RIP, Champ of champs.

Stunning news today, with the sudden death of former undisputed middleweight champion Marvellous Marvin Hagler.

The man was an all-time great, both in and out of the ring, and was one of my absolute favourite boxers of all time: an explosive machine with thunder in both gloves and a will that seemed genuinely supernatural. Other boxers didn’t beat Hagler. At best, they held him off long enough to escape with a victory and all their faculties attached.

Was he the best middleweight of all time? He’s the best I’ve ever seen. The best of the ‘Four Kings’. Better than Hearns, better than Duran, better than Leonard, and if you’re better than them, who else is there? Sugar Ray Robinson is the only name left, and wouldn’t you have just died to have seen that match?

And to top the argument off, he was, of course, the victorious side of the greatest boxing match ever staged: the three-round blastorama with Tommy Hearns dubbed ‘The War’. And it was.

66 is no damn age at all. RIP, Champ.

The greatest boxing match ever staged. Told you so.

AMBIGUAM MEMORIAM

Two separate deaths. Two separate anniversaries.

It was my father’s birthday yesterday. He would have been 77. He died, destroyed by dementia and regressed to an aggressive, pre-verbal state, in July of 2019. Truth to tell, his passing meant very little to me, as had our disintegrated relationship, which had never recovered fully from his abandonment of us when I was a teenager and had only ever reached the heights of easy familiarity. We hadn’t spoken for a couple of years before his death: his increasing disability, and moving so far away physically, made it easy to acknowledge what I’d had in my heart for a long time– we simply did not belong in the same world, and there was no need to keep trying to force us together. Harsh, probably, but a harshness forged over more than forty years of experience. Even his birthday would not be worth mentioning, were it not for the other anniversary occurring this weekend.


See, I’m sitting at home, alone, while I type this. Luscious is in Perth. She’s attending the awarding of the first annual Blake Triffitt Memorial Prize for Excellence in First Year History, at Edith Cowan University, the University where Blake was studying when he completed suicide two months after my father’s death (And congratulations to Corbin Bright, whoever you are: I hope the scholarship will help take you where you want to be). In the two years since Blake left us the outpouring of love and remembrance for him has been constant: everyone who ever met him has a story, or an anecdote, or just a warm feeling that they can bring back at a moment’s notice. The University itself has contributed to the scholarship, matching our donation and more to give it real heft and make a proper difference to someone’s studies (Corbin’s, obviously. Corbin this year). And I should be down there with her, but it’s the middle of term, and we could only afford the one flight, and so she’s down there with our eldest son Aiden and those family members who live there already, and that’s all well and fine and good, but they’re not me, and…… I’m worried for her.

Grief never leaves. At best, you can throw a sheet over it like a parrot in a birdcage, to send it to sleep for a while, and redecorate around it in the hopes that the shiny new colours will help it blend into the background for a while. But it doesn’t take much to whip the sheet off and for the parrot to start squawking obscenities at your visitors again. This scholarship will do wonderful things, and be a positive contribution to a world that Blake was heading towards joining, but none of that will be a consolation to the woman who has to sit in the audience and hear his name spoken on stage, and know why.

There’s no lesson here. No moral to pass on. I just wish I was with my wife today, and even more so, that Blake was.


ONE YEAR

It’s been one year.

A year ago today I was standing in the middle of an oval in Dampier with members of the writing group to which I belonged at the time, preparing to read The Alphabet Book of Murderers to a crowd we were hoping would arrive any moment. And then I got the call.

Luscious. Three words.

Blake. He’s gone.

And I was already running for the car.

One year since he took his own life. One year since he left us with nothing but grief and questions, and no belief that either of them will ever be put to rest. One year since our world fell down around us. Since then we’ve lost all momentum, all desire to pursue our own lives, our own ambitions. I don’t write. I don’t build. I don’t exercise. Luscious is all that and more. We’re waiting for something that will never arrive, and we don’t have the energy to get up and find it.

I don’t have any more words. Just that. It’s not fair. It’s never going to be fair. It’s never going to be right. And it’s never not going to hurt.

None of this is fair.

RIP, TB-T: SOMEBODY CALLED

One of the things that has been highly noticeable about the spread of Covid-19 is that it is no respecter of rank, position, or privilege. Like a true plague, it has struck indiscriminately, from Prince Charles, to Boris the Bastard, to Kenny Dalglish, to fathers and mothers and siblings and offspring less famous, but just as necessary to the wellbeing of the world.

Sadly, for everyone who contracts the virus and recovers, we suffer a painful loss: at the time of writing, over 144,000 lives have been lost worldwide, and the number grows daily. And while it could be argued that some figures might improve the world immeasurably by no longer being in it*, we’re also seeing the loss of people who have enriched our experiences through their work and their legacies. Gita Ramjee has died. Lorena Borjas. Terrence McNally. And last night, as Luscious and I were heading to bed, news broke that brought us both to tears.

British comic actor, writer, and absolute pillar of my childhood memories, Tim Brooke-Taylor, succumbed to the virus at the age of 79.

Continue reading “RIP, TB-T: SOMEBODY CALLED”

EXIT, WITHOUT SO MUCH AS KNOCKING

Sad news this week, with the passing of Australian poet Bruce Dawe.

Like many Australians of my generation, Dawe was my first taste of contemporary poetry. His collection Sometime Gladness was a school staple in the 1980s. Unlike many of my peers, for whom using two forms of cutlery in the same meal was considered forensic proof of poofterdom (1980s. Rockingham. Because homosexuality was something to be feared and beaten, often with cricket stumps or boots, based on nothing more than a certain level of intelligence and perhaps not liking AC/DC that much. At least in my case.*), I fell in love with both Dawe’s work and poetry in general. It’s a love that has never left me: in my day I’ve been reader, writer, and performer of poetry, with a handful of sales here and there to salve my somewhat notions of credibility.

Continue reading “EXIT, WITHOUT SO MUCH AS KNOCKING”

RIP TERRY JONES

Terry Jones has left us.

Jones was always the member of Monty Python to whom I paid, if not the least attention, then perhaps the greatest measure of taking for granted, at least during the Python years.

I came to them through Live at the Hollywood Bowl first, a movie in which other members have greater roles to play. Then the TV series, in which John Cleese’s size, Eric Idle’s speed, Graham Chapman’s fury, Michael Palin’s virtuosity, and above all, Terry Gilliam’s animation, overshadowed what I later learned to understand and appreciate — his sheer solidity and perfect comic timing. In a show, and movies, that were often scattergun and slipshod, he simple never was. He was the bedrock that made everything else believable. I had to develop my own sensibilities before I could see it.

Continue reading “RIP TERRY JONES”

HOW SWEET TO BE AN IDIOT: RIP, NEIL INNES

To paraphrase the immortal Tom Lehrer, I have been a fan of Neil Innes since conception. At least, I have been a rabid convert to the Innes way of thinking since my first introduction to Monty Python, via Live at the Hollywood Bowl on video early in 1984. Amongst the madness, surrealism, shouting, and general lunacy, a small, sweet-voiced man slowed proceedings down to sing two songs: after an umpty-million play-rewind-plays over the course of a week, I have been able to sing I’m The Urban Spaceman and How Sweet to be an Idiot in my sleep since the age of 13.

 

Sadly, Neil Innes left us this week, dying unexpectedly at the age of 76.

It was about eleven seconds from that first exposure to discovering The Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band, and another life-long obsession. Albums, DVD copies of Do Not Adjust Your Set, and learning every lyric I could cope with followed: my copy of their brilliant album Gorilla was the only LP I kept when Blake moved out and I gifted him my collection because he was so in love with his record player. My love of Python led me to the rest of their movies, and,to The Rutles, and to Innes’ solo work. At every stage, interest became love became an integral part of my comic and musical sensibilities.

 

 

After 35 years, I still have reams of Bonzo and Innes on my playlist, through LPs, to CDs, to, currently, my iPod and iTunes player. Whatever technological advancement is made over the next 10-40 years of my remaining life, they’ll make that journey with me. I’ve come across very few songwriters who can be so funny, sweet, mournful, whimsical, and touching, usually simultaneously. Innes is at the forefront of those I’ve found, and I shan’t be letting go of his work for anything.

 

 

Neil Innes was an important member of my karass, and always will be. RIP. Thank to you, it will always be sweet to be an idiot.

 

 

 

 

 

 

YEAR IN REVIEW: 2019, THE YEAR THAT LITERALLY SEEMS TO BE DYING IN A FIRE.

Time for me to review the year that was. Let’s be honest: this isn’t going to be a cheery gagapalooza of cheeriness. 2019 was a terrible year, where everything was overshadowed by one moment so deeply traumatic that we will be struggling with its aftermath and connotations for years to come.

But bad should be recorded with good. That is why we journal. To lay down our own truths, and share our lives, no matter where they take us. I mean, that and nob gags, obviously.

So, read on if you wish, forewarned and foreskinned  forearmed:  this year contains more on the truths side and less on the usual level of nob gags. And let the wind grip the ashes of 2019 and blow them into the ocean.

Continue reading “YEAR IN REVIEW: 2019, THE YEAR THAT LITERALLY SEEMS TO BE DYING IN A FIRE.”

BREAKING A SPINE WAS EASIER

Today marks twelve weeks since our son Blake took his life.

There are few, if any, physical signs of our ongoing pain. My weight has ballooned again. Luscious wears a tiny urn, filled with perhaps 1/16th of a teaspoon of Blake’s ashes, on a chain. Connor’s attitude, work, and marks at school have plummeted. Erin has become focussed on her approaching move away from home to an obsessive extent. As a family, as individuals, we are… fractious. If you glance, you might think we’re coping quite well, actually.

But nobody else in our town, outside of our family unit of four, is counting our time for us. Nobody else compares what is to what was. For them, time blurs and smudges. The cause is easily forgotten, or overlooked. Only the symptoms remain. From past experience, I know the phase of “Oh, how terrible” is passing. The phase of “Still?”will soon begin.

I suffered a serious car accident in 2001, as a result of which, I fractured several vertebrae in my spine, along with several injuries that still affect me to this day. If they flare up, they alter the way I walk; my capacity to lift, carry, stand and sit; my mood; and even my ability to hold a decent conversation. If anyone asks, I can simply tell them– car accident, cracked spine, flaring up, bad day.

Oh, dear. Poor thing. So sorry.

We don’t get that with grief. There’s an expectation that, at some time — always unspecified, but always soon or by now — you will get over it, move past it, move on. As if a broken place in the Universe is a simpler fix than a broken bone. I took four months away from work when my first wife died, and even then, it wasn’t enough to cope with the stress of returning. It was several years before I was even fully functional, never mind coping and ready to turn my thoughts to being a completely rational member of my community. There are still members of the Australian SF world who will leave a room when I enter, because I was in no fit state to interact properly when they last saw me, and that gulf between the way I was and the way I ‘should’ have been resulted in too much bad karma and too great a hit to their perception of me. I have destroyed entire blocs of relationships through nothing more than the effortless feat of helplessly drowning in public.

Blake killed himself in the last week of the school term. We had one week away from work, and then the two weeks of the holidays. We were back on the job shortly after term four started. That was as much time as the Education Department could give us, and even then, we were ‘lucky’ to have the holidays in there as well.

It’s not enough. Nothing could, realistically, be enough. We won’t be whole again for an uncountable period of time, and even when we are, we won’t be the people you knew. The shape of us will have changed, forever. It will affect the way we walk; our capacity to lift, carry, stand and sit; our mood; our ability to hold a decent conversation.

And, still, we will be subject to “Still?”, as if a broken place in the Universe should be healed by time and some sort of psychic cast. Like a broken bone.

A broken back was easier.

It’s only been twelve weeks.

 

28 DAYS LATER, or ON COPING, or NOT.

Jeff Lacy walked to the ring as the hottest prospect in boxing. he’d been compared to a rampant Mike Tyson, to Apollo Creed, to everything young and brash and good-looking about American sports. He’d been anointed the next big thing, and was almost un-backable in the betting room. Joe Calzaghe was older, slower, past it. Eight years as champion had taken their toll. His hands, never tools of one-punch knockout power, were brittle shells, particularly his left, which he’d broken in his last bout and was convinced hadn’t healed properly. You couldn’t find anyone in the American press, and few in the British, who gave him a ghost’s chance against a fighter predicted to dominate the super-middleweight landscape for the next decade or more.

12 rounds later, Calzaghe was elevated to the legendary status he would never relinquish. Lacy was a hollow shell. Hypnotised by the nearly 1000 punches Calzaghe had thrown, concussed by the 350+ that had landed, the victim of one of the rarest feats in boxing– a perfect shut out round, in which he landed exactly zero blows to his opponent– Lacy was forever beaten. Gone. Destroyed. More than his body was broken that night in 2006. His spirit was ruined. He was never the same boxer again, never the same man. The abyss had not only stared back, it had bitten his soul in two. It was one of the greatest beatings in boxing history, and the man who lost it was forever lessened.

What does this have to do with Blake? Continue reading “28 DAYS LATER, or ON COPING, or NOT.”

PAREIDOLIA: BLAKE

Cattle die and kinsmen die,
thyself too soon must die,
but one thing never, I ween, will die, —
fair fame of one who has earned.
Havamal 76, from ‘The Poetic Edda’

 

Blake tribute dim16.9 (1)_Moment

 

The kids and I flew back from his funeral yesterday. Luscious is in Perth until Thursday, when she will return to us. Perhaps it’s time to talk about it.

On September 21st, my bonus son Blake lost the battle, and took his own life. He was a week past having turned 25 years of age.

Continue reading “PAREIDOLIA: BLAKE”

BREAK

I have to take a short break. On Saturday, Luscious and I lost one of our family members, whose battle simply became too much and who took the only way out they felt was left to them. I can’t talk about it at any length right now. Perhaps later.

But while we try to make sense of it, and bring our family around us, and grieve, I’m taking a break from this page.

To future days.

RUTGER HAUER. 2019. OF COURSE.

I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.

Let’s be honest: it’s the greatest death soliloquy in cinema. Delivered by Roy Batty, the hero (YES, HE IS!) of my favourite movie, and classic SF dystopia, Blade Runner. Now the actor who delivered it, who created it as perhaps the most brilliant ad-lib ever devised, has died. 2019. The year of Blade Runner. The year Batty died.

Of course.

Continue reading “RUTGER HAUER. 2019. OF COURSE.”

DADDY GAVE ME A NAME

My father died yesterday.

He’d been suffering from dementia for quite some time, the result of a condition called Primary Progressive Aphasia, as well as the degenerative effects of a lifetime spent in dangerous manual labour, with its attendant injuries. The decline was underway for several years. He’d been in steep decline for the last couple of years. Three days ago he slipped into a coma from which he never awoke, and at 9.30am yesterday morning he took his last breath. He was 75 years old.

Continue reading “DADDY GAVE ME A NAME”

HARLAN ELLISON: A STORY ABOUT BEING FREE

ellison

Photo via tributes.com

 

Harlan Ellison died yesterday, at the age of 84. If you’re a fan of SF, or film criticism, or have a passing knowledge of American TV, then you know what that means: we’re down one giant, and about to enter an intense period of arguing over the legacy of one of the most complex and problematic human beings ever to work in the SF field. Certainly, my Facebook feed is awash with memorials, reminiscences, and as is the way with Facebook, denunciations, already. But then, that’s the crowd I run with. At the heart of it, no matter our differences, just about everyone on my feed loves speculative fiction. We’re all true believers, and if anything, Ellison was a true believer.

Continue reading “HARLAN ELLISON: A STORY ABOUT BEING FREE”

FIVE FOR FRIDAY: ROCK IN PEACE, MALCOLM

There was news of considerable importance in Australian music this week. Malcolm Young, founding member and iron-wristed bass player for rock gods AC/DC died, aged 64, a few weeks after his older brother, founding member and multi-instrumentalist for the Easybeats, Flash & The Pan and Vanda & Young, George. Within just over a month, we’ve lost 2/3 of the first family of Australian rock: only AC/DC lead guitarist Angus remains.

I wasn’t an AC/DC fan as a kid. Growing up in Rockingham, AC/DC was the soundtrack of brutality: it was the band of choice for the plaid-clad, DB-wearing bogan thugs that made my life a misery– underneath that plaid shirt was invariably an AC/DC tee-shirt, and if you didn’t have at least a Back in Black poster on your wall, you were certified poofter and fair prey. As a result I spurned their music, and got my heavy fix from other quarters.

It wasn’t until I escaped my teen years, and was able to fit them into a much wider view of musical taste, away from the Holy Bogan Trinity (AC/DC, Cold Chisel, and oddly, Australian Crawl), that I came to appreciate them, and just how individual and epic their particular brand of thunderous rock and roll was.

They may have– to paraphrase one memorable review some years ago– ‘released the same album seventeen times’, but it’s a hell of a sound, and a hell of a ‘same album’. The band’s anthemic high points have become family favourites, with three generations of heads banging whenever we’re all around and they hit the playlist.

So to commemorate one of Australia’s great rock and roll bassists, and the lasting impact he and his men have had on Australian music history, here are five of my favourite AC/DC bangers.

Rock in peace, Malcolm.

Five for Friday: AC/DC

Continue reading “FIVE FOR FRIDAY: ROCK IN PEACE, MALCOLM”

IT WAS 20 YEARS AGO TODAY

It’s hard to understate the impact INXS had on my life. They were the first band I ever saw in concert by myself. They were the first band for whom I would call myself a fan. They were the best live band in Australia, and arguably the world. At the Australian Made concert in 1987 they came on as the headline act, after what is still the strongest concert line-up Australia has ever seen (Mental as Anything, Divinyls, Crowded House, The Triffids, the Saints, the Models, Jimmy Barnes, and more) and blew everything off stage.

For the better part of 9 years– from Shabooh Shoobah in 1982 to X in 1990, they were the band by which I measured all other bands.

Continue reading “IT WAS 20 YEARS AGO TODAY”

TOM PETTY

Sad news today with the death from a heart attack of Tom Petty. Petty first came to my attention in the late 70s, just before punk hit the mainstream radio stations I was about to listen to in my bedroom when I could escape my parents’ AM tastes. Rock and Roll had been over-produced into a bland melange of easy listening tripe in which the likes of Chicago, Boston, and Steely Dan brought the elevator into your living room.

Petty represented a form of American rock and roll where voice was still important, where an individual sound could be identified, where an artist could have a look that stood him or her out from the beige, bearded multitude. He was at the crest of an awareness in my pre-teen self, a coterie that included the likes of Bob Seger, Suzi Quatro, Joan Jett as part of my musical awakening.

I would never have said that I was, outright, a Tom Petty fan. Yet every playlist I’ve ever created has used his music as a cornerstone. He’s one of those artists who has always just been there. His music has been a consistent part of the tapestry of my life. It’s not until you isolate him from the rest of the iPod and play him, one song after another, that you realise just how many great songs he recorded, how they’ve always been with you, and how, somehow, without ever really concentrating, you know every single word of every single damn song. And you sing along. You always sing along.

So here, by way of saying thank you for the music, for being part of my tapestry, and for giving me so many joyous riffs and rock and roll moments, are 5 of my favourite Tom Petty songs. They may not be the most famous, or the acknowledged classics, but they’re 5 of the many that loosen my vocal chords. I bet you sing along.

 

1. Don’t Come Around Here No More.

My absolute favourite Petty track, and one of my favourite songs by any artist. A swirling, defiant track, it’s the perfect combination of Petty’s unique vocal delivery, guitar style, and quirky arrangements. The accompanying video is, without a doubt, one of the greatest music videos ever filmed.

 

2. Billy the Kid

This is a broken song. Petty’s voice has diminished to a croak. The guitar layovers are discordant, and loose. Nothing fits. Where Petty’s arrangements were always as tight as William Shatner’s corset, here they’re all over the place, rambling and mis-timed. And that’s why it works. It’s a portrait of a beaten fighter, rising for the last time, whispering “You never knocked me down, Ray” as he’s carried from the ring, defiant to the last. It’s wonderful stuff.

 

3. Last Dance With Mary Jane

Petty’s stock in trade was a dark Americana that played like a shadowed counterpoint to Bruce Springsteen’s more obvious work– filled with hopeless characters that accepted their fate and rolled the taste of failure around their mouths, savouring it. Springsteen’s characters went down to the river. Petty’s smoked dope and had desperate, doomed sex. This is a slow, despairing love song to a girl who escaped his dreams, but we all know that where she escaped to was just another version of where she had escaped from. It’s darkly delicious.

 

4. You Don’t Know How it Feels

The later you go into Petty’s career, the more his slides from pure rock and roll into an electrified country sound that was the perfect primer for my discoveries of Steve Earle and Todd Snider. This is a great example, full of fuck-you false humility and a love of poking at the pain centres in the artist’s own psyche.

 

5. Two Gunslingers

Two gunslingers meet in the middle of a deserted street. The ultimate symbol of Americana. Then Petty does what Petty does: twists the image into a story of loneliness, and despair, and ultimately, the rejection of a story that was written by others with the hero as unwilling and un-consulted victim. There’s hope at the end: battered and damaged hope, flickering only because the characters reject their assigned roles in favour of a sort of despairing unknown.

 

Tom Petty was a unique voice, a dark jester who picked apart the false nostalgia of the Bruce Springsteens and John Cougar Mellencamps and laughed at its pretensions. He coloured my sense of what a rock and roll song could do, without me ever really noticing or valuing it as I should. He will be missed.

 

 

 

 

OH, YOU PRETTY THING

So, a few muddled, incomprehensible words, because I still can’t quite comprehend the event itself.

Like many of my friends, peers, and contemporaries, I’ve spent the last 4 days wandering around in somewhat of a daze, trying to come to terms with news of the sudden death of David Bowie at the age of 69.

Much like Robin Williams last year, I’ve experienced a form of genuine grief, borne of the fact that Bowie has been an ever-present flavour of wallpaper in my life. I’ve never been without a Bowie song somewhere in my consciousness– on the radio, in my Walkman/disc player/iTunes playlist. When I checked, shortly after I heard the news, I had 98 Bowie songs on my iPod. Whenever I’m interviewed, and discuss my influences, he’s the first name listed. Actor, artist, musician, fashion icon, Bowie was exactly the kind of polymath artist that fascinates and inspires me, and to which I aspire.

My first exposure came relatively late in his first great period– the video for Ashes to Ashes, at age 9, on Countdown (where else?). There was nothing else like it in the world. I was simultaneously awestruck, intimidated, and scared– it was clearly dealing with subjects and emotions I was unaware of, and using a suite of imagery I wasn’t able to process. I was only just discovering music in any meaningful way. My world was still dominated by my parents’ 50s and 60s MOR sensibilities. My mother hated the Beatles for turning into hippies, for fuck’s sake: what chance did I have? The man, the song, and the video stuck with me, and stuck hard, but at the more threatening, deeper end of my experiential awareness. It is, of course, exactly where he would want to be, and where he deserved to be.

Ashes to Ashes. The first Bowie video I recall seeing.

While I grew into a Bowie fan, I grew into a ‘classic’ Bowie fan. I loved the songs, but they were the same suite of songs that the entire Western world seemed to love: those genuine classics that dominated the 1970s and early 80s. Apart from the radio standards, his currency dropped off my radar by the time I was in Uni in the very late 80s, sometime between Tonight and regular sex. A brief flurry of interest around the time of  The Saint movie in the mid-90s, when his song You Little Wonder made the soundtrack and a couple of rotations on JJJ, almost as a curiosity notwithstanding, it was his acting that I was drawn to. Sure, there was his performance in Labyrinth (Oh, the hair, oh the codpiece, oh the second-rate Muppets), but discovering The Man Who Fell to Earth and (of all things) The Linguini Incident opened up a new appreciation for the man’s ability to switch roles and faces. And, of course, he could act. Merry Christmas, Mister Lawrence was a revelation, a high watermark he did not surpass until a perfectly-pitched turn as Nikola Tesla in the otherwise teeth-itchingly irritating The Prestige.

The Man Who Fell to Earth.

But there he was, always there. Always Ziggy, and The Thin White Duke, and Aladdin Sane, thanks to radio and my burgeoning music collection and the sheer weight of his presence within popular culture. He had become an ornament, pressed in amber.

Then, a few years ago, a chance comment to my good friend Grant Watson opened a discussion of Grant’s Bowie fandom, which was gathering strength just as mine was receding. In the process, I was exposed to the music I’d missed, all those synth and electronica-heavy experiments from the 90s, and (what we thought) were the final, atmosphere-heavy mood pieces from (what we thought) his final works, Heathen and Reality. And I fell in love all over again. My favourite songs come from this period, particularly his jungle-and-synth-infused trio Outside, Earthling and Hours. Indeed, apart from Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, Earthling is the only album I have in its entirety on my iPod. And, in the last few days, Blackstar, as I listen to it over and over, trying to unpick the last messages to the world of a dying man. But that, of course, is a different thing. And, of course, that’s what the man could do. Disappear from public view for ten years, and stop the world with his return. The greatest prodigal son 20th Century art ever had. Even his absence was an event.

So, here I am, with that final statement, like everyone else, not so much listening to the songs as trying to assemble the narrative behind them, the one that speaks of an artist using his last remaining moments not to enfold himself with family but with his art, to shout one last time from the edge of the cliff in the hope that this time, this final time, the world will get it. He’s not the first, of course: he’s not even the first in my playlist. The stories behind Queen’s Made in Heaven, and Freddie Mercury’s long solo sessions in the studio, laying down vocal tracks for the rest of the band to orchestrate after his death, have become musical legend, as has Warren Zevon’s unbelievable last album The Wind. And they’re both legends, and I miss them both and the impact they had on my life.

But this is Bowie. And, in some ways, those four words sum up the man’s impact, not just on my life but on popular culture as a whole over the last 40 years. No matter your argument, over legacy or influence or cultural impact or precedent; no matter who you nominate as greater, or better, or whatever; no matter how I try to rationalise that what I got from him is no more or less than what he gave to the rest of the world– 27 albums, a bunch of movies, some art, some characters; no matter how much I try to rationalise and place him in the context of every other distant, unknowable public figure I’ve only ever experienced as a man-made object. The answer is the same.

Yeah. But this is Bowie.

I still keep waiting for the new that it was all a mistake, that he’s alive and well and there’s a new album coming. I still keep waiting to get it.

Can I pick a favourite Bowie song? Can I even pick a dozen? No. Here’s one that, maybe,
you’ve not heard. Because it seems there’s always more to discover, even amongst those
who’ve had him a our constant travelling companion our whole lives.

FLY, BE FREE

We lost another divine lunatic yesterday.

Robin Williams, who first helped melt my mind when I was a kid with his anarchic portrayal of Mork from Ork in Mork and Mindy, and who made regular incursions into my artistic consciousness through a series of brilliant live DVDs; early comedic movies like Moscow on the Hudson and Good Morning, Vietnam; mature middle-career performances in Jumanji, The Birdcage and others; and stunning dramatic tours-de-force in a range of intense dramatic roles such as Dead Poets Society; Good Will Hunting; One Hour Photo and Insomnia, killed himself.

For a man who had a profound impact upon my artistic, comedic and personal sensibilities, he was surprisingly young: he was only 63.

In many ways, Williams was an ever-present as I grew up. It’s hard to explain the impact of Mork and Mindy on my sensibilities: with a grand total of 3 TV channels to choose from and a much higher quota of Australian programming (not to mention viewing choices controlled by conservative, British parents), there was, quite literally, nothing on television quite like it. Mork was a force of nature, a fox in a chicken coop of cookie-cutter sitcom writing, and at a time when I was already glutting my imagination on science fiction and the Goon Show, I was an instant convert, a mini-Exidor running off at the mouth and driving my parents insane.

And, then, somehow he was always just there. Within a year or two we had purchased our first VHS player–at roughly the same time he was making the transition into movies, and if there was a Williams movie on the shelf, I watched it: Popeye, The World According to Garp, Moscow on the Hudson, Survivors, Club Paradise…. anyone who was surprised by his range and depth in later career movies should see these early films back to back. The depth was always there, the range always apparent. It was just the quality of production that altered, just the size of the marquee. Once I was old enough to travel the sixty kilometres to the nearest cinema by myself he became a staple of my cinema visits: Good Morning, Vietnam one of the first films I ever went to alone, without even the company of friends, the soundtrack to the movie a permanent fixture on my walkman (it still features on my iPod play list today).

When I took up stand-up comedy in the early nineties a group of comedic friends and I would gather together regularly to watch live videos and dissect them: Andy Kaufman; Richard Jeni; Steve Martin (another ever-present: when he dies, I’ll be just as distraught); Emo Philips, Richard Pryor, Billy Connolly…. the list was unending. Except Williams. Between us we had a mammoth collection, stretching right back to bootleg recordings of early Comedy Store appearances. Those, we just watched, and rolled around, in tears of laughter. Nobody wanted to dissect them. We knew we couldn’t learn anything, couldn’t replicate what he did in any way. We watched them because we wanted to see great art, and revel in genius.

And so I stopped thinking about him. He was furniture, as much as Billy Connolly and Steve Martin and the Goon Show and science fiction and Pink Floyd and my eyesight and hearing and all the things that are woven so deeply into my being that they are little more than autonomic processes. Always an awareness at the edge of my vision, occasionally popping into full view to stun me one more time– holy shit, the man did One Hour Photo, Death to Smoochy and Insomina in a single year— but more often than not just slightly in the background. Let’s be honest, he hadn’t starred in a decent movie since The Final Cut in 2004, and even that’s a flawed work. Supporting roles in Night at the Museum movies aside, it had been fairly slim pickings for a while.

But he was still there, part of my general awareness, a tightly-woven emblem in the pattern of my karass. I’d introduced him to my kids, through Jumanji and the Night at the Museum movies. We’d have gotten to Bicentennial Man soon enough, and Dead Poets Society in its turn.

I hadn’t really thought about his influence on my life, my ways of thinking, my approach to art, until I checked out my Facebook feed yesterday morning and was deluged by outpourings of shock and sorrow.

Now, I don’t know what else to say.

There’s a huge body of work, of various quality. There are artists who have been influenced, and will carry that influence into their own work. But Williams himself is gone, and my karass is wounded.

Mork has finally, irretrievably, signed off.

THERE IS A LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT or HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING AND LOVE THE BLOG

Ye Gods. Where does the time go? Busy busy busy. There’s been a 2 week holiday in there, somewhere: two weeks where I kept the hell of Facebook and the internet and writing while I bent my back over exercise and gardening and house maintenance tasks that needed doing—and lost 2 kilos into the bargain—and entertained myself with my Lego addiction. And damn it if I’m not happier for having done so.
So. What’s gone on in that time? Bits and bobs, my friends. Bits and bobs.
DAGGER, DRESNIA, ONE THEREOF

Swancon happened over Easter, and I wouldn’t have paid much attention this year except that, for reasons known only to her, the lovely Satima Flavell-Neist asked me to say a few words in her defence as she launched her debut novel, The Dagger of Dresnia.

Satima’s a fantastic inspiration to anybody who feels like they’ll never achieve their publishing goals:  The Dagger of Dresnia is the result of 11 years of hard work, faith, and perseverance, and it’s pleasing that she’s managed to partner with an aspiring press like Satalyte Publishing, who are looking to stake out a permanent place in the Australian publishing landscape. It’s a bold venture, and I’m hoping that both Satima and Satalyte receive the very best of fortune, not to mention sales.

If you can judge a person by the quality of their enemies then Satima must be rubbish indeed, especially if you can get the likes of Juliet Mariller and Glenda Larke to speak at your lunch. Or maybe that just speaks to the quality of your work, and of you as a person, non?

The Dagger of Dresnia is book one of a trilogy, and you can purchase it from the Satalyte website here. I managed to snaffle a few quick snaps of the launch in between talking-type duties:

A formidable ‘Dagger of Dresnia’ cake, baked by local author Carol Ryles

Satima reads an excerpt

Busy at the signing table
Guest speakers Juliet Mariller, Glenda Larke and Michelle Drouart wonder where to stick the knife, while Carol Ryles stands by and lets them kill her cake.

STEPS FORWARD, SAYS A FEW WORDS

Rockingham children’s author Teena Raffa-Mulligan has started a new blog, In Their Own Write, dedicated to writing advice and experiences from the mouths of established authors.

In her wisdom, she’s asked me a few questions, and I’ve told the world to milk cows and have sex. And some other stuff. Go here and read my interview, and catch the rest of her line-up here while you’re at it.

THE BOY IS BACK!

Almost a year to the day ago, Master 9 came down with a mysterious illness that caused him to vomit more than 40 times a day. School quickly became impossible. A normal life became just as impossible. Luscious withdrew him, put her life on hold, and set out to home-school him while she and the medical profession set out to determine what was wrong.

A year later, with a diagnosis of Rumination Syndrome under his belt, a year of the hardest emotional work I have ever seen a parent put into a child paid off. His vomiting has diminished to the point where he can go entire days without vomiting, and generally, if he does, it’s once or twice a day at worst. He and Lyn have battled every step of the way: against the illness, against despair; and against a medical fraternity that couldn’t give a shit about doing anything more than convering their own insurance premiums. They’ve never given up, never taken negative advice at face value. Bit by bit they’ve dragged GPs, specialists and surgeons in their wake, and changed both our lifestyle and environment until this week, for the first time in 12 months, this:

His first day at school in a year. For now he goes back one day a week, under the care of a teacher who is so understanding of his condition she has organised special care and infrastructure to ensure he has a safe space to retreat to should he be unable to stay in class, and coping strategies for when he can. But even one day is a victory, and he’s already talking about how soon that one day can become two, and two become three, and on until he’s back at full time.

I am so proud of them both I can barely find the words.

STUFF YOUR LUFTBALLONS, I HAVE LEGO

A year ago, a chance remark from Luscious prompted me to embark on a scheme of grand stupidity. I would build all of my Lego sets once more, and when they were built, I would photograph them, because reasons, that’s why.

Naturally, that didn’t take into account the umpteen set I would buy over the course of what I dubbed The Great Set Rebuild of 2013, because things go better with 1950s Hollywood titles, so that, eventually, it became the Great Set rebuild of 2014 and, finally, the Is This Frigging Thing Not Over Yet of It’s Never Going to be Bloody Finished.

And yet, here we are. 99 sets, in all. It would have been 100, but for an incomplete set that arrived last week with filthy, unusable parts that I’ve had to source from third parties. However, sets were built, photos were taken, and here, for what it’s worth, you can wallow in the glory that is my Set Rebuilding Fu.

I’ll tell you this for free, though: I can’t wait to get back to building bloody MOCs…..







99 sets. Count them…. or better yet, don’t count them, I already had to…. 99.

And theme by theme:

Classic Space, Alien Conquest and Star Wars

Atlantis

City

Creator and Racers
Various themes, all celebrating the power of flight…
Possibly my favourite of all themes, Galaxy Squad

And proving why it’s my favourite, each of the sets separated into their playable ‘second mode’.
Lord of the Rings, the Hobbit, Kingdoms and Fantasy Era

Monster Fighters

Ninjago, Chima and Pirates of the Caribbean

Pharoah’s Quest

And lastly, proving that themes may come and go, but my love of insane spaceships will never die, Space Police III
RIP BOB HOSKINS
Sad news the other day, with the passing of the immensely talented Bob Hoskins, at the age of 71 after a short bout of pneumonia. Hoskins had retired from acting in 2012 after being diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease, but he was one of the most talented, varied actors I’ve ever had the pleasure of watching, and the film landscape is immeasurably poorer for his passing. A short, tubby, genial-looking bloke, his capacity to play anything from doltish mook (Who Killed Roger Rabbit?) to vicious killer (The Long Good Friday) to sweet romantic lead (Mermaids) and all points in between (The Dunera Boys, Mona Lisa, hell, close your eyes and throw a dart at IMDB and you’ll find a brilliant performance in something) placed him at the very top rank of actors, in my opinion.
See ya, Eddie.


EVEN HARD MEN FALL

Sad news overnight with the passing of Lewis Collins from cancer at the age of 67.

I’ve always been a fan of Collins, from first seeing him, like many, on The Professionals, to later work on movies like Who Dares Wins and his wonderful turn as George Godley in 1988’s Jack The Ripper, which Luscious and I watched again only a couple of weeks ago as our unofficial marking of the 125th anniversary of the Ripper. It was his best performance, and encapsulated just how much warmth he was capable of bringing to what were, essentially hard-man roles, and just how clever he was at creating character with his face: Godley is a man of raised eyebrows, twitches of the lips, and shrugs, and Collins imbues him with depth that, it is easy to see, is not in the script. It’s a facet he brought to all his roles, and one which made him, for me at least, immediately likeable, no matter how much of a bastard he played. Damned if I can remember who played The Comedian in the execrable Watchmen movie, but they missed a trick by not casting Collins. He’d been playing the role his entire career. He was made for it.

There was never as much of his work as there should have been– it’s well documented that he unsuccessfully tried out for the James Bond role in the 80s, and he would have brought a Daniel Craig sense of danger to the role thirty years before Craig arrived– but what roles there are form some of my favourite TV and film memories of my 1970s and 1980s, and he is an important member of my karass: My first ever trip to the theatre was to see him in Deathtrap when it toured Perth in my teens. I’ve been a theatre lover, and a firm fan of the play, ever since, and again, it was Collins’ combination of personable warmth and simmering danger that made the experience so magnetic.

Another piece of my past is chipped away, and I’m sad to see him go.

RIP Lewis Collins aged 67
Charm and danger: magnetic qualities. 

RIP FRED POHL

Saddened yesterday to hear of the passing of Fred Pohl, one of the true greats of the science fiction genre, and one of the most easily readable authors I’ve ever encountered.

Like almost everyone else, I have a Pohl anecdote: one that, to me, highlights the grace of the man. I met him in 2002 at the Writers of the Future workshops then being held in Los Angeles. As part of the awards ceremony, the winners had dinner with some of the judges, and my table was picked to host Mr Pohl and his wife Elizabeth. Even then, in his eighties, he was frail and very hard of hearing, but in a week where I was surrounded by authors– both established and aspiring– making as much noise as possible in order to prove themselves larger than life (a behaviour in which I was an active participant), what struck me most about him was his calm and sense of quiet. Part of that was undoubtedly down to his hearing, but it also struck me that here was a man who didn’t need to make noise to attract admiration. This was Fred Pohl. If you didn’t know who he was and what he’d done, it was you who had the lack.

Sometime during the dinner, Pohl was ‘taken on’ by one of my fellow winners, over a subject I don’t remember. As my colleague pontificated with many a pointed finger and wave of his fork I watched Pohl: he sat calmly, listening intently, as my colleague outlined all the ways Pohl was wrong in the way he approached his writing. At the end, he nodded, and thanked my colleague– some 50-plus years younger and about a million achievements to the shy– and said he appreciated the outlook of someone at the heart of the new way of doing things. he could have crushed his young protagonist. He knew it. I knew it. I’m pretty sure everyone at the table apart from my colleague knew it. This was a guy who’d published his first work in the 30s; had done everything, knew everyone, won it all and was still going, still working at the highest level possible. There was no ‘wrong’ in the way this man worked. He could have squashed my colleague like a bug, in about three words flat. Instead, he’d shown humility, companionship, and respect towards an equal.

The conversation moved on, both participants turned to contribute in other threads, and I was left more impressed by that one response than by anything else I experienced on the night.

Class, dignity, and assurance. I’ve rarely reached that height of behaviour myself, but I damn well know I’ve seen it.

There was only one Fred Pohl. We have lost a giant.

R.I.P. MEL SMITH

Sad news today, with the passing of Mel Smith, founding member of Not the Nine O’Clock News and co-star of Alas, Smith and Jones, two of the most consistently brilliant comedy programs of the late 70s and 1980s. Never exactly a slave to fitness or health, by all accounts, 60 years of age is still too early to see a performer of such superb timing and comic precision depart.

Not the Nine O’Clock News and, especially Alas, Smith and Jones played a huge part in my own comedic and writing education. They’re incredible examples of writing, especially in regards to wordplay and dialogue. They were literate, articulate, and scurrilous, and I adored them.

By way of memorial, here’s one of my favourite Smith & Jones sketches, a gleeful decimation of the Shakespearean turn of phrase:

And here’s another, illuminating one of the lessons I’ve learned most deeply: that you can strip away everything else, and still be captivating, funny, and honest, as long as you have strength in your dialogue. No matter what else the show was filled with, these ‘conversation’ pieces were always the highlight, and this one is just about their best:

It’s always a sad day when genius leaves us, not least because it means the opportunity for fresh work is denied us. And this passing leaves me sad indeed.