being bears to worry about building nations or similar nonsense, but I do like the idea of a country governed by bears.

My first experience of a bear was a television character named Humphrey B. Bear. He didn't speak, he was more of a dancing bear. He famously wore a waistcoat and a hat and no trousers, a fashion example I've been known to emulate when my inner child attends parties.

Humphrey B. was followed by Pooh Bear, Paddington Bear, Yogi Bear, many literary bears, a naughty John Irving bear in Hotel New Hampshire. Strangely I've ended up residing in a building that was once, and is still known by locals as The Hotel New Hampshire.

There are no real bears in my country, only fictional bears. The koala is not in any way a bear, despite being equally as fluffy and gorgeous. I want to see real bears. Frightening big man killing bears. I love the way bears are just all bear. I'm very fond of dogs, but our domesticated friends are so far from the wolves that bred them I often feel they are guilt ridden mistakes. The same can often be said of the domesticated human. We are civilized and brilliant but so very confused about what fulfills us and makes us happy. From this distance bears appear to be full of natural joy. Joy in mating, food, and oh so much joy in long, long sleep.

In my mind I can see the Bear Country parliament, stern, serious bears in hats and waistcoats debating and voting and orating like imitation men. Somehow I really can't imagine a bear bothering with all the talk. Can I eat it, fuck it, sleep in it? These are the questions that fill the mind of a bear, not the desire to control others. Maybe the fact that bears are the opposite of the human politician makes me love them so.

I'm too skinny to ever be bear like. I'm too well trained and tamed to ever be a wild animal again. My mind is too full of the literary and the fictional to ever go back to the real, to live and die by the seasons, I'm more Pooh than grizzly, and happily so.

I'm travelling to North America very soon, and this time I will see bears. Real, wild, honest bears. I'll still go to visit the Bear Country in my mind occasionally.

Parkstreet.

Flute Alone And Collaboration, from www.parkstreetfluteblog.blogspot.com

Thursday, May 20, 2010


Flute Alone And Collaboration.

Tonight I played a solo gig, forty minutes of flute alone. It was a sweet experience. Life doesn't get much better than being paid to enjoy playing simple tunes, free of clutter, just letting the flute sing.



Perhaps I could have spent more time learning about collaboration over the years. Playing with other musicians can be a joy but it isn't always that way. Finding the right feeling with other players is one of the underestimated skills for a musician.



Sometimes we just have to play with strangers, we all need the paying jobs, sometimes it is a revelation, sometimes a nightmare. It's easy to get lazy and just make do instead of searching for the right people.



I'm off to work on my solo repertoire. I'll learn to collaborate another day.



Parkstreet.

www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Booking A Ticket.

It's a golden moment, when the deal goes through and the fare is booked and the travel is going to happen sooner rather than later.

I miss the days when a travel agent would put an actual ticket in my hand, housed in an airline folder, all tickety and going places. Still, I like the independence of being able to buy a ticket to anywhere from my laptop, like I live in the future already.

My ticket is from Sydney to San Francisco. I should say tickets, I booked one for a friend and colleague too. It is the first time I've travelled with another human. I guess travel is supposed to be about new experiences, we'll see how I cope with this one. Other humans are o.k., if you like that sort of thing, and the one I'm travelling with is a great bloke and an excellent musician.

Our tickets only exist in cyberspace, but they will take us to another continent just the same. A ticket is only an idea. Everyday should be like today, the feeling that a ticket to travel somewhere is out there, that adventure awaits.

Parkstreet.

Twitter Is The Hula Hoop Of The Computer Generation.

Twitter is the hula hoop of the computer generation.

The hula hoop was the result of new technology, cheap and efficient machine moulding of plastics. A harmless, simple toy, it amused young children, maybe for as long as a summer. When it was placed around the hips of a nubile young lady it became quite pleasant to watch for a while. For a while.

The hula hoop spins inanely, round and 'round, achieving nothing, producing nothing, teaching nothing. The brilliance of Twitter is that it somehow sells advertising, despite the fact that it achieves nothing, produces nothing, teaches nothing.

In the 1950's any adult who spent too much time playing with a hula hoop would have been considered pretty uncool.

Twitter is the hula hoop of the computer generation.

Parkstreet.

Sailing With The Real Robin Hood.

A remarkable and charming sixteen year old Australian girl recently returned to Sydney Harbour having sailed solo and unassisted around the world. I can't remember what I was doing when I was sixteen, I'm sure she'll never forget.

Personally I prefer the way Errol Flynn went about his solo sailing. He would fill up his little boat with books, cheap wine and good ham and disappear from the world. When he'd had enough solitude he'd pull into a village to drink and whore it up, leaving behind unacknowledged offspring and unpaid bar tabs.

Somehow the image of a teenager hurtling around the world on a sponsored journey of self discovery without stopping to pay a visit to a stranger sums up the era I find myself living in.

Parkstreet.

www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Shallow And Entitled.

Last night I was doing my usual radio dial twiddling in the early hours. Some say I sleep alone because I twiddle my dial, some say it is the other way around.

I came across a conversation about dating for people over forty, more particularly internet dating. It seemed men were concerned that women posted photographs from ten years ago, they were as much annoyed by the lie as the difference in looks.

Women seemed concerned about money. It appears women over forty have a small pile of the stuff, usually inherited frrom the death of a previous marriage. I wonder if they can see the lapse in logic. They were happy to take their ex husband for everything but aren't willing to date a man who'd been left destitute by another woman.

Men are considered shallow for pursuing younger women. I can tell you that it isn't just about appearances.

A sociologist generalizing about romance might not be the best listening for a single man at 4a.m.

Parkstreet.

www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Two Ways To Make A Better World.

Last night a friend suggested two methods for improving the general well being of the human community.

The first involved finding a suitable mate, procreating, investing time and effort to ensure that offspring entered the world as a well rounded adult equipped to do more good than harm with their life.

The second option involved murdering a human who is an arsehole.

It was suggested that both would achieve the same overall result, but the second method is quicker and would free up twenty years to spend on writing music instead of rearing children.

Bet you didn't know us creative types are cold, calculating killers in our spare time.

Parkstreet.

www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Teardrop Smudge.

The teardrop smudged ink on my page expresses what I'm thinking and feeling better than any words I could write. Sometimes our actions and accidents speak more clearly than our minds and mouths.

Of course it is possible that I was writing on my computer, that there was no ink to smudge, no liquid, teardrop or other, to smudge it, that I was using a literary lie to describe an emotion. If I imagined the handwriting and the tear are they any less expressive than if they were real?

Either way I've spent the day feeling like the word love, handwritten then smudged by an unexpected tear that rushed out and fell before I could turn my head.

Parkstreet.

My Girl.

Today is the anniversary of the death of a friend. There is no reason why one day should be any different to any other but today is different. Out of all the cool people who have died she is the one who shouldn't have. She deserved some happy time just as her life was coming good.

I miss her.

Normal blogging will resume tomorrow.

Parkstreet.

Multitasking, My Arse.

The notion of starting and finishing a job before starting the next job is considered very old fashioned. Old fashioned can be read many ways, in this case I hope it will be taken as tried and trusted, sensible, rational, practical and philosophically sound.

There was a time when a sign of success was possessing the time and affluence to be able to choose leisure over labour if it pleased. Today success is measured by how busy one is. Competition to appear the most busy and therefore the most successful has meant that doing something every minute of every day is not enough, that one must be seen to be doing two, three, four things at once in every minute of every day, thus appearing two, three four times as successful. What astonishing nonsense.

It is right to be suspicious of those who use the term multitasking, it is an ugly term as well as untrue. When humans divide their concentration between two jobs they perform both tasks less efficiently, with less expertise and attention to detail. Their work on both tasks is of a lower quality and due to the lapses when moving back and forward  between jobs they actually take longer than completing one at a time.

The only exception I've seen is the new mother, often capable of remarkable physical feats, but only until the biological need recedes. Once the offspring is sure of survival hormonal changes return her to mere mortal talents. The hormone that allows the mother to perform at this level will one day be synthesized and sold in tiny tablets.

I prefer the ideas of enjoying the concentration on one job, the simplicity, the meditative state, improving each time, becoming more expert every day, then moving on to the next task and approaching it the same way.  Multitasking displays a disrespect for work and the worker. Both are holy in their own way and not to be sullied with awful yuppie buzzwords, not to be employed as a method for gaining status in the eyes of other idiots.

Call me old fashioned.

Parkstreet.

Bread And Water, from www.parkstreetcafeblog.blogspot.com

Thursday, May 13, 2010


Bread And Water.

This afternoon on my way to the studio I stopped at my new favourite cafe for coffee and croissant. Excellent coffee, the closest thing I've had to real croissant in ten years. What a way to start the working day.



When you think about it all I really consumed was water flavoured with beans, warm milk, bread and butter. Of course the beans were selectively bred over centuries, imported, roasted, blended, ground, then brewed. The milk was steamed just enough to alter the texture, to be warm not burned. The bread was obviously baked by a master, folded and layered to create the perfect texture, just enough butter to seduce the whole palate.



The beverage and the food were ideally matched, one to be dunked into the other. I'm wondering why I don't have this breakfast more often? Partly because I don't live in Paris, partly because so many cafes are trying to do something much more clever than water, milk, bread and butter. Too clever for me.



For me the classic combination of coffee and croissant is the height of human civilization. Think I'll head off to the studio again tomorrow. I don't have any work to do there but I feel silly crossing town just for late breakfast.



Parkstreet.

Le Crueset

Why Two Sides?

The mass media tells us there are two sides to every story. Why two? Why two sides, not one, or seven billion?

Two sides can be set against each other. A two sided conflict can be managed, packaged, sold, alongside the associated advertising.

I'll give you an example. Let's pick a big media story, say, climate change. It affects seven billion people and their potential offspring. There are seven billion individual opinions on this story, from complete ignorance to fanaticism. Many of these views coincide, many can be represented by one spokesman, at least closely enough to be fair. Some views are ludicrous, others ill considered, but there are certainly more valid positions than two.

The media representation of this story is usually shock and horror followed by a dissenter. The dissenter is portrayed as a rogue or the voice of reason. All we are offered is two sides, the worst possible scenario versus the absolute denial.

The media isn't selling the story, it is selling conflict. As if there isn't enough conflict in the world.

Parkstreet.

My Back And All The Monkeys.

Over the years I've allowed my life to be slowed down by a number of products, those produced by distillers, brewers, winemakers, tobacco companies, some less legal manufacturers. These small primates have settled in to live on my back for long periodss, never once offering me a cent in rent.  Dishonest women have jostled for their share of the back gripping action.

A monkey can't be fought, shaken off. It's all a funny game to the cheeky little fellows. The more one struggles the more they like it. Starved  of attention they will drop off, wait less than a minute for the next sucker to be born.

At first life without them feels lonely. A man who knows his path and himself is never lonely, but that knowledge can;t be seen clearly while he is swinging around trying to dislodge the monkeys on his back. Catch 22, huh?

The only answer I've found is to pick a path, any path, start walking it with purpose. It will lead to the one I'm supposed to be on eventually. The time spent walking in peace will give me time to get to know myself, time to get used to the quiet, the absence of monkey chatter in my ear.

I've left lives behind and moved on before, but I've always taken the monkeys with me, riding happily on my back. It is strange to be without them, but I believe I am standing up straighter already.

Parkstreet.

Spin 101.

The Australian government has announced the annual budget. They proudly touted the fact that the nation will be back in surplus within three years instead of the predicted six years.

The government itself predicted six years last year. They did this knowing it would be three so they could look impressive by halving the time in a big announcement.

How dumb do they think we are?

Parkstreet.

Madonna? Really?

I often lie awake at night. I twiddle the radio dial, seeking an interesting conversation, mostly end up at the B.B.C. World Service. You'll be surprised to learn that I live alone.

Last night I came across a debate about feminism. Two people suggested that Madonna was responsible for the way many women perceive themselves. Madonna? Really? What? Huh?

Pop starlets are not role models. They are pop starlets. Their job is to be sexy, to shock us a little, to appear in music videos. Anyone who sees them as the bearer of a new philosophy is dumber than dog shit. Any person, or culture that has it's self image altered by a tramp who mimes bad pop songs is by definition idiotic. That person or culture has chosen idiocy over many other options and therefore cannot complain when it is treated like an idiot.

Madonna? Really?

Parkstreet.

www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

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Style And Sexy

.I recently asked a friend if her success is due to her talent and hard work or down to her physical attractiveness. I was, as the English say, taking the piss, and maybe slipping her a sideways compliment. She took it in her elegant stride, stepped over the piss taking lightly, graciously accepted the compliment.

The fact that she displayed such style was a little annoying, but so very sexy. Any man who has spent some time in Paris will tell you that style is sexy. In Paris being pretty or plain isn't really the question, in Paris even the ugly girls are sexy because they have style.

Here in Sydney most women seem to think there is an inverse ratio between sexiness and the amount of fabric in their outfit. The more leg and boob on show the sexier. I'm pretty certain it doesn't work that way. The male of the species will always be attracted to such display but he'll never fall in love with it.

I recall Genevieve, wrapping herself in a large orange scarf before we left a bar, tucking it into a faded denim jacket. I couldn't resist hugging her, wrapping her up like an overcoat. The colours she'd chosen, burnt orange, pale blue, blonde curly hair, so simple and perfect. Her outfit probably cost a few bucks, showed off nothing but her style and confidence in herself. A man can fall in love with that. A man can fall in love with that so easily.

Style can't be studied or faked, it is another way of saying self knowledge and self belief. And that is sexy.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet


Le Crueset

Guitar Is Woman.

The classical guitar is a woman in my arms. She has to be held firmly and gently at the same time. She is strung at high tension, can be stroked vigorously but never struck.

The electric guitar has a sexless body, no depth, no resonance. Plugged in and effected, compared with a classical guitar it is making porn not making love. Porn is cool, I'd make it if someone would ask me to, but I'd rather make love.

The classical is of natural timber, has natural curves, settles easily into my lap. It requires brute rhythm and technique, knowledge and instinctive touch.

Guitar is woman.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Red Brown Dust, solo, acoustic, at iTunes, all the other sites.

Gypsies, Thieves And Politicians.

There was a time in Australian history when one had the choice of following orders in one of two ways, with or without a flogging. Pretty simple, huh? The colony of New South Wales had one governor, one system, survival was the common aim. Everyone from convict to royally appointed leader had to pull in the same direction or all would perish.

Today in the state of New South Wales discerning the criminal from the government minister is becoming ever more difficult. Yet another member of parliament has just confessed to ripping off the taxpayer and resigned. She will walk away with an annual superannuation payment of over $60,000, indexed to grow with inflation, tax free. She is being rewarded for being a crook.

In this case there were clear, easy to understand rules. Those rules were willfully broken. This "honourable member" chose to serve herself, not the people. There is no punishment, save a little public disgrace. On a pension like that she can retire to the Portugal coast, the disgrace will be cleansed by the sun and scampi.

Maybe a flogging is one step too far, but surely those we pay to serve us, serve our community, should be held to some sort of account? Maybe the threat of a flogging would make them think twice?

Perhaps it is down to us, the voters, to look more closely at the people we elect.

Parkstreet.

Where's My Patient Friend?

There is a popular sitcom called The Big Bang Theory. The sit that creates the com is that one lead character is socially incompetent and relies on the other lead character to help him along.

I'm socially incompetent. Where's my patient and loyal friend who explains everything to me? I clearly need one. I'm not getting what is going on all around me.

Now that I stop to look back I realize that people have been holding my hand over the years. Imagine where I would have ended up without them?

A belated thank you.

Parkstreet.

Condescending Sexism.

A large telecommunications company here in Australia is staging some awards for women in business. Complete with a television advertising campaign it is nothing more than a public relations trick.

The really funny thing is the women who appear in the advertisement. They are supposed to be talking about the mentors who gave them the confidence to succeed. I can't help noticing that all these businesswomen are hot. The tall, firm breasted brunette says stuff then hands over to the Jen Anniston lookalike. Hilarious.

These awards are supposed to be about excellence in business, yet here we are again with only beautiful young women as the figureheads. I'm certain there are more plain, middle aged women in business than there are shiny young photogenic things. I'm certain because there are more plain middle aged women in general than there are beautiful young women. Beauty is the exception, yet all women are expected to live up to a ludicrous standard.

Women control a lot of advertising, women were probably given the job of publicizing the campaign for these women in business awards. This isn't a case of men keeping the little ladies in their place, it is just a habit. Those who hand over the public image are so used to the same old ideas that they don't even know they are doing it.  Even when people try to do the right thing they end up talking down and stereotyping.

I understand why my feminist friends are worn out by innate sexism. The good news for them is that men are beginning to be portrayed in the same way, all pecs and abs and chiselled jaws. We don't look like the men on television. Men won't put up with this crap for long, will we?

Parkstreet.

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Playing The Classics.

Tonight I'm cooking a simple, classic tomato sauce for pasta. I've drowned some finely diced onion in extra virgin olive oil, softened it on a low heat. I've skinned some excellent, ripe Roma tomatoes, cut them into chunks and added them to the pan. Salt and pepper, that's it. Let it simmer until the tomatoes break down to a sauce, boil some fettucine, serve with freshly torn basil and real parmesan, it just doesn't get any better.

I love this dish, reckon I've cooked it roughly fifty times a year for over twenty years, never tire of it. What I can't work out  is why I can enjoy the same classic food time after time but when it comes to playing music I just can't play the same tunes on a regular basis. Classic songs or my own tunes, I just can't enjoy playing them over and over. It is something fundamental in the way my musical brain works.

I can play improvised music night after night. I could play improvised gigs every night for the next twenty years, not just fifty times a year. I can play the same melodies, set up the grooves, then let the song go where they will, but I just can't falsify enthusiasm for repeating any performance.

I'm off to stir the sauce, boil the pasta, enjoy my dinner. I can see that it is easier to sell the public a classic pasta sauce, rather than telling them they will get whatever comes into my head tonight, I can only hope there are enough people who need a change occasionally, who'll choose the improvised salad and go back to the classics another night.

Parkstreet.

www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Still And Reflective.

This morning I heard a man describing water so vast, still and reflective that the horizon couldn't be identified. He was talking about the channel country in western Queensland, rivers that run dry for years on end then flood areas the size of European countries overnight.

It's hard to imagine how humans survive in this land. One day it looks like Mars, the next it's running water strong enough to carry livestock away, then it is one of the world's largest lakes. People do live and thrive and love it.

Beauty is impossible to describe in words. Australians have traditionally transported a European ideal of beauty with them. My generation and the one's following are finally seeing their own land as beautiful. Terrifying and harsh and wondrous. The land should inform the culture, but I think we are still a generation or two from that point of maturity.

Australians abroad often have that vast, calm reflective look about them. There is no horizon to their gaze, no limits on their imagination. I'll miss this country when I'm travelling.

Parkstreet.

www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

When People Say, "God Bless You".

I'm not much of a believer, in anything really. I'm a faith nomad, I wander, observe, enjoy, but I don't settle anywhere.

It's something of an American custom to say, "god bless you" after a conversation. When I first encountered it I was resistant. I didn't like the idea of someone imposing their idea of god  and his blessing on me. After thinking about it I realized I was being silly, maybe churlish.

Think about those three words, god, bless and you. Here is a person who is wishing the blessing of the highest being they know upon me. What a nice thing to do. I don't need to agree with their idea of god, or what their faith does, that's all tiny minded politics on my behalf.

Now I need to find a gracious response. "And you" doesn't really cut it. "May the force be with you" might sound superficial.  The great Irish comedian Dave Allen used to end his show with the line, "may your god be with you."

Ideas welcome.

Parkstreet.

www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

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Validation And Believing One's Own Publicity.

Parents are encouraged to applaud the actions of their children, to validate them for performing a task well without commenting on whether the child is good or not. The assumption should be that they are good and loved always, but that good actions will always receive positive reinforcement..

Musicians should always remember that applause is validation of their work, not them personally. Having a room full of people tell you how good you are is intoxicating. Like any intoxication there is a hangover. The secret is to remember that the audience tonight can't hear the applause from last night, each performance stands on it's own.

The musician from last night is dead, reincarnated  tonight, only to die and be reborn the night after. Enjoy the validation while it lasts. It lasts a lifetime, it lasts for one night.

Parkstreet.

Job Satisfaction.

So I'm sitting in a cafe, eavesdropping on some lawyers discussing job satisfaction. They are nice people despite being lawyers. They are idealistic and wondering if they have to leave the law and do something else if they want to be happy.

They aren't digging ditches on a one hundred degree day. Whatever they do for one hundred bucks an hour can't be all that bad. But I get it, everyone wants to feel like they are doing something worthwhile each day when they leave home. I guess we all want job satisfaction, but only a few of us are willing to take the chance of losing money, losing status, risk failing in an attempt to find their ideal work.

What the hell? When we are old and fucked are we going to look back and rejoice in our sensible choices? I think it more likely that we'll celebrate the leaps of faith, the asking that girl out, the running away to join the circus, the giving away all our stuff and walking away from one life in order to start a new one.

So it all goes horribly wrong and we end up digging ditches. Who gives a fat rat's arse? Who is allegedly judging us? We end up old and poor instead of old and rich. Hopefully by the time we are old we'll value something other than money.

Alright, I confess, the self indulgent lawyers are bringing me down a little. Maybe they should all be forced to spend one day labouring in the sun as part of their legal education.

Parkstreet.

I Am Not An Ex, Man.

As we get older we tend to define ourselves by what we were, not what we are. It's natural, we were shinier and prettier back then. Nothing hurt and everything was possible.

On occasion I've found myself calling myself an ex smoker, an ex drinker, and due to some strange conspiracy undertaken by the women folk all over the world an ex fornicator. I think my photograph must appear on some secret women's business website with a caption saying that this man should be called sweet but not fucked under any circumstances. Things were different, as the young people say, back in the day. When I was drunk and stupid and reeking of old cigarette smoke and generally a complete fool the women folk couldn't get enough of me.

I refuse to be defined by what was. At forty two years old I'm changing everything, geography, career, expectation of the world around me. I'm fortunate in that I like myself more now than I liked myself then. I like that I remember what happened last night, that I'm not smoking myself to death, that the women who are attracted to me see me, not some good time idiot. More than this I like where I'm headed. The past has nothing to do with what comes next.

I can walk away from the past without regret, without looking over my shoulder. What I leave behind will still be there, I just won't be around to hear or see it. I'll be experiencing the new, feeling the new, being the new.

The new beckons, the old is dead and gone. I think all is as it should be.

Parkstreet.

Days Like This.

Van Morrison wrote a sweet little ditty about having a happy, contented day where everything slots into place, how his mother warned him it might happen one day. I was never given such a warning but it seems I'm having one of those days.

My friend and colleague Scott Leishman has decided to join me on a jaunt to the United States of America. We are going to head up to Portland Oregon, try to establish ourselves as a working duo, then a band. Scott is a U.S. citizen, I'm not, so if anyone can help me with a contract so I can grab a visa I'd love to hear from you.

I've been agonizing for months, really, months, over which instrument to take with me on my travels. I'm talented enough to play three instruments, but not talented enough to play them well without practise. One at a time for me. I just decided yesterday to settle into the role of singer/songwriter, was feeling good about the choice, then a master guiatrist decides to join me, everything slots into place. Weird, huh?

We'll record a duo e.p. in the next few weeks, some demos of covers too, start pushing for the gigs and tours. I'm excited beyond words.

I promised a friend a happier blog today. I was planning to make simething up, but today I don't have to. Days like this? I'm having one.

Parkstreet.

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Waiter School, from www.parkstreetcafeblog.blogspot.com

Sunday, May 2, 2010


Waiter School.

Forgive me for being old fashioned, but I see the primary task of a cafe waiter as bringing coffee from where it is made to where I'm sitting. Having successfully fulfilled this part of his job he is then free to be urbane, witty, charming, whatever the fuck he wants to be, but only after he has shown me the respect of bringing me a cup of coffee, unspilled.



Carrying a coffee from one point to another without spilling it is a little harder than it looks, but only a little. If a waiter pays attention to how others do it the skill can be mastered in an afternoon. I've noticed that the waiters who are most keen to express themselves at me are the waiters who lack the gumption to learn the fundamentals.



I am old fashioned. I come from a school that says one earns the right to step out of ordinary by mastering the ordinary first. Most traditional and long lasting schools teach this way. The cook cuts a lot of onions before he touches the crayfish, the musician practises scales before he plays on stage, the archer learns how to pull a bow before he even sees an arrow.



I reckon we need a waiter school. Run along the same rules as a monastery, no talking about one's creative life until one has learned to listen to the customer and take his order accurately, no making buddy buddy with the abbot until you've proven you can scrape and stack your dishes in a way that helps the dishwasher. Anyone caught acting flambouyantly without approval will be punished in an old fashioned monastery manner, and once their arse gets better they won't do it again.



I'm not just talking about waiters, we see unearned arrogance wherever we go. It is simply in poor taste. Back to waiter school for all of them.

Parkstreet.

www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

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Moving On.

In a couple of months I'll move on from the area I've called home for the last eight years. Kings Cross is about ten minutes walk from the heart of Sydney. For years it has been home to those who choose a creative life over money. Sadly we have been overrun by the barbaric yuppies who renovate everything in their own image. No one who creates for a living can afford to live here any more. Besides that the atmosphere has gone, there is no buzz, no vibe.

It happens, we move on, get on, search for the new. I'm off to rhe Pacific Northwest. Some have gone to Berlin. The transient is a physical and spiritual reality.

Parkstreet.
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A Saxophonist As A Soulmate.

The tenor saxophonist should be aware of the power he wields. His fat bass notes vibrate through a woman in the same way as a vintage motorcycle. When he wails in the top end a woman just wants to take him home and reassure him that everything is going to be alright. When his fingers are flying around the middle register, preparing to launch another attack, he is hypnotic, a  charmer compelling her to dance.

His breathy sounds are sweet nothings, he can be brassy look at me, look at me. His instrument is a giant shiny phallus of mythical proportions, an ancient symbol.

The saxophonist can expose his soul, confident a woman will see it through the warm, sexy prism of the saxophone itself. When the saxophone has been laid down, when he is standing naked before her, they both have to hope his instrument is his soulmate, that he shares some of it's qualities.

Parkstreet..

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