Thursday, September 27, 2007


Yesterday I had my second appointment at the Orthopaedics Clinic, and at this point, two weeks after the accident, the break is apparently healing well. The physiotherapist is surprised at the range of movement I’ve managed to maintain in my right arm, and predicts that my recovery should be comparatively swift.

I welcomed this news, although not for the reasons you might imagine. There’s something about going to the doctor that brings out the geeky teacher’s pet in me. I didn’t actually stick my tongue out at the other patients and announce, “Doctor says I’m the best at healing in the whole clinic, so there!”, but I know that somewhere deep within me my inner eight year old was doing precisely that.

I celebrated by going for a drive in the evening, giving the car its first run in over a fortnight. It was doable, but not really advisable. You don’t realise how much you need your whole body to drive until some part of it hurts. Little things like closing the door, turning the key or winding down the window require a surprising amount of force… at least in a thirteen year old Volkswagen Golf. If I had the latest model, it’d probably have keyless ignition, electric windows and power steering, and be so easy to drive that a person could still tootle around in it three months after they died.

Monday, September 24, 2007


My inability to drive has limited my social life, but fortunately one of the city's foremost multiplexes is a 25 minute walk from my house, so I could meet up with some friends on Saturday night to see 'Stardust'. In the manner of bloggers everywhere, I decided to review the evening.

Review of 'Stardust'

I liked it very much. It was beautifully cast (with the exception of Robert DeNiro, who is too iconic for his role) and filmed with the sort of affection and attention to aesthetic detail that's missing in a lot of films. It also had a clever, well-paced plot weaving the classic fairytale tropes into an entertaining new story, which isn't surprising when you consider that it was written and co-produced by Neil Gaiman. Comparisons to 'The Princess Bride' are fair but misleading; it has a similar sense of quality without the now dated smirky postmodernism. Go see it.

Review of the stranger sitting next to me

Dude, who goes to the cinema staggering drunk and reeking of rum and coke?

Review of the woman sitting next to the stranger sitting next to me

Dudette, who looks at a man who goes to the cinema staggering drunk and reeking of rum and coke and thinks, "Yep, that's a man I want to date"?

Review of friend of a friend sitting two seats away from me

When King Solomon wrote in the Book of Ecclesiastes "Laughter is foolish", I'm pretty sure he was looking through his crystal ball 3000 years into the future, and seeing you shreiking like a hysterical seagull at the trailer for 'Fred Claus'.

Review of the trailer for 'Daddy Day Camp'

I would rather break my other arm than see this movie.

Friday, September 21, 2007


Time required to ride the scooter to work - 25 minutes.
Current cost - 97c

Time required to drive the car to work (in peak hour) - 35 minutes.
Current cost - $2.25

Time required to catch the bus to work - 75 minutes.
Current cost - $3.40

I hate the bus. Stupid broken arm.

Thursday, September 20, 2007


Apple geeks like to consider themselves more forward-thinking, perceptive and discriminating than the rest of us... but this forum thread from 2001 proves otherwise.

"All that hype for an MP3 player? Break-thru digital device? The Reality Distiortion Field™ is starting to warp Steve's mind if he thinks for one second that this thing is gonna take off."

In the wise, wise words of Mrs Krabappel, "Ha!"


Drugs. They're everywhere. I'd be on them myself right now, but for the fact that codeine gives me sleep apnoea. Even nice Midwestern lads with well-calibrated moral compasses, like the boys from Mystery Science Theater 3000, have occasionally succumbed to the temptation of drugs. However as far as I can tell, Joel was the only one who did them while he was performing.

Can anyone who has more experience of The Drugs than I do please tell me what Joel might have been on when they filmed this? He seems a little too hyped up for simple weed, but there's definitely some sort of mind-alteration going on there.

Wednesday, September 19, 2007


I went to the Orthopaedic Clinic today to get a formal assessment of my arm, and the consultation turned out about as well as I could have hoped. The doctor was more concerned about the exercise of my joints than the break itself, which he seemed to think would get along just fine as long as I didn’t use that arm to lift anything heavy or push my own weight (eg leaning on a desk to stand up). Apparently I can do small tasks with both hands, such as carrying light objects, typing, writing and so on. I also have a couple of exercises to do, refered to as Turn the Key (rotating the hand at the wrist) and Drink the Beer (bending the arm at the elbow). It’s good to have a doctor who understands the male mind.

I still can’t drive, and I do have to wear a sling, but at least I don’t have to get a plaster cast and suffer all the rigmarole that goes with one.

The other good news is that I think I’ve turned the corner as regards the pain in my ribs. Maybe I’m just getting used to it, but today the pain seemed slightly less when doing things like yawning or laughing. It still hurts, but just not as much. As I said to a friend today, “I’m okay as long as you don’t bore me or tell any jokes.”

Tuesday, September 18, 2007


I have an apparently inexhaustible supply of wishful thought in my sorry excuse for a brain. Over the weekend I discussed my situation with my sister, and she convinced me that I should really report the scooter accident to the police. I didn’t think it would do any good, but as she said, the police are in a better position to say what they are or aren’t capable of or interested in.

So this morning I took a pleasant twenty minute walk down to the local police station. I envisaged having a nice little chat with a friendly policeman, who could give me a response somewhere in the spectrum between “Sorry sir, but there’s nothing much we can do” on the one end and “By Jove, those hooning blaggards will pay for their callous disregard for your safety! Send out an APB and tell them to shoot on sight!” on the other.

What I got was this:

Bogan police chick: Can I help you?

Me: Hello, I wanted to report a motor vehicle accident.

Bogan police chick: Fill in this three page form and bring it back to the counter. There are pens over there.

Me: Oh, okay. Could I have some assistance, please?

Bogan police chick: (dull, uncomprehending stare)

Me: I’m right-handed.

Bogan police chick: (further dull, uncomprehending stare)

Me: (meaningful glance at bandaged right arm)

Bogan police chick: Oh. You’ll have to take it home and get someone else to fill it in for you. When you come back we’ll witness your signature here… er, with your left hand.

Me: (annoyed, all too comprehending stare)

Bogan police chick: It’s a legal document. We’re not allowed to help.

Me: Thanks.

You can’t get advice from someone who only thinks in terms of forms. Sometimes I think the police exist purely to keep the blue flashing light and siren industries busy.

Monday, September 17, 2007


Fun Fact About Only Having One Functioning Arm #1

It is possible, just barely, to make a double-shot flat white with my espresso machine using only one hand.

Fun Fact About Only Having One Functioning Arm #2

It is impossible to perform most of the acts required for food preparation using only one hand. I can see I’m going to survive the next six to eight weeks on nothing but coffee, booze, fruit and toast. So, no changes to my normal diet there.

Sunday, September 16, 2007


With limited activity options at the moment, I’ve realised I have more than enough time to sit down and read the final Harry Potter book… after reminding myself what happened in the last six by reading their Wikipedia entries.

If you haven’t read it, and you don’t mind a few spoilers, then here are a few of my favourite moments and revelations.

Top 10 Spoilers From Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

10. Dumbledore isn’t dead. He’s changed his name to Fifi LaRaunch and escaped the stifling conventionality of Hogwarts for a career on the LA cabaret circuit.

9. Severus Snape’s real name is Matthew Wilson. Oh, the shame.

8. The Expelliarmus curse can be effectively countered by going up to the six year old who shouted it at you in the supermarket and slapping him upside the head.

7. Harry Potter graduates top of his class, only to discover that after seven years of magical education, only ever attending classes in Potions, Defence Against the Dark Arts and the like, he doesn’t know how to write, spell or do arithmetic.

6. Following a multi-million dollar deal between JK Rowling and Volkswagen, Harry, Ron and Hermoine trade in their broomsticks so they can fight Voldemort in the spacious new Toureg turbo SUV.

5. Voldemort is revealed to be Dr Phil in a corset.

4. ‘The Deathly Hallows’ turns out to be a new flavour of icecream.

3. In a naked attempt to boost sales even higher, Harry spends two chapters trying to unlock the Da Vinci Code.

2. It turns out that Voldemort is really Harry’s father, while Professor McGonagall is his mother and Hagrid is his beloved childhood goldfish, Binky.

1. The book ends with Harry waking up and realising that the whole seven book series was just a dream, and he really is just a spotty little git living in the suburbs.

Saturday, September 15, 2007


During my long walk from Mt Lawley to Leederville on Wednesday morning, I came across this little piece of broken glass.

It was an unusual shade of deep blue-green, with a textured pattern on one side. It might have come from a bottle, but it wasn’t curved. It looked like a piece of coloured glass from a leadlight window, which wouldn’t be surprising given the number of Federation-era houses in the neighbourhood. However, the odd thing was that I found it lying behind a low retaining wall in the forecourt of a Holden dealership, amid the dirt, ring pulls and weeds. The nearest building from which it could have come was across a four lane road and up the block. How did a piece of leadlight glass come to be so far from any window that might have contained it?

It was interesting, so I put it in my pocket.

A while later, and nearly a kilometre away, I was crossing a major road when I looked down and discovered two more pieces of glass.

Now this is just getting weird, I thought. Had some old building exploded and rained antique glass fragments across the entire suburb?

And a second or two later I worked it out, as I realised that both sites were right next to major intersections. You are such a duh, I told myself, coming up with exploding Federation buildings when the truth is so obvious.

Still, it’s strange that I didn’t see any red or amber glass in these same places.

Friday, September 14, 2007


This morning I decided to go in to hospital, for a variety of reasons:

1. The Flatmate works less than a block from a major metropolitan hospital, so he could give me a lift in on his way to work.

2. Public hospital Emergency Departments are generally at their quietest between dawn and 9am. Few people are drunk and/or fighting at that hour, nobody has hurt themselves at work yet, and sick people are feeling a little better than normal thanks to a good night’s sleep. So if I went now, there’d be less waiting.

3. I thought it might be an idea to get some X-rays, just to be on the safe side.

4. I had nothing better to do. Being at home with only one functioning arm is super boring.

When I arrived at the Emergency Department, there were only two other people there, and neither of them were waiting for the same specialties as me. I was hustled through into the diagnostic area almost before I had a chance to sit down.

After the usual readings, I was taken into the dimly lit X-ray room, where a technician took images of my elbow from a variety of angles. The X-ray machine was a new one which uses high-tech digital plates, rather than film, so the technician could throw images of the inside of my arm up onto the monitor within seconds of taking them.

“How does it look?” I asked him.

“It looks pretty good,” he said. “But we’ll need to view these on the special high resolution monitor to be sure.”

And view them they did, and that’s when the Emergency doctor came over and said, with professional bluntness, “Oh yes, that arm’s broken.”

“Really?” I said. “But it doesn’t hurt that much.”

“Well, it’s right here on the screen,” he said, and traced a rather obvious crack along the end of one of the bones in my forearm on the image.

“So it’s just a hairline fracture?”

“No, it’s snapped clean through. But the bones haven’t shifted, so it should heal up quite nicely.” And without further ado he sauntered off, no doubt hoping that the next treatment bay would hold a more spectacular injury.

“So what needs to be done?” I asked the nurse.

“We’ll just immobilise the limb,” she said, and she produced… a large hankerchief, which she folded in half, tied around my neck, and inserted my arm into.

“Is that it?” I asked in disbelief.

“I’ve made an appointment for you to be seen by the Orthopaedic Clinic next Wednesday. Just keep it immobile until then.”

“And that’s all?”

“It’s a neat break. As long as you don’t go waving your arms over your head, those bones won’t be going anywhere.”

“Well… okay. Before I go, was any decision made about my ribs? Is it possible that they might be broken too?”

“It’s possible,” she admitted.

I gave her a look.

“It doesn’t really make a difference if they’re broken or not,” she explained. “Ribs don’t show up well on X-rays, so it’s hard for us to tell, and even if we could, there’s no treatment. It’s not like we can immobilise your chest. We’ve established that your lungs haven’t been punctured, which is the only real danger from broken ribs that low down, so basically whatever has happened to them will just have to heal by itself.”

And with that, they ushered me out, with a cheery admonition to steer clear of scooters for a while.

So if nothing else, I appear to have finally met some people with a more lackadaisical attitude to my health than me. Now I also know why my boss always suggests going to the hospital where I work when one is sick or injured, rather than this one.

Thursday, September 13, 2007


I am, quite simply, besotted with the reusable packaging that comes with this brand of coffee.

And yet at the same time I am full of disquiet… because this means that out there, somewhere, there is a marketing executive who understands me right to the innermost core of my being.

It’s a little humbling to be so transparent.


Yesterday was going really well for a while there.

I woke early and rode my scooter to Claisebrook, where it had been booked in for some repairs. I left it there and walked up to Exomod in Mt Lawley, where I could begin my day in a civilised fashion with a couple of large coffees and gourmet fruit toast.

After an hour or so of that, I wandered down to Northbridge to look at some galleries, then across to Leederville to browse in the Cool Kid shops. I also visited the Re Store, that famous local bastion of woggy comestibles. My friend CM reckons that Heaven will smell like the Re Store - I think he imagines it’ll be something like this:

St Peter: Welcome to Heaven, my son. Come in and have an espresso.

CM: Thanks! (sniffs air) Do I smell fresh bread?

St Peter: Yes, that’ll be my latest batch of ciabatta. Try a slice with this irish unslated butter and this extraordinary little orange and grappa marmalade I picked up in a tiny, remote village in Tuscany.

CM: And is that… antipasto?

St Peter: Yes, my son. Eighty four varieties of salami, a hundred and thirty types of cheese, artichoke hearts in olive oil, semi-sundried tomatoes, and…

CM: And?

St Peter: Those little grilled aubergine slices with the spiced mozzarella. Mmm mmm.

CM: Woo-hoo!

Mindful that I wouldn’t be able to carry a lot on my scooter, I just bought some expensive coffee, some even more expensive chilli jam, and a bottle of Zubrowka, the most captivating vodka in the world.

From there I walked into the city, stopping at 78 Records to pick up a Sarah Vaughn CD and Herb Alpert’s famous ‘Whipped Cream & Other Delights’. I could have bought many more from their huge $10 bin – The Best of The Monkees! Christmas With Dino! Monty Python’s Contractual Obligation Album! – but I managed to exercise some restraint. Then I strolled back up to Mt Lawley for a pleasant lunch of caesar salad over the latest copies of Inside Out and Urbis at Soto café.

After lunch I walked back down to Claisebrook and picked up my scooter, now burbling like a contented bee with all its little imperfections repaired. Despite the fact that it now has more kilometres on the clock than most scooters, the mechanic didn’t see why it shouldn’t keep running for another 10,000 without major work.

I managed about 10.

Coming up to the Ashburton Street roundabout on Chapman Road, I was busy figuring that yes, I did have time to go to the bank and take my suits to the drycleaner when a car sped out of the side road and across the roundabout without even considering that there might be traffic on the other road. There was a split second in which my brain recognised three possibilities:

1. Do nothing, and slam into the side of the car at top speed.

2. Swerve behind the car, missing it but instead slamming into the concrete planter in the centre of the roundabout.

3. BRAKE LIKE HELL and hope for the best.

I went with option 3. The scooter locked up, skidded on the wet road then sent me flying at only a little less than top speed into the tarmac in the centre of the roundabout.

There’s that moment a few seconds after a serious crash in which it feels as if every part of your body is panicking, shouting at you to deal with their particular problem. It takes a few moments for your brain to prioritise. In that moment I saw that the car had pulled to a halt a few metres up the road. Then, when the driver saw me struggling to raise my head off the bitumen, thus proving that I was still alive, he drove off.

Other slighty less bastardical people got out of their cars and came to check on me. One man had to help me stand up and usher me to the curb, while another righted my scooter and pushed it onto the footpath. I couldn’t stand, so I sat on the wet grass and tried to run an audit on my body. There was pain, but it was being pushed to the periphery. My brain just wanted to know if there was anything seriously wrong. I flexed and squirmed a bit, making sure that all the major limbs were still bending the right way, and found that they were. The slightly less bastardical Samaritans got in their cars and drove away, leaving me to sit in the rain waiting for my head to come together.

After a few more drivers-by called out to ask if I was okay, I decided I had to face what had happened and get myself home. I couldn’t ride the scooter back out onto the road, since I didn’t know if it still worked properly, but I wasn’t strong enough to push it. In the end I got on, started it, discovered that it still worked, and used what little strength I had to twist the throttle. I rode up the footpath at about walking speed, then took some back streets and alleys to get back to my house, about two kilometres away. Mr right arm was starting to hurt like hell, and I noticed that my vision was blurry, leaving me unable to see anything unless I focused right in on it.

I know the drill for what to do after an accident: stay dry, warm and still before the shock kicks in. I phoned my doctor, who talked me through examining myself for serious injury, and, finding nothing life-threatening, agreed to call me back in a few hours to see how I was. Then I took some paracetamol and went to bed.

My vision came good after an hour or two, but I lost more and more movement in my right arm as the soft tissue bruising swelled and inflamed. Since I was having trouble moving, my friend JC kindly brought me some Chinese takeaway for dinner, and we watched bad monster movies while I slumped on the couch wrapped in quilts and hurt.

Now that the first wave of shock and trauma seems to be over, I can ascertain more clearly how badly I’m hurt. There’s a graze on my right knee, and a monster bruise on my right hip. All of my right ribs hurt, although they don’t seem to be broken. My right arm is more or less useless – I can bend my elbow so that my hand moves from my chest to my hip, but no further in either direction, and rotating my wrist even a little causes pain.

But hey, it could be much, much worse. In situations like these it can be helpful to look at the best and worst aspects of the crash.

Good things about the crash

I’m not dead.

My CDs, coffee and jam survived with only minor abrasions.

The fact that it was wet meant that I slid over the top of the road rather than being grated against it.

My leather jacket absorbed a lot of the impact when my shoulder hit the bitumen, and my heavy jeans protected my legs.

My leather gloves protected my hands so well that I only have a slight bruise under my thumbnail.

My helmet protected my head, as the huge graze up its side attests. In addition I fell onto my side and slid like that, so my face was totally unharmed.

The scooter still works, as far as I can tell.

Bad things about the crash

My expensive bottle of Zubrowka shattered on impact.

My beautiful vintage leather jacket is ruined – the whole right shoulder has been shredded and torn off.

The scooter’s throttle handle was ripped open and will need to be replaced. The right mirror is damaged and there are huge scrapes up the right side of bodywork.

My holiday week is… well, perhaps not ruined, but certainly a lot less fun that it should have been. My arm hurts too much to let me do things around the house, and I can’t drive, so I’m very limited in what I can do. Even blogging is hard – I have to sit leaning to the left so that I can type without extending my right arm, and it hurts to use the mouse.

I didn’t get the licence number of the car that caused my accident then drove off, so there’s not a lot the police can do.

As a Christian I’m called upon to forgive those who hurt me, just as I myself have been forgiven by God. And trying to work on that. If, however, you are an atheist living in the Bentley area and you see a red Toyota Celica with two black racing stripes running over the top of it, feel free to lob a brick through its windshield.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007


No post today. You’ll see why tomorrow.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007


There’s a different rhythm to the city when one is on holiday. Once everybody is safely shut away at work or at school, everything seems to take a big sigh of relief and change down a gear. The shops are quieter, the car parks emptier and even the TV is less frenetic.

As a sort of a case in point, I went to my local charity shop, an activity which usually only results in me wandering around the various sections wondering how so many people ever came to own so much cheap tacky crap. But then, I usually go on Saturday, apparently after a whole bunch of people who aren’t at work all day have strip-mined anything cool from the shelves during the week.

However today is Tuesday, so now it’s Zoidberg’s Blandwagon’s turn to do the strip-mining! I actually came away with two great things… rather than my usual zilch. The first was a small cowhide rug in a rich, dark colour. The second was a 1960s Turi Design ‘Marketplace’ serving dish from Norway… a bargain at $4.75. Scandinavian china from the 60s and 70s is almost painfully cool at the moment, and the Marketplace range is amongst the most iconic. Put this piece in a smart antique store and you could increase the price ten- or even twenty-fold.

Ah, holidays: when buying an old plate is the most notable thing that happens in your day.

Monday, September 10, 2007


I spent most of today down in Fremantle, wandering about while my car was being serviced and undergoing some minor repairs. I had lunch with my sister, sat in a couple of cafés drinking coffee and reading magazines, and browsed in my kind of shops – vintage clothing stores, recycled CD outlets, second-hand bookstores and op shops.

The only things I actually bought were a couple of used CDs. One was a compilation of “soul” music, which I bought since I’m on a bit of a soul kick at the moment. However it transpired to be a late 70s/early 80s definition of “soul”, and thus as thin and anaemic as Woody Allen. While the early 70s soul was raw and sensual, with a bass line that brings to mind sassy black vixens in afros and paisley halter tops, the early 80s soul is pale and sexless, bringing to mind discos full of white women with big hair and plastic earrings dancing in circle around their handbags.

The other CD turned out better – a compilation of Nina Simone’s performances of jazz standards. I’m a bit of a Nina Simone heretic, in that I far prefer her exquisite interpretations of the jazz classics over her rather tiresome political songs. Given a choice between another musical diatribe about the civil rights movement and a virtuoso rendition of ‘Mood Indigo’, I’d pick the latter every time.

Having said that, I admit that her version of ‘Stompin’ at the Savoy’ sounds like it was recorded by a pod person. But she lends ‘House of the Rising Sun’ the full weight of her trademark melancholy, telling the story from the perspective of the downtrodden whore rather than, as is customary, the addicted client.

Sunday, September 09, 2007


This tiny guy scared me half to death this afternoon, when I was watering my pot plants and one of the leaves blinked at me.

Welcome to the neighbourhood, little fella.

Saturday, September 08, 2007


I’ve decided to take a week off work to relax, enjoy the beautiful early spring weather, and get a few things done that are inconvenient to do when one is at work eight hours a day.

Since I’ll have a bit of spare time, I’ve also decided to make a commitment to blog every day. Why? Because I can.

Today I went to a Christian conference out on the edge of the city. I’m not usually a fan of such things. Given the choice between spending my Saturday breakfasting in a café then meandering through salvage yards and charity stores looking for Interesting Things, and going to a big Christian conference, I usually prefer the former. A lot of my friends are completely the opposite, which leads me to believe that either they’re weird or I’m a mediocre Christian. Personally I lean towards the “weird friends” scenario.

If you can’t understand the gulf between me and them, witness this conversation I had with The Flatmate:

Me: You’ve been to one of these conferences before, haven’t you?

TF: Yep. If I wasn’t going to be out of the city this weekend, I’d probably go to this one, too.

Me: Am I right in thinking that it’s sort of like a big church service, only it goes for eight hours instead of one?

TF: Well, yes, I suppose that’s technically true. But you make it sound like it’s a bad thing.

Me: Uh-huh.

I had absolutely no intention of going to this conference, but in my experience God has a nasty habit of manoeuvring people into the position of doing the exact opposite of what they want to do. Thus on Saturday I found myself drinking awful coffee and wearing a misspelt name tag, and wishing that God had less time-consuming methods for keeping me on the straight and narrow.

In retrospect, I don’t know if I’d call the conference good, but it certainly wasn’t bad, coffee notwithstanding. The main speaker gave a series of talks on Ecclesiastes, one of the Bible’s more profoundly reflective books, and he was both a talented speaker and a perceptive theologian. Plus at the morning break they served cookies the size of hubcaps.

But the best part of the experience was actually in getting to and from the conference. Some of the guys and I did this in a friend’s newly acquired car: a 1972 Ford Galaxie LTD. Oh, baby! 6.5 litres of brute V8 power dragging around enough steel to recreate the Titanic, and enough vinyl upholstery to smother Liechtenstein. And it had a horn that plays a staggering, drunken rendition of ‘Dixie’. For what more could a man ask?

Best of all, in honour of the occasion, I created this funk/soul playlist on my iPod and used my iTrip to broadcast it to the car’s radio. Take it from me; the only thing cooler than cruising down the highway in a vast 70s car is cruising down the highway in a vast 70s car with Edwin Starr screaming “I like the sound of funky music, cos funky music sho nuff turns me on!

If you want to recreate the 1972 Ford Galaxie LTD experience, here’s my playlist, featuring the master funkmeister Edwin Starr, the early groove of Stevie Wonder, Brenda “The Wild Woman of Soul” George, and a bunch of instrumental tracks that all sound like the theme music from a forgotten mid-70s cop show. Download them from iTunes if you think yo ass can stand the shakin’.

1972 Ford Galaxie LTD Playlist

I Can’t Stand It (I Can’t Take No More) – Brenda George
Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I’ve Yours – Stevie Wonder
Funky Music Sho Nuff Turns Me On – Edwin Starr
Mo’ Do’ – Mongo Santamaria
Sting Ray – Ray Barretto
I’m Still A Strugglin’ Man – Edwin Starr
There You Go – Edwin Starr
I Want My Baby Back – Edwin Starr
I Was Made To Love Her – Stevie Wonder
Featherbed Lane – Mongo Santamaria

Tuesday, September 04, 2007


Some friends of mine have just returned from Melbourne, and while they were there they saw something in a shop that reminded them so strongly of me that they just had to buy it. Then they gave it to me, which is sort of odd if you think about it, since I don't usually need to be reminded of me. I'm reminded of me quite often enough without the need for souvenirs or mementos.

Fortunately the thing that so reminded them of me was quite cool; a little model scooter. I don't mind people seeing cool things and being reminded of me. I figure it's only when they come up to me and say, "I saw a cheap piece of crap yesterday and thought immediately of you" that I have to start worrying.

It turns out the scooter is the perfect scale for Beatnik Hipster Dad, my groovy IKEA father doll with the hipster goatee, retro black-framed glasses and white designer sneakers. As I've said before, you just know he's an architect, listens to vintage Bessie Smith jazz records, and speaks perfect idiomatic English with a cool Swedish accent.

It's not enough that Beatnik Hipster Dad has better hair than me, now he also has a bitchin' ride. Bastard!

Well, at least it makes him happy.