The Emmerson Travelling Circus went on its annual Victorian jaunt, as usual, over the Christmas break, this (as every) year visiting Geelong and Melbourne. Many families, at this time of year, head off for a relaxing holiday at the beach, or to Japan, or whatever, in order to recharge batteries and regain some semblance of equilibrium in their busy lives. Our family is a bit different: our stresses and anxieties simply relocate to a different place for a couple of weeks. They say a change is as good as a holiday. They aren't necessarily right: we arrived home mentally drained and physically exhausted, almost as if we had never been away (except with bookending full-day drives down and up the Hume Highway to remind us of how bloody far away from Melbourne Canberra is).
Nevertheless we did, as we always try to do, get to say hello to many of the Melbourne people we most like saying hello to. We were looked after, and/or accommodated in one way or another, by so many good and kind people that we will refrain from naming them for fear of forgetting someone. They know who they are and we thank them. Those who were themselves away from home, or whose lives, for one reason or another, we were unable to invade, should be warned: we will be back again in 12 months' time. (And if half of the people who have threatened to visit Canberra in the next month or so to see the Post-Impressionism exhibition at the National Gallery follow through we will have many opportunities to reciprocate people's hospitality.)
And, as Mark E. Smith once said, "Of what went on here, we only have this excerpt".
Santa managed, once more, to find us in Geelong. The world's stocks of Lego have once again been depleted. No matter how many Star Wars kits you buy, you never seem to be able to have enough of them. There is always one more limited-edition mini-figure that must be procured. The word "scam" might come to mind. (The day before we departed Canberra the December Lego Club magazine arrived, with 2010 catalogue enclosed, to enable the 12-year-old to start his 2010 Christmas list before Christmas 2009 had even arrived.) The grown-ups received a game called "Ticket To Ride" (which, amongst other things, contradicts Lee Hazlewood's musical statement that there ain't no train to Stockholm), and Adrienne was the lucky recipient of "Can You Dig It?", a new Soul Jazz two-disc compilation of blacksploitation soundtrack music (highly recommended).
Santa delivered to me, on Christmas eve and via Book Depository in the UK (you cut that one a bit fine, old fella), "Asterios Polyp", a "graphic novel" (one that actually does fit that description, for once) by David Mazzuchelli. (Pocket review: I have a few misgivings about it, although these are maybe the inevitable result of the strong reviews it has been getting, especially in the mainstream media (problem: mainstream media don't usually have "graphic novel" context for the few books that get on their radar, and are inclined to either overstate or understate individual cases accordingly). It is probably one of the most stunning visually rendered comic books I have ever seen: close to as perfect as you could imagine an illustrated story ever getting. The story has a very novelistic trajectory and is satisfyingly told. The reader has some work to do, and that work is well rewarded. There are many instances of seeing something incidental in the corner of one panel and thinking, ah, yes, that refers back to something earlier in the book that didn't make sense then. And yet the writing is not quite right, and this puts the balance between "graphic" and "novel" ever so slightly on the side of "graphic". There are two unnecessarily misspelled words and one glaringly bad example of a dangling participle. (Don't you just hate that?) I am sure these wouldn't have escaped the editor's eye if this were being edited as a "novel". (This makes me a bit grumpy. It suggests that these books are not yet being taken entirely seriously as "literary works". Just because you can't spell-check hand-lettered prose doesn't mean you can't endeavour to make sure it is right.))
Santa also gave me, pre-installed (how does he get the time to do that? how does he know my password!?), a computer game called "Spore", which (surprise!) the boys have been using and I haven't yet had a go at.
Jules was taken on a nine-year-old's rite of passage, viz, day four of the MCG test match between Australia and Pakistan. It was a compelling, if not always entertaining, day's cricket. He got to cheer Shane Watson's maiden test century. I got to see Pakistan bowling to an 8-1 field, something I can't recall ever having seen before. And the paucity of the crowd meant that we got to watch the cricket from several vantage points.
I managed to fit in a pilgrimage to Pellegrini, but had no time to get to any of the Three M's: Minotaur, Missing Link Records or Metropolis Books. (And it must be eight years now since I have been to Brunswick Street.)
A large amount of time was spent at ACMI. While Jules and I were at the cricket, Carl and Adrienne were watching episodes of "Lance Link, Secret Chimp", a show that I worshipped as a small boy but which surprisingly few people seem to have heard of. "They" probably wouldn't allow it to be made today. Carl, as predicted, was an instant convert. (Me, I love a good "chimpsploitation" picture (copyright Adrienne Gault). One of my regrets in life is not (yet) having seen "Dunston Checks In". At least that one can be remedied.) The next day, which was very, very hot, we all spent quite a bit of time in its air-conditioned galleries. The new permanent display is too big, and busy, to be fully absorbed, but in bits it is great. For the second time we caught an exhibition of the best independently made computer games of the year (my fleeting impression, again, is that this is some of the most arresting visual work being done in any medium), while I snuck off to see the Dennis Hopper exhibition, which I'm not sure was worth the seventeen dollars of admission, although I did get to see a large Basquiat canvas, which is not the kind of thing that comes to Australia every day (c.f. Post-%!@%@#%-Impressionism - mind you we have seen the exhibition and the chance to spend 10 minutes standing in front of Van Gogh's "Starry Night" must, on its own, be worth the price of admission, plus any airfares and accommodation involved).
I should note here that, while we were away, Rowland S Howard died. The visceral, incendiary nature of Howard's guitar playing in The Boys Next Door and The Birthday Party was an undeniable part of Nick Cave's development as an artist. As is so often the case, two oversized egos couldn't survive the confines of one band for long, and didn't, after which, as is also all too often the case, one went on to fame and fortune and the other struggled with both his art and his personal life. For a time I owned an Iain Sinclair paperback, which I bought from Penny Siber's second-hand bookshop (which I am pleased to note is still there) in Chapel Street, just across the road from Windsor Station, and which had Howard's full signature on the inside front cover. (Why, I don't know.) I suppose I should have kept it.
Our Melbourne accommodation this year was in Prahran, quite close to where we used to live, so it was nice to spend some time down Carlisle Street way (even if much of that time was spent provisioning at Coles). Carlisle Street hasn't really changed, except for the appearance of many, many cafes. (It was nice to see that Wall 280, which opened not too long before we relocated to the Nation's Capital, is still going strong, but a bit sad that Coco, where Carl spent many mornings as a baby, happily chewing on a corner of bread, has gone.) On New Year's Day we were treated to a display of precision driving by the Caulfield Drivers' Team that far surpassed anything we had witnessed in the good old days. Having survived the Friday-morning chaos of Glick's bakery (Mr Glick, who is of indeterminate but considerable age, hasn't changed a bit in the 11 years since we were regular customers; he must by now be permanently preserved by the haze of flour that follows him around the shop, just as Keith Richards appears to be permanently preserved by various chemicals and Iggy Pop by who knows what) we turned right from Carlisle Street into Westbury Street, only to be rendered stationary by three vehicles, the one in front of us simply not moving, another one half-way across the road and perpendicular thereto, and the third entirely on the wrong side of the road and trying, as far as we could tell, to move forwards even in the face of traffic that would have been on-coming if there had been any way for it to actually move forwards. In other words, just another day on the road in East St Kilda. Some things really do never change.
On the long road home we were accompanied for much of the way by Eric Idle reading Roald Dahl's "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory". He does a terrific job. Wes Anderson's "Fantastic Mr Fox" opened a couple of days ago. It's definitely on the Do Not Miss Register. January may prove to be Roald Dahl month at our house. You could do worse.
