Shalloween

I spent three Halloweens in New York and I have to say they know how to concoct a celebratory mood.

Although where I lived was basically a trick-or-treat-proof loft building, a visit out of Manhattan revealed the extent to which Americans go in order to get into the spirit of things.
I've never seen so much fake-cobwebbing in my life and the pumpkin-carving can get seriously competitive.

When it's imported here, though, Halloween's a poorly translated pain in the arse.

Last year, our dickhead neighbour kids, who had until then not uttered a word to us, knocked on the door and cheerfully demanded confectionery.
I noticed one of them was holding a bucket – nothing if not optimistic – but only the five-year-old had bothered to make any effort, costume-wise. (Of course the teenage daughter could very well have been going for "trailer-trash-jailbait", in which case she did a commendable job.)

The urge to tell them to go you-know-what was very hard to resist but all I could do was deliver a half-hearted "sorry" and shut the door.
We spent the rest of the evening with the lights off.

I've noticed more Halloween crap on TV this year so I suspect Mick and I will spend the evening in the dark again, pretending not to be home.

Having said all that, there has been some amazing pumpkin art popping up all over the internet.
For sheer cuteness value, I think this is my favourite:

The height of country living

The spread of suburban beige in the Hunter Valley continues apace.

Along with it comes the roadside sell:

Apparently no-one saw any contradiction in advertising the flatness of a "peak".

Suzi, the thoughtful shedder

Evidently it's the time of year when pets start shedding fur. This is a new adventure for both Mick and myself.

It seems we're lucky, though. Our friend Jennifer, who lives across the street, has a big American ragdoll cat called Meggs who leaves a fine layer of evidence wherever he goes.

He can be excused for being an absolutely stunning cat but a visit to Jen's inevitably means taking a little bit of Meggs home with you.

Suzi, on the other hand, simply deposits little doggy tumbleweeds around the house, which we've dubbed Suzi-balls:

See? So easy. Spot a Suzi-ball and pick it up:

We love Suzi.

Rear windows

I'm serious about my mission to eradicate dubious artistic expression on moving vehicles.

Call it the Decal Detox.

Now, rather than purchasing a scraper and personally removing these offending articles – the very thought leaves me exhausted – I have decided to share them in the hope that, eventually, people who choose to let their rear windows speak on their behalf will come to see the error of their ways (that is if they can actually see out of the car through all those messages of domestic self-satisfaction and/or outright aggression).

First, we have a good one: stupid, sexist, racist and woefully outdated:

Then there's this, which is either prophecy or a comment on the driver's personal hygiene:

And remember, you can never start too soon when it comes to teaching the values of kindness and goodwill to your offspring:

Modern nature #2

Elmo's a total spunk

As a disability pensioner (I prefer 'man of leisure' myself), I can often be found in front of the television in the middle of the day.

This is primarily to watch Ellen DeGeneres. I've loved her since I first saw her do stand-up in the '80s and frankly she's the best antidote to a filthy mood I can think of.

Then there's The View, which I either thoroughly enjoy or render mute, depending on the guest or subject matter.
The mere sound of those women talking over each other sends Mick out the room.

Anyway, they recently had on the puppeteer who operates and voices Elmo – one of the cutest, smartest creations to come out of Sesame Street, which says a lot. Few puppets can commandeer any talk show without getting a bit creepy (I do miss Lamb Chop).

I was amazed and slightly guilty with attraction when I saw the hot black dude walk on set:

The disconnect couldn't be greater. His name is Kevin Clash, he's 51 and he's been doing Elmo for over a quarter of a century.

Let that sink in and feel old, just a little.

A documentary, Being Elmo, is coming out somewhere soon. Most likely not here.

Makes me want to scream

They're just asking for it:

Sign of past times

Up the west end of High Street, on a lane beside Shenanigan's pub leading to a riverside carpark, is one of my favourite signs.
Even the local idiot taggers have shown it a modicum of respect:

Those fonts! The handiwork! The fact that someone decided a magnifying glass would add a certain je ne sais quoi.

They just don't bother any more, do they?

Maitland goes upmarket

I remember the days when you could go to HVB (formerly the Hunter Valley Brewery, then The Valley) and only have worry about your outfit until 9pm. If you were a Red Bull-meth chaser dickhead, of course.

Now, in a tragically misguided attempt to erase the venue's tawdry reputation, new management has proudly pronounced their almost comically draconian new rules of behaviour beside the front door:

Guess which ones basically say "No Gladiator Motorcycle Club members"?

Oh, and the venue now sells duck pizza, complete with a duck egg in the centre.

Some places just deserve to be bulldozed.

Tardiness isn't quite next to Godliness

From the same Christian Life Centre that brought you the traumatic bunny incident comes this perturbing alleyway feature:

Now, why would you need a special entry if you were late, unless it means you're dead?

What would be so disturbing about your late arrival as to warrant a private entry?

How do they know if you're late? Is it because you snuck in the back door?

What if you just happen to consider "late" a matter of opinion?

More to the point: What the hell goes on in there????

Rubber, where sizing matters

Another medical-related still life prompts some questions:

Would a condom manufacturer ever start their sizing with "extra small"?

And why on earth did Pharmatex choose 'Celeste' as their brand-name for medical gloves?
Is there a huge Celeste Holm fan in the upper echelons of the company?
Is it a reference to the ill-fated Mary Celeste cargo ship?

Or is it – please tell me I'm wrong – a celestial allusion, as if to say, "We're all gonna die, but I'd rather not go first"?

Fashion foe pas

Mick has an extensive collection of his old rugby league jerseys.
Last week I discovered a new one, my favourite, from the West Tamworth Robins (notice the Datsun ad):

I tried it on, it fit, so I decided to keep it on for our trip to the Metro, imagining it lent me an air of, if not physical prowess, then at least the vague intention of exercising at some point in the near future.

Mick just looked at me and said, "You're not wearing that, are you?"

"Why not?"

"Everyone will think you're a Manly supporter."

He has a point; this is the classic Manly Sea Eagles jersey:

Supporting Manly, evidently, is akin to heresy. They have been considered "silvertails" for years and are almost universally loathed for whatever reason, especially up here.
It doesn't help that they just won the Grand Final.

It's all so stupid, but as soon as Mick said, "I wouldn't wear it to the pub," I got changed immediately.

This is a man whom I've witnessed felling someone with a single punch.
If he's not willing to take such a fashion risk, I'm hardly going to push my luck.

Auras and psychics and bears! Oh dear.

Well I know where Mick and I will be at some point this weekend:

Operator, give me Klondike 5 ...

This should really be listed as an Auction Artefact but I couldn't resist the headline.

Mick and I woke up (what we thought was) early yesterday to attend an auction in the middle of nowhere, a.k.a. the idyllic Ward's River.
When we arrived, we saw what looked like a carpark:

It was a deceased-estate sale, full of farming equipment, so there were butch, burly men galore. The genuine article, mind you, as opposed to the subtly nuanced interpretation of the theme to which I'd become accustomed in Darlo.

Anyway, Mick had a mission and won as usual, outbidding some young dealer/wanker for this late-'30s wall phone, specifically an authentic Australian Postmaster-General's phone.
Score:

Sure, it's missing a ringer. Nothing Mick won't be able to find somewhere, somehow.

I should add that the drive home was lovely, although I suspect Stroud's Court House is quite possibly too cute to be real:

Who cares though, when you get this:

... instead of this:

Ray, o ye of sunshine

Raymond left this week. We had a great laugh during his stay – his not-quite-healed broken leg kept us largely indoors (near the port bottle).

It ended very strangely, for me at least.
Raymond is shortly to be ordained officially within the Anglican Catholic Church.
How this works, I have no idea.
All I know is he's a liberal-minded, erudite (he's ex-BBC, ABC, advertising, etc.) bloke with a great sense of humour (and a motorbike – he's no spring chicken), whom I've known and loved for two decades.

He's also very stubborn and insisted on a brief religious ceremony before he left, despite being aware of my utter disregard for piety.
It involved a laying of hands and holy water. If it had been anyone but Raymond I would have felt ridiculously hypocritical. As it was, I cried.

Fortunately, we just happened to have a ginchy little scent bottle into which Raymond poured said holy water. He left me some.

It's now in the guest bedroom:

Family values

The epidemic of car-decoration must be stopped.

While dickhead hoons are tattooing Gothic-font nonsense on their back windows ("Skin"? Seriously?), an increasing number of families are touting their reproductive trophies in sickeningly childlike fashion.

I think this example, taken this week in East Maitland, tops the lot:

The vanity plate in breast cancer-pink; the inclusion of a goldfish, for fuck's sake; plus – most tellingly of all – "daddy", on his own, clutching a bottle of what is presumably alcoholic self-medication.

We have blue tongue

I repeat, we have blue tongue.

Suzi had a little contretemps with a small blue-tongue lizard a few days ago.
Determined to get a shot of said tongue, I finally succeeded after about 20 attempts.

Sort of:

Okay, so it's just a sliver there but, believe me, between the speed at which he flicks the bloody thing in and out,  plus the delay on my little camera, I considered it a minor triumph.

The Coco Channel

Mick and I bumped into the horses' owner at Woolies.

You know what our verging-on-unbearably cute new neighbour is called?

Whaddya reckon?

That's right: Coco!

(I'm deleting the possible 'a' the end of the name; far too suggestive of overly prescriptive coffee requests in the morning, the bane of the caffeine addict, just one rung above soy milk.)

The unbearable cuteness of being

Mini – we still haven't found out her real name – has a fabulous new Burberry-meets-Lacroix coat:

Brother Mick

Raymond arrived today, along with our mutual mate Ulo. While Ulo came up from Sydney, Ray spent the whole day coming down from the Gold Coast.
He did, however, have the wherewithal to wear his clerical collar; he got an upgrade.

While Ray was busy in the bedroom Mick couldn't help but engage in a bout of blasphemy.
(Okay, we made him do it):

I was a little taken aback at how well he pulled it off.

Spring, sprung

A walk with Suzi to the river – and she invariably makes a beeline to the river –

– reveals the wonders of Horseshoe Bend in spring. Especially if you can't be bothered chasing the dog and decide to sit for a while.
First, if you look very closely at the grassy knoll – our river fortress, if you will – there are sundry tiny wildflowers appearing:

And then there's that comfortingly shiny sign of the season, a new publicity stunt from Coca-Cola.
This time you can purchase a can or bottle with your name on it!

Failing that, go generic:

The sense of abandonment is lesser, I gather.

Great names in cinema #1

I like taking old movie credits photos. So many fabulous names.

This is a doozy, as they used to say. It has an acting legend, a world-famous poet and a Tote du Crow.
Not to mention a Snitz:

Cocky

I totally forgot to include the cockatoos in that zoo post.

Sulfur-crested cockatoos are fabulous in general; they're amazing mimics.
Ones that are in constant contact with the public are hysterical – "Hello!" and "Hello Cocky!" was totally upstaged by "Hello Darling!".
Seriously:

The pink one on the right is a Corella. It was just looking for a breakout accomplice.

Sounds a bit queer

I don't know who's responsible for the piped music at Pender Place, our local shopping mall, but they deserve a sash or something.

I mentioned hearing Beth Ditto before, but since then I've noticed it's like walking into a gay vortex.
The other week it was Wham Rap, today it was Karma Chameleon; every day is a flashback. It's clearly not a local radio station.

In honour of this invisible DJ, here's another song I heard there recently:



See what I mean?

Something adorable this way comes

Mick called me to the kitchen window this afternoon and I saw that we have a new neighbour.
Either that or someone put Rocky in the tumble dryer:

We don't know her name yet, but the hairdo is somehow reminiscent of Chaka Khan, or Tina Turner circa her '80s revival:

In any case, she's cute as a hairy button. No wonder Wiz didn't let her anywhere near the doughnuts:

A dingo took my ex-boyfriend

Said a teary goodbye to Blair yesterday on a suitably wet and miserable day.

On a happier note, we took him to the Hunter Valley Zoo on Friday. I never knew we had one. The fact you have to drive along a kilometre of dirt road to get to it didn't bode well, but we were pleasantly surprised.

It helps that peacocks roam all over the place:

And you can walk among and pat the most laid-back wallabies and kangaroos I've ever seen:

I must admit I started to get a bit sad when it came to the monkeys; they didn't look particularly happy:

The signage suggests as much:

But when it came to this lorikeet, which practically screamed at me to get him the hell out of there, it was time to go:

We then hit Tyrrells Winery, which was beautiful, although Suzi made a break for the vines at one point:

I'm pretty sure Blair enjoyed himself. He saw a wombat, koala, kookaburra, echidna (far cuter in real life):

... and sundry other native fauna.

But by far the highlight was on Wednesday, when Mick and I took him to the Metro and the owners turned up with their new dog, Bebe:

She's part-dingo.
And no, they don't normally have demonic glowing eyes.