I mentioned a (freshly) dead grandmother a while ago so I thought I'd balance it out by mentioning another, years-dead grandmother, whose birthday it would be today had she not died in 2002. I'm not sure which birthday.. can you help me out, Ma?

I have her badge from when she was a member of the Firsts hockey team when a teenager in Ireland. It's in my jewellery box and I see it every time I seek out a shiny thing to wear. I'd love to wear it but I would be distraught if it were lost or broken, and lost or broken is how most of my shiny things end up eventually. (On my computer at the moment sits a smashed coral ring, and before that was a snapped brooch. Left an earring at the pool last week.) Nonetheless, it's nice to see it regularly and think of her. I don't wish her alive again, because she was unhappy and in ill-health at the end of her life, but I do wish she could just pop in for a chat every now and then. She was one of those people whom everybody just loved for her warmth and generosity and general loveliness. And her utterly unruly hair - I didn't inheirit her athleticism, but I think the wiry craziness of her locks were passed down without any dilution at all. Her devil's food chocolate cake was as bizarre as it was delectable, because she'd fill it with cream and then smother it in lemon icing. I never quite understood but I devoured it greedily.

Happy birthday, Gran. Wish I had a photo to post here.

...these three things.

1. A COPY of The Arrival by the exquisite Mr. Shaun Tan. It is a new graphic novel with the most beautiful illustrations telling the story - almost the universal story - of migrant experience. It made me cry. Really.

2. To the SPIEGELTENT in the forecourt of the Arts Centre to see Belly of a Drunken Piano. It's only on for two more days - Mon 30th and Tues 31st October. It is a man singing Tom Waits songs with uncanny fidelity to the originals. Given Mr. Waits' oath to never visit Australia again (his last visit was marred by horrendous racism towards his black musicians and he's never coming back) it's as close as you'll get. I had a blast.

3. An eyeful of beastial art at The Idea of the Animal at the RMIT Gallery until 18 November. See caddis flies build themselves glorious and precious shelters from fragments of gold, pearls and gems.

And that, folks, is the end of livebird's arts guide for this week.

I would like to thank the man in the white panelvan on Brunswick St who thoughtfully enquired about my comfort as I rode my bike home last week. "How does that seat feel?" he asked. How kind of him.

I think the spam filter on my email is having a day off... the following came through, and I find it so sublimely absurd that I can't help but share it with all you folks with functioning filters. I like the passive voice.

An incinerated stovepipe ruminates, because a line dancer pees on a fighter pilot defined by an apartment building. A ball bearing feels nagging remorse, and a radioactive buzzard goes to sleep; however, a feline squid learns a hard lesson from a sheriff. Now and then, the stovepipe related to another demon knows a somewhat fashionable cab driver. The cashier flies into a rage, but another bullfrog for the senator barely recognizes the lazily self-actualized hole puncher.

but then it gets a little too bizarre... who can spot the Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy corruptions?

number of the curve of to end. The report - he thought. - The lever that gave people would represent their glasses up now the old man trying all thats a message back the visiscreen so the as round at the old man stood up. - Good luck guys, - Yes you Id far that had grabbed fingers; now beam please, computer? - You got that? The PA fell on which jumping spot with the Heart of being a new bypass has got up the shellshocked fragments of The shabby pig pen slyly cooks cheese grits for the apartment building over the cocker spaniel. A grain of sand defined by the asteroid trembles, because some spider about a cheese wheel knows a thoroughly resplendent tomato. Sometimes the greasy mortician prays, but a garbage can about another turkey always steals pencils from a globule! Furthermore, a minivan self-flagellates, and the hypnotic cargo bay competes with the tuba player.

The shabby pig pen slyly cooks cheese grits for the apartment building over the cocker spaniel. A grain of sand defined by the asteroid trembles, because some spider about a cheese wheel knows a thoroughly resplendent tomato. Sometimes the greasy mortician prays, but a garbage can about another turkey always steals pencils from a globule! Furthermore, a minivan self-flagellates, and the hypnotic cargo bay competes with the tuba player.

movement, clapped his reasons whose two-man crew of creation. Arthur blinked at it would have because a home got problems. Chapter 9 Plural Z finally to make it were screaming through the air with life, of the conversation, having merely had become it one poetry at that they become economists, its... - he was like to build another drear morning Arthur Dents house got problems. Arthur once off a single of something. - said Ford ignored to the only archipelago of paper, which contained her again.

 

To counterbalance the last, needlessly stroppy entry, I have to mention a Thing that Occurred on Monday night; the sort of Thing that reminds me why I like my former housemates (no, not Jack and Tyrone, the ones before that) so very much.

The three of us (and Squid) were walking home after dinner the other night when we encountered a dumped mattress. K took the initiative and started jumping on it. "Whhoooooo!" she said,"Ya gotta try this! It's great! Usually you're never allowed to jump on beds!" So Squid and I got on, she with some trepidation because she's banned from even thinking about getting on my bed, and started bouncing. J parked his bike and joined in. There we were, the three (four) of us, leaping like fools on someone's old sprung double bed, whooping. It was grouse.

Then we got off and walked on as if nothing had happened.

Things I hate about swimming: the definitive list

• A chloud of gaseous chlorine about my person for the subsequent 24 hours.
• The frequent replacement of swimming garments that are etched into non-existence by aforementioned chlorine and can no longer perform their assigned task of modesty protection.
• People who pinch the kickboard you specially got out of the bucket that's all way on the other side of the pool.
• People who gasbag at the end of lanes leaving you no space at all at the end of your lap. Huge meat-head budgie-smuggling boys are the most notorious for this. They do sprints then rest between laps, swaybacked from the strain of hauling their own muscles around, and grunting to one another.
• When you're just 4 laps away from finishing and you REALLY need to pee and goddammit, you have to haul your arse out to the dunnies and then get back in again.
• Indoor pools with the reverberating, shrill voices of squealing children.
• People who swim breaststoke in the medium lane. It's SLOW. And your wide kicks extend across the whole width of the lane so I can't bloody pass you, either.
• Adolescent boys who gawk.
• Forgetting your goggles.
• Going to the pool in yer togs and forgetting your undies. Grr.
• I can't do tumbleturns.

I think the last item on the list is what I'm actually grumpy about. Cause I do love it, really.

Hungry Issue 3 is going gangbusters! And the Little Green Men are almost sold out! Looks like I will have to make contact with their leader and get some more teleported down to this planet. Funny how they picked my sewing machine as their portal to our world.

Speaking of hungry, I thought I'd expand upon my general greediness and obsession with food. Apparently there's a new book out about how to write a blog called No one cares what you had for lunch, but apparently it doesn't apply to breakfast. Thus I bring you The Happiest Breakfast In The World, introduced to me by Cousin Sarah.

Take a small handful of sultanas and chuck 'em in a huge white bowl. Add about 3/4 cup rolled oats. Cover with water and soak them in the fridge overnight.

 

The next morning, stumble in from walking the dog, retrieve bowl from fridge and put in microwave for 2 minutes. While you're waiting, feed aforementioned dog and grate an apple. Stir and nuke a little more. Bung in grated apple, dump generous quantity of cinnamon on top.

 

Unroll The Age and plonk on a stool at the kitchen bench to eat this comforting, tasty, warm mound of sweet, spicy, gooey greatness.

Sometimes I'm not sure what to do on a Saturday night. When there's nothing else doing, and I want to have a really good time, I pop down to the supes and pick up a coupla dozen eggs. Then I get into my Commodore with my mates Davo and Smithy, rev the engine a little, and drive around looking for defenceless suckers. Then I hurl those eggs as hard as I can and laugh hysterically at how stoopid they look with slime and eggshell stuck to them. They make the funniest faces. It's brilliant when they scream, or get really angry, as we drive off. Good times.

This is what I imagine goes on inside the minds of the folks who threw eggs at the Curmudgeon and I as we walked home from a movie on Saturday night. The most surprising thing was how much it hurts to get pelted with an egg. There was an egg-shaped red mark on my be-hind where they got me. It was just so bizarre.

However there were significant and fun parts of the weekend that didn't involve wearing eggs. One was a day-trip up to Ma's to hang out with her and the newest member of the family, Maggie the collie. She's settling in very well and is such a splendid beast. Even in her shambolic post-shelter state, she's a gorgeous supermodel of a dog. (Actually, her skeletal nature is very supermodel-like. That won't last much longer. Ma's feeding her up.)

The second was a marathon Hungry Zine team collation effort. We put together 300 of the things on Sunday and they look superb. More banging-on about the wonderfulness of our little zine soon, including the launch and where you can buy them. Pop over to the website here if you just can't wait. The Little Green Men are for sale, too.

I got hit by a car last night while riding home from the pool.

(I love the melodrama of opening with a statement like that. So simple. So ambiguous. But obviously I'm not dead. I'm not even hurt.)

I was happily noodling through an intersection when a driver, having chosen not to indicate, turned right. Right into me. I saw what was about to happen and gunned it, which turned out to be the right decision because he just clipped my pedal and back wheel rather than charge straight into my person and render me roadkill. It was pretty bloody scary though, as time slowed and a dark blue car bonnet loomed.

"AAAAAAAAAAGUGUUUGHGHHH! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?!??! YOU DIDN'T FUCKING INDICATE!!" I screeched at him in the middle of the crossing. The lights were red and the next wave of traffic was patiently waiting for me to either keel over and die, or finish my hystrionics and keep going. I chose the latter. I realised I didn't even feel shaken... quite the opposite. I felt damn fine for once in my life having bellowed at someone when I was pissed rather than play nicely and walk away fuming. I didn't know I had it in me.

I reckon he drove away with some serious dimples in his paintwork, and perhaps a little more caution when driving a loaded weapon.