These are some picture messages I have received recently.
We got Beebs there, with some weepers. Penocchio (look closely). Also Dong kwok.
Because all you Barry’s check this blog every few hours - eagerly sifting for another dose of humour and intrigue; you may have seen The Brights do a little diddy or two on a rooftop in Sydney? Dem clips were filmed by two Sydney lads who were even cooler than the local scenesters down at the Excelsior. Believe it or not we conquered the two chunes in minimal takes, and they colour graded the footage to make us look more tanned and sexual, even if I was ear-tagged as looking like a sexual predator - One who preys in the night, outside 24 hour fast food outlets, or even better – near cab ranks. Anyway- share around the clips, we will get some sort of viral toilet flush going. Maybe.
I looked out of the window this morning and became fixated on one of those really old codgers that just does laps of the block, but at a charismatic rate of like 400 metres per hour. Hushpuppies – check. Repping one of those old man baggy hats, pants up near the navel, and enough bryll-creem to lube a chimney. He just shuffles maybe 8 or 9 steps and then just takes in the scenery with his hands interlocked behind his back, as if to say “being in a rush is for poonces, mate”. People will argue that his sloth like pace is due to a double hip replacement, and copping seven 9mm slugs to the solar-plexus in World War 2, but I think he is just making a point? When is the last time you went for a walk, and just looked at shit? Without a destination or timeframe? I live on a busy road too, not even the screeching of exhaust brakes or the wafting smell of manure as a piggery truck passes can shake this guy – who I have named Vince. It’s so awesome to observe this dude, especially when he reaccommodates his extremely high beige slacks, it’s as if he wants his ciggie packet in his top pocket to god-damn-well rest on his belt buckle, like a boob shelf. I could have a boob shelf if I wanted. When I am Vince’s age – I’ll be shelving my darts. On my boob – not my up my nuse. Ok?
I just can’t stop writing about this Leeeeedge. Vince usually rolls about 300 meters down Portrush, and sometimes hobbles...nay – leans, into the Marden shopping centre. Like, he has a gangster lean (probably the hip, not dissimilar to the lean of Wiz Khalifa), and it is here - on a bench next to the 80’s style water feature, that he catches up with his other grossly Italian pals. Call their daily union queer, but I watch them toss around banta in rapid Italiano, and I am deeply jealous, and feel like a boring wanker. I popped into the woollies the other day to pickup some fetta cheese, steel wool and twix’s, and as I was leaving the check-out they gestured to me amongst themselves, and were obviously throwing around hilarious jokes about my clothes/hair-do/infant face/weird walking style. I locked eyes with one of them briefly – then I did this......
But, instead of feeling self-conscious – I just felt left-out. Just desperately un-funny. I think they respected that. I’m also well aware that because I can’t puree my own tomatoes from my watered concrete veggie patch, into a delicious Napolitano sauce - I will never be truly accepted into their circle.
But will the Shiny Brights be accepted into your circle? Into your social media realm? Into your hearts and Ice-breaking conversations around the workplace water cooler? You better consider this sooner or later, because there are many-a-iron-in-the-fire.....and by that I mean we have a newly acquired, peeeeeaar-ful (powerful) mojo for writing a new brand of dreamy guitar soaked indie rock music that promises to make even the gloomiest Jimmy Bollard nod his head. Comprende?
Thanks for your time. If you havent seen the coustic numbers - they are the previous two posts.