NYE Horseshoe Bend

Okay, so that was just the 9pm fireworks, but given Suzi's reaction – a sprint to the backyard, where she barked furiously in every direction until I corralled her – I think I'll forgo a trip to the riverside to watch the midnight event.

Besides, You Can't Stop the Music is on Channel 9!

Poor me a drink

While Googling for details on what creative director Marc Newson has in store for Sydney tonight, I found this beauty, courtesy of The Australian:

I'm glad we decided to avoid the riff-raff.

Setting of the sunflowers (this time for sure)

Mick and I have been hesitant to yank out the sunflowers, but they're now looking a bit like something you might find in the backyard of the American Horror Story house:

In any case, it's time for them to make way; the pumpkin plant is on the march once again:

Woo. Uh... Hoo.

The so-called festive season is almost over (thank Christ!), just the colossal waste of money that is NYE fireworks to go.
I was a little gobsmacked at how elaborate they were up here last year. I honestly don't know why they bother.

Anyway, I may or may not venture to the river to watch them.
Somehow I think I'll be in front of the tele instead (click for personal light spectacular):

Happy etc.

The perils of Pauline, or There goes the neighbourhood

Mick came home from the Metro on Wednesday night with a horrifying piece of town gossip:

Pauline Hanson, the failed politician who appealed to the dumb bigot in everyone, has supposedly bought my favourite pub-turned-antiques store, the old Tooths Exchange Hotel:

Galling: that she allegedly paid only $440,000 for it.
Even worse: she wants to turn it into a wine bar.

Or woin bar. With chips!

If she continues with her recent string of reality TV-driven attempts at image rehabilitation and tries to turn this venture into a series of camera-friendly mishaps and meltdowns, I may have to call upon Pauline Pantsdown to stage an intervention:

Sublime, ridiculous...

I post this, the last of our current zucchini crop, without comment:

Suzi: The new fragrance

Mick and I took Suzi to the groomer yesterday.
It was just for a shampoo; the dog, bless her, really stank.

Mick had attempted to shower her, but it proved such an ordeal (she was so determined to avoid it, she managed, for the first time, to leap into the bed with me) that we took her to Raymond Terrace's Pet Parlour again.

Raymond Terrace is, shall we say, a less salubrious part of the lower Hunter Valley.
It's often mentioned in local news broadcasts: "Police caught the alleged suspects in ...", "The burnt-out vehicle was found in ...", etc.

Still, you pass some pretty scenery on the way:

Plus, they do a good, cheap doggy wash and Suzi now smells like a rose, as interpreted through one of those motion-triggered room fresheners.
She laid down in the car for most of the way home, perhaps in post-traumatic stress, so I didn't get a good photo of her.

She looks much the same, to be honest, so here's one I prepared earlier; just imagine her smelling a lot better:

Moving violations #4

Close to home – next door, in fact – we have a classic example of the new idiocy.

This car either belongs to the neighbours or one of their many friends who come and go in unnecessarily loud fashion at all times of day and night.
Whether the neighbours are dealing is a matter of conjecture, but we wouldn't be at all surprised.

Anyway, here you go:

Nothing like getting your freak on in a hatchback, is there?

Setting of the sunflowers

Apologies for the absence. Haven't felt remotely like blogging anything, a combination of the time of year and my semi-swollen face – there's only so much a hermit can share.
At least I've made it to the backyard on occasion to monitor the sunflowers.

Here they were, December 9:

And just over a week later:

They're on their last legs, so to speak.
It was lovely while it lasted.

When all else fails

Click to engage:

Australia: All Mine*

Amid the high-sodium snacks and local businesses being spruiked on billboards along the New England Highway, one can be momentarily distracted – or subliminally swayed – by the odd pro-dig-a-hole piece of propaganda.

Lest you worry that the constant removal of earth be somehow detrimental in the long term, surely this convinces you otherwise:

No passengers!
That's not creepy or portentous at all.

Then there's the smiling, hi-vis face of the many and varied economies reliant upon our current obsession with literally undermining what is now pristine countryside.

Because if you go down a hole, someone has to lift you out of it, right?
Enter the helpful, gender-balanced workforce of professional lifters ... sorry – thinkers, Robertsons:

I applaud them for their choice of headwear – finally I know what thinking caps look like.

* I think I should send this to Tourism Australia as a slogan suggestion.
Can't be any worse than their recent efforts. Certainly more honest.

Blame it on the Endone

I've been in a post-radiation painkiller haze, hence the recent lack of posting.

It's also my excuse for not paying attention to the zucchinis.
I added the ruler to show how comically large some had become as a result:

I don't know what Mick's excuse is.

Don't stare directly at the sunflowers

The sunflowers are out and looking impressive:

... facing different directions, for some reason:

The one on the right has always been a bit behind the other one, development-wise, so maybe it hasn't quite worked out where to look yet...

Meanwhile, the first pumpkin has appeared:

They grow up so fast...

Ossie Mk II: Hypno Mosquito

A routine trip to the doctor today had an unexpected bonus.

Residents of Hexham and readers of this blog have reason to celebrate – Ossie the Mossie is back and better than ever:

Okay, so my visions of a giant, explorable mosquito (possibly with a restaurant/souvenir shop in his head) have not come to fruition, but closer inspection reveals his secret allure:

Is this the roadside equivalent of subliminal advertising?

Are those hypnotic, spiral eyes silently beckoning potential problem gamblers?

In any case, it's good to have him back.

Anyone got $1.9 million?

This is genuine now.
Honest!

There's a seriously fabulous multi-purpose residence for sale around the corner from our place. It's been on and off the market since we moved here and has been the source of sundry domestic fantasies.

Welcome to Mansfield House:

The agent does it more justice:

Anyway, it's been steadily dropping in price; at $1.9 million for a 9-bedroom, c. 1887 Italian Renaissance-style glamour pile, it's a fricken bargain.

Besides, imagine what you could get up to in this room:

Seriously, anyone got some spare cash?

Local wildlife

Lions Park, Horseshoe Bend:

Saddleworld, Maitland:

Moving (and stationary) violations #3

This is a variation on one of the first car decals I saw.
That was in a different font and considerably smaller, though:

A bit of Googling reveals it's the logo of "action sports" clothing company, Skin Industries, whose output appears to consist solely of cotton casuals emblazoned with the word "skin" against various tattoo-style graphics (one range is fittingly called "nightmare").

And yes, they also sell die-cut decals – twenty in all.

Moving on to another high-fashion brand:

What the word "unit" has to do with the Playboy bunny is beyond me.
Also, notice the P-plate and the breast-cancer pink vanity plates.

It's a pattern, I tell you.

Finally we have some old-school ornamentation that I find objectionable on more than one level:

The message seems unnecessarily aggressive; it's a Prado, for god's sake.

Secondly, forget the butt, the eyes on that dog are truly disturbing. Is it rabid?

It kind of reminded me of that Simpsons episode with Mulder and Scully:

In hindsight, I guess it's pretty effective.

Under the sunflowers

The sunflowers' flowers are starting to appear:

I'm finding them strangely intimidating; I'll have to get on a ladder to photograph them.

Ossie Ossie Ossie, Oy Oy Vey

Had to make another trip to the Mater to pick up more painkillers – the radiation, in typically insidious fashion, has truly kicked in; my lower face feels like it's on fire and looks as painful – and I noticed work has finally begun on Hexham's Ossie the Mossie:

But are they taking it down in preparation of something even more magnificent?
Are they removing it permanently?

First, let's look back at what once was:

Personally, I hope they think big.
Something you can walk inside, at least.

Suzi, the photo-hound

She just can't help herself:

Beautification is in the eye of the beholder

I know I've had a go at the so-called graffiti artists in town, but the local council's response isn't the most aesthetically pleasing.

Until recently, this shipping container at nearby Smyth Field – who knows what it's for; a demoralising change-room for opposing teams, perhaps – wasn't that much of an eyesore as far as I was concerned:

It now looks like this:

I presume they consider this an historically-sensitive shade of salmon. Or, at a pinch, "terracotta".

I'd call it "lung" myself.

In anticipation of its presumed impending "beautification", I took a photo of this wall, at the same field:

Let's see how long it lasts.

Unholy visions

Maybe it's the psychological aftermath of the Jesus-on-a-dog's-butt, but I've been seeing things lately.

Am I the only one who sees an Easter Island statue in the afternoon light?

And walking home with Suzi the other day, I could have sworn this paint-spill looked like an elephant being chased by a shotgun-wielding ivory hunter:

Strickley speaking

Going through old photos yesterday, I found a bunch from a trip to London and Paris in 1992.

I was going through a stage of using black-and-white film; I presumed this would lend everything an air of timeless sophistication.
I was 21, okay?

Anyway, I vividly recall walking down Kings Rd in Chelsea and laughing out loud at this:

I was a spelling pedant even then.

Love and marriage

It goes without saying, I think our atheist, living-in-sin (with-a-hairdresser!) Prime Minister Julia Gillard is a hypocrite for continuing to "defend" marriage, i.e. refuse to grant the right to same-sex couples.

Having said that, I don't want to get married myself, never have.
But I just saw this on Joe.My.God and it's so beautifully done I cried:



Joe does that all the time. Bastard.

Let them eat beefcake

For no reason other than I haven't posted any hot men in ages.

That and the fact former professional wrestler Bruno Sammartino (born 1935) has obvious appeal:

Plus, I admire his healthy disregard for modern technology:

That's my excuse.

A little piece of Joan

Crawford, that is. And it's time to get out the credit card.

On December 7, there's an estate sale of personal Joan Crawford items.
Imagine her face when she read this:

Lot 1118
[CRAWFORD, JOAN]
Archive of legal and business correspondence pertaining to What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? Approximately seventeen sheets (a few in photocopy), with a signed contract by Joan Crawford for the use of some Baby Jane footage. Generally good condition.
Infamously, a rift occurred between Bette Davis and Joan Crawford during the making of this film, in which Crawford played the wheelchair-bound Blanche Hudson.
C Estate of Joan Crawford
Estimate $250-350 


There's a lot of fur (mercifully nothing with a head), but I think this is quite stylish. Also, fox, so not quite so guilt-inducing for some reason:

Lot 1163
Silver Fox Rectangular Stole 
With black silk satin lining, labeled Furs Alixandre New York Paris and monogrammed JCS in script.
Length 6 feet 10 inches, width 17 inches.
C Estate of Joan Crawford
Estimate $600-900 


But this is the star of the show.
Can't you just see her in a boardroom, stabbing her glossy-nailed finger at it as she asserts her authority?

Lot 1175 Gold, Ruby, Emerald and Diamond Pepsi Bottle Brooch 
14 kt., the gold pin centering a detailed Pepsi logo, topped by an accented ruby bottle cap, set throughout with emeralds and diamonds, approximately 11.2 dwt. Length 2 1/8 inches. 
C Estate of Joan Crawford 
Estimate $600-900 


Maybe, if you rubbed it three times, she might appear...

Slumming it, Joan Collins-style

I know Joan Collins has had her ups and downs, quality-wise.

It all started out so glamorously:

Of course, when Hollywood fails to succumb to your wiles, embrace TV.
At the very least, play a Batman villain (called the Siren, what else?):

If times get tough, do a B-grade horror. Remember, show cleavage:

When all else fails, play the character everyone assumes you to be; resurrect career:

When that fizzles, accept the most unlikely role/act of stunt-casting ever concocted by an ailing sitcom, namely Roseanne:

I caught this yesterday and was gobsmacked.
Joan was cast as Ronnie, Roseanne's estranged cousin. It was quite surreal, although Joan, naturally, just played Joan.

The best line was from Roseanne: "Where'd you get that hoity-toity accent from anyway? You're from Illinois!"

I think by far the strangest sight was Darlene sitting next to Ronnie/Joan on that couch:

Joan's Versace leggings are not getting along with that crochet throw.