All Those White Butterflies.

Who could forget all those white butterflies that joined us this summer? 

I found that they were too hard to catch on camera (the shot below was an exception), so instead I tried to catch them with words. So I wrote this piece that was almost published somewhere else but one thing led to another and, well… here it is. 

One of these lovely things stayed still for me to take his portrait in Elsternwick this summer.

I was obsessed with all those white butterflies who came to visit us this past summer. If you're outside reading this on your phone, look up to the left. See, there's not one. That could be one in the distance. Now look to your right. Not one to be seen. 

 

But - there’s always a but in this wild world where everything we see is a potential argument or a column like this, they were BAD, and you probably already know, they’re not even butterflies. They’re cabbage moths, introduced pests, and were a sign of the seasons going skewiff because of climate change. It goes without saying that they’re still mauling our crops, yet another calamity for farmers to deal with. 

According to many news reports weeks ago, the cabbage moth plague was the end of a perfect chain of events. The warmer than usual winter gave us a bumper season for leafy greens like lettuces, kale and cauliflower, exactly what these very hungry caterpillars crave, so they thrived like never before. 

So cabbage moths are bad, but was it okay to love them? They were so pretty to watch dancing from bush to shrub so you’d be a real party pooper to hate them. 

 

Did you get the chance to see kids chase a cabbage moth? One of the most awkwardly beautiful things I saw was when my six year old fella and his best mate chased one across the primary school playground. This tiny cabbage moth genius teased those kids with its up and down, up, up, left and right flightpath so confidently, that the grade ones never had a chance. The older kids learnt quickly that the chase was a waste of time. All you had to do was wait for the party-fly to sit down on a leaf for a breather, then calmly snap with your thumb and pointer finger as if you’re the Karate Kid catching a fly - bonus points for chopsticks. 

We all argue in our heads about what’s right. There are ethical conundrums in what we do for work, everything we consume, and all that we love. What do we enjoy? What should we eat, and what should we wear to make the least impact on the earth? What do we read and watch on our phones? Is it okay to listen to music on the big streaming services? Is it okay to find that joke funny? What should we be boycotting to make our tiny statement to the world?  

Cabbage moths were our summer’s guilty pleasure. Like bad TV, getting stuff delivered to your door by stressed delivery drivers or even savouring the quiet that came with the curfews during our long lockdown, these guilty pleasures are the things that give our tired, cynical brains a break. 

This summer’s dainty cabbage moth plague was the ultimate guilty pleasure. They were just lovely. And I'm so happy that they decided to join us for this, yet another, climate-crisis affected summer. 

Sadly, you can see that they’re leaving us. I'll look over the public pool where I'm writing this and I can see only one fluttering over the kids splashing in the multipurpose line. There’s only two of the things dancing above the preening sunbathing scene on the grass, where weeks ago they were all over the place, ten to the left, 12 to the right. 

I’m also told that there are piles of scores of them dead, washed up on our beaches. Gazillions of unlucky little guys were taken by the sea breeze, far from land to fall to the water only to be washed up together at the end of their adventure. Kids are terrified by these creepy cabbage moth killing fields so make sure you scout ahead if you’re taking yours for a dip. 

But now the white moths are almost gone, and the bushfires, a deadly and not at all pretty result of climate change, have arrived. Scary times ahead, no guilty pleasures there. Be safe, everyone. 

And thank you, cabbage moths, not for being little jerks stuffing up so many farmers’ seasons, but for your lovely little acrobatic displays that were for so many of us, impossible not to love.

Here's one in our backyard.

I'll Just Start Typing Okay.

Listening to New Order's Your Silent Face and reckon it sounds exactly how I feel about turning 50 next week. It's not a happy song. It's not quite a sad song. There's a bit of hope in it. There's a lot of looking back at the road behind you to it. 

Let's see me type about where my typing onto a page or screen is right now. Or let's reflect on what it was. Where it started. Where I expected it to go. Where it's going. 

Or not.

At first year uni literature/creative writing/whatever it was called we learned a lot of things. But one thing I found was useful was automatic writing. I was taught to get a 2B pencil, sharpen it and write until it was blunt. Forget everything and see where your fingers would take you. This is pretty much what I'm doing now but it's a computer I'm typing to and I think I will type until the end of this record. I think there's two and a half songs to go.

And I found pretty quickly that listening to music while you do this automatic writing, causes the words and ideas to hit the beats and melody of where the music is going. Definitely hits the mood. The mood to the song on now is driving down the south east arterial on the way home from the coast. Look to the right and there's VFL Park, now a shell of the grey concrete wonderland it once was. Now it's half the colosseum surrounded by townhouses, late 90s Melbourne mansions and disinterested cladding. 

So that's where the music took me just then and the song was called Ecstasy. Funny to think of VFL Park, once a place of ecstasy when your team kicked a goal and you looked over to the sepia toned video scoreboard for a glitchy replay and now a place where, look, I suppose people in those houses all have their ecstatic moments in their own special ways. 

So the song on now is Leave Me Alone, which brings me to the original point to this entry, turning 50. Zero birthdays really punch my brain. I think of all the stuff before and all the things I should have done and then think of nothing. The first thought would be LEAVE ME ALONE, but I do know that all the people I love will show their love and make me feel okay. 

The needle has hit the end of the record and I haven't thought about my writing and where it is going. Maybe next time. Or maybe New Order's beats distracted me from all that, telling me, Geez Glenn, get over yourself. 

All is fine. 

LISTEN TO THAT BASS.

The waiting game.

I’m typing this into my phone in a back alley in Windsor while listening to exile on main street, waiting for the doctor to come out and do my COVID-19 test. It’s One of the strangest experiences of the whole pilava. Many people have had tests already, hundreds of thousands but this is my turn to go through it.

It’s like you’re the news. You’re one of the potential’covidiots’ who didn’t listen to all the warnings. But you’re not, until you’re tested positive. The placebo on the stress level walking into this is extraordinary. While I’ve only had very mild symptoms of drowsiness and cough in the past 24 hours, the doctor and I reckon it’s a good idea to test to make sure. She’s about to come out. I’ll come back to this after it’s done.

Fast forward a bit over 24 hours.

I'm done. I tested negative to the virus. It was just hay fever. The 24 hours wait was stressful. Like so many of the hundreds of thousands of people who have tested negative, I had times where I was convinced that I had the virus. I distanced myself from the family and thought through how I was going to answer the contact tracing people. Like, you need to be honest when you speak to them. That's obvious. But there's something in human nature that tempts you to be a little reluctant with the truth.

But none of that needed to happen.

A weirder thing was how my symptoms of runny nose, cough and general sluggishness, disappeared on hearing the news I was negative. Minutes before my brain told my body that I was sick. On the news, instant recovery.

Art is a curse.

'The sleep of reason produces monsters' - Goya

My dear old friend Nick, an artist, rang me today to tell me that one of our friends, another artist, Mike, had died in the past day or so. It was sudden and devastating news.

We thought back to how hard it is to live with art and how hard it is to live with art as the one thing you do, and that loneliness that comes with it. It's the thinking that you don't fit in. The thinking that you should get a real job. It's the feeling of the rush to make art filled sandbags to keep you safe from the flood of 3am stare at the ceiling anxiety. 

It's why I'm not "a writer". Fuck all that. I just type sentences for money. Fuck the novels and poems and plays and songs and whatever the 20 something me thought I deserved to write. I gotta stay on top. Just type for money. Keep it simple, stupid. 

And that's what I do. It's delightfully boring. 

But I still feel the pain of anyone stuck with art. 

It's a curse.

You can't shake it off. 

And I know that dangerous late night loneliness. 

We all do, I'm sure. 

Anyway.

Don't let your friends get lonely. 

Please.

Goodnight Mike. 

Two scenes in and outside lockdown.

So now we're in a pandemic lockdown. One hour exercise outside the house a day. One hour of shopping. Curfew at eight. Taking the kids out for that one hour is sacred time. So is being inside.

All time is sacred.

That's what I've found this year.

In the mornings we go out to play. This morning it was raining so we were the only people in the park. This park is full of people doing their one hour of exercise every day. Most people spend more than an hour and it's quite social.

And this is last night. Once the kids are outside we get an hour or two of TV before falling apart. The blue light is a police car's lights. They had pulled over a kid for what looked like being out of his house past curfew. The lights flashed our loungeroom for well over half an hour. Talk about atmosphere. 

The Climbing Tree.

Today we visited The Climbing Tree. It's our favourite place.

Dirty songs for dirty minds.

In the past week, Cardi B put out this extraordinarily dirty song and video and I love it.

Have a look.

I had no hesitation in adding the song to this playlist of dirty songs I've collected over the year for a mate's birthday. There's some foul things on it. Please don't play this to people who blush easily.


My apologies in advance.

A spoon full of shit makes the medicine go round.

Me and the family, earlier today. 

Today was a nightmare. 

Absolute nightmare. 

The pandemic lockdown has meant that we have to stay home and work from home, no school, and for us, only childcare on one day a week while we both work. This means two year old and a six year old in the house today while one of us works. 

And it was my turn to keep it all together while Lucy does her work. 

I failed miserably. 

I didn't plan it this way but it started with me and the two year old watching Mary Poppins. In Mary Poppins, the dad is rubbish. Disciplinarian, disconnected from the kids, judgemental, out of touch, no imagination, not interested in listening to the kids (or anyone else for that matter), just a pain in the arse. 

They need a nanny. And then Mary Poppins flies in. She's perfect in every way. Exactly the opposite to what the dad's like. She's engaged. She listens. Annoying tasks are fun if they're played like a game. That's what they're singing about with A Spoonful of Sugar. They're getting the room cleaned. And they do. 

But it's unfair. 

Because old mate Mary can do real magic. 

So the day goes on and I completely fail in getting the six year old into her homeschooling. She does not one minute of it. And we fought all day. It got worse and worse, and the worse it got, the deeper I got into the mud of it all. I lost all patience and confidence. It was torture. 

I was the dad in Mary Poppins, the obvious rubbish dad, and there was nothing I could do to improve. 

This is what the lockdown is doing. It could be a wonderful opportunity to have the best time with the kids. But I'm tired and today I couldn't come close. 

Luckily, tomorrow's another day. 

But I did get to play the Up There Cazaly clip to the two year old. 

He was transfixed and wanted to see it again and again and again. 

Just like when I saw it for the first time.

Sounds made for this late at night.

Strings, choirs, orchestras, drama and melancholy. 

These are special sounds for this time of the night.

 

Sweet dreams.

2020 As Years Go, I Wanna Be Sedated.

I'm back. 

Look at the previous post. It was saved as a draft probably a day or two after the 2018 Grand Final loss. You know the game. My team lost by a few points and have never been the same since. And did you know that I was concussed for the entire game? 

All trivial to what's happening now. 

We are in global pandemic. There is a lockdown and a curfew. We can only go out for an hour a day. Our flat and the walk to the milk bar is our world. It's very quiet. I type this and know that the last time I typed into this blog there were other seemingly important things on my mind. 

But tonight, it all seems silly. 

I think I will type into this blog some more. 

It will be a bit more like it was many years ago. 

Here's the beautiful record/video that got me back into the idea. 

It's about nostalgia and now. Perhaps what this blog has always been about. 

You won't watch it because it's 44 minutes long and 44 minutes is a lot to ask for in a recommendation. 

What is it with recommendations? We're always recommending things? There's not much point in doing it other to propel some of your self to the person you're banging on about the song or show to. 

I had a super villain idea once. The Recommender. Jumps into scene to interrupt whatever is going on, dinner party, tennis game, people kissing on a bridge etc, to recommend the cheese they sell at Aldi. 

Anyway. I'm back.  

Enjoy The Week: 2018 Grand Final Week Diary. Life Goes On.

I feel empty.

What just happened last week?

Brown Ribbon Day 2018: Let's get through this together.

It's Brown Ribbon Day.

Look.

This is what Finals Fever does to you.

Your ability to make important decisions declines.

Rapidly.

You didn't get your brown ribbons this year because of a blunder in the manufacturing process.

Wrong glue.

Wrong ribbon.

Bad decisions.

Disaster.

So today, this Brown Ribbon Day, call someone you care about who is making poor decisions because of their Finals Fever illness.

Or find them, give them a hug and tell them that you're there for them, because Finals Fever is a very real problem.

Let's get through this together. #brownribbonday

Enjoy The Week: 2018 Grand Final Week Diary. Brownlow Tuesday.

It's dragging on and I'm fighting a cold.

Missed the training. It's the first time I've ever missed a pre-grand final training. But work was in the way.

Only 45 footy related messages on my phone today.

Enjoy The Week: 2018 Grand Final Week Diary. Brownlow Monday.

I always post a picture of Greame Teasdale in his suit on Brownlow night.

So I put some money on Brodie Grundy to win the Brownlow and then remembered that I had already done that back in April. $10 each way to pay $1300.

Spent the rest of the day spending the winnings in my head.

He hasn't even come close. Tom Mitchell won it.

Most years I blog the Brownlow votes. You can see the hijinks over there in the links.

Today I got some ribbon for Brown Ribbon Day. Should have made some ribbons but I'm tired and getting a cold. A cold on Saturday could be a disaster.

Okay, the daily phone message stat.

Remember it's Brownlow day so there was a lot going on tonight.

Anyway, here goes...

187 footy related messages on my phone today.

Enjoy The Week: 2018 Grand Final Week Diary. Sunday.

I never thought my life could be

Anything but catastrophe

But suddenly I begin to see

A bit of good luck for me

'Cause I've got a golden ticket

I've got a golden twinkle in my eye

I never had a chance to shine

Never a happy song to sing

But suddenly half the world is mine

What an amazing thing

'Cause I've got a golden ticket

Yes. I got my golden ticket this morning.

Because of my AFL Membership, and much practice in getting the job done, it was quite easy.

Though I wasn't the designated ticket buyer. We split into a two teams to get something like eight tickets. The SMS group made for getting tickets went like a dream. Within ten minutes, everyone in the group got their tickets. The easiest ticket buying operation in my time of going to the footy.

I've had an okay run with grand finals.

1990. Missed out.
2002. Ticket got. Top of the Olympic stand.
2003. Missed out. Had to watch the game at The London Tavern. Awful day all round.
2010. Drawn game. I bought a ticket. Cost a lot.
2010. Replay. Ticket got.
2011. Ticket got.

Each of these times was ridiculously stressful. I'm just happy it's done now and I can enjoy the week.

Back to that 2010 ticket. There was an Age article about high grand final tickets. Here's a quote from it. It's ridiculous.

"Do the maths. One Collingwood fan did. He paid the Western Bulldogs $1100 for such an event, and provided Sporting Life with a picture of what he called his ''$865 breakfast''. With it came a seat in row CC, the top deck of the Ponsford Stand."

Yeah.

That was me.

I was that one Collingwood fan.

117 footy related messages on my phone today.

Enjoy The Week: 2018 Grand Final Week Diary. Saturday.

So here we go again. Another Grand Final week. I've had a few now.

The one best piece of advice to anyone whose team has made it to the Big Dance, is to 'enjoy the week'.

You hear it a lot, so much, it has become a cliche.

But it's true.

The best thing about the week isn't the grand final itself. It isn't even the result. It's the anticipation. Hope and anticipation does lovely things to your brain.

You walk in the spring sun with a dumb grin.

You dream.

This time I don't just want to enjoy the week. I want to remember it.

That's why I'll do this diary.

Saturday, the day after the big prelim. We've smashed Richmond. Look up at that video. I filmed the moment the final siren went. The camera goes crazy as I hug my mates, then some composure to sing the song. It was quite a moment. Nothing unusual. Just standing room we've just made it to the grand final joy.

Today we go to the Victoria Market as we do every Saturday. I have Fred, my little 11 month year old son wear a Collingwood jumper. Usually there's a lot of people wearing the colours of the winning team at the market after a big game like last night's. Not so much today.

Would've been lots more if Richmond had won. It feels like Melbourne is still in a little shock from last night. Not much reaction to Fred. One lady in her Collingwood gear talks to Fred about the game last night. He's oblivious. She doesn't seem to notice. That's cool. She's excited, and Fred, like all 11 month olds, is a cute baby.

Melbourne get monstered in their prelim final against the West Coast Eagles. Relief for my friends I go to the footy with who have MCC memberships. Would've been tough for them to get in to the grand final if Melbourne had made it.

Tomorrow to get the tickets. It's always the hardest part of the week. Wish me luck.

145 footy related messages on my phone today.

Brownlow 16: I'm Packing It In. Dangerfield Wins The Brownlow (I assume).

Patrick Dangerfield, best dressed Brownlow winner since Greame Teasdale

Gil doing the slow read for drama. Too late dude. Just when we settle in, there's another ad break filled with beer, sports vitamins and betting ads. Then a Friday Front Bar thing which otherwise would be amusing but it's after 10pm and we have shitloads more votes to count.

Round 15 read by Merv Hughes. At last we're back. I don't know if I want to keep doing this. But I started. I do it every year. Bont gets one to move to 11. Parker shares the lead with Dangerfield. This could actually get exciting if they let it happen.

ANOTHER AD BREAK. 

For fuck's sake. 

I'm thinking of turning it in. 

It's that tedious.

Denis Commeti tribute. 

Just.

Count.

The.

Votes.

Round 16 and its 10:20pm. I shit you not. Dangerfield only ahead by one vote. Bont gets a vote so this means we need to interview him. Gosh. 

Round 17 montage is read by Guy Sebastian. Gil reading fast. He's the only one who wants to get it done. No votes to Parker who stays on 20. Dustin Martin moves to 19. Dangerfield boringly goes onto 24. I have a strange feeling we're going to an ad break.

Round 18. I nodded off during the montage. Dustin Martin is equal second on votes and drink count. 

Round 19 read by the guy from Eskimo Joe. It's 1999 night at the casino tonight. No votes to Parker. Dangerfield moves to 28. That's 8 ahead with 4 rounds to go. 

If we go to an ad break, I'm going to bed. 

Yep. 

That's it. 

I've had enough. 

I'm off to bed.

If you stay up to the end, look for the Tobin Bros or John Allison Monkhouse in the closing credits.

I assume Patrick Dangerfield wins it. 

Brownlow 16: I'm Starting To Question It All.

When we question the Brownlow, we question our existence.

Back to typing after Alex Lloyd singing his Amazing song to a montage of retirees.

Is this a wake?

Is anyone still awake?

Tonight is the dullest production I can remember. It's so drab and earnest. No colour. No movement. Barely any cringe. I'm even bored. I NEVER GET BORED ON BROWNLOW NIGHT. What has happened to me?

R I OK?

Am I?

I'm starting to question everything.

Back to reading votes. Round 12 and Bont moves to 10. Parker no votes stays on 14. Dustin Martin moves to 11. Dangerfield moves to the lead on 17. He had 47 possessions that day. But you can only get 3 votes a game.

Round 13 read by Mick Molloy. Luke Parker still getting shitloads of votes.

Cut to a tribute to Paul Couch.

Yep.

Tonight's Brownlow is a wake.

Brownlow 16: Molly Was Just On And Contrary To Popular Thought, Dangerfield Hasn't Won Yet.

Round 8 read by a jockey who was banned once for betting against a rival horse. This gambling thing has taken hold of the Brownlow. I'm too annoyed to say anything more about the round.

Round 9 read by MOLLY. Phew. A good bloke to get me happy again. Pies beat Geelong that week. It was amazing. One of the year's only highlights. Get my first look at Cotchin's hair. It's lovely and fluffy. Luke Parker onto the lead with 15 votes over Dangerfield's 14.

Round 10 Cyril get s his 4th vote. No change to the top few votes. All the pundits are wrong so far about Dangerfield winning it before the halfway mark of the season. They make this mistake EVERY YEAR. It's hilarious.

Brownlow 16: Tim Rogers Was Just On.

Round 4 and 5. It's a drab affair. No vibe. Nobody is drunk. You can cut the tedium with a knife. It's so quiet in there, you can almost hear the rain hitting the casino roof. We need some entertainment on stage stat. Alyssa Camplin, pies board member, Olympian reads the montage. She's good. ANZAC Day round. Dangerfield on 8. Parker on 10. According to the TV, Dangerfield is best on ground for pretty much every game from now on.

Montage of old players. A bunch of 300, 350 and 400 something game players. Then it fades out to a talent show ad. The biggest noise I've heard on my TV for 20 minutes.

There's a responsible gambling ad followed by a horse racing carnival ad followed an ad for savoury shapes. The crosses to the gambling houses will be on a bit later. We live in a strange, inconsistent world.

Round 6 read by Kokkinakis, the tennis player. Dangerfield on 11. Luke Parker leading with 13. He had a great year. I love it when the votes don't go the way all the experts predicted.

Round 7 read by footy's second voiceover voice after that guy you hear at the footy all the time, TIM ROGERS. Best job so far. So much pizazz with Berlin Chair in the background. If I was producing this thing there would be more of that. Dangerfield on 14.

Cut to a betting shill talking odds. Didn't take long to shit all over that responsible gambling ad from the last ad break.