The Curmudgeon and I went on A Nadventure today... a bike ride from Hurstbridge to St Andrews and back. I confess we took the shortcut back because we overestimated the fitness of ourselves and our bikes. Mine hasn't been quite the same since I got hit by a car, and his hasn't been the same.... since about 1994, and having spent the intervening years out in the elements and starved of lubricants. I had a good time. He hated it. But we both enjoyed the muffin from the Post Office Cafe on the train home, and we were lucky to see an echidna and pulled over to watch it snuffle about in the rocky soil.

I get Squiddy back tomorrow and I'm glad. I'm missing the little thug. The wind blew the dog door last night and my subconscious registered a chunky puppy entering the room. I was disappointed to find she wasn't there.

I committed to posting a blog entry every day for a month as part of NaBloMoPo or some other foolish name. It's proving to be quite a trial. Easier than trying to grow a moustache for Movember, I guess.

This one comes from the State Library where the Curmudgeon and I have chosen to end our day of rambling, day-off-from-work adventures. We have tried on spectacles (he needs new ones, and I wish my eyesight wasn't so good because I love specs and look forward to the day when I'll need them) and been scornful of current fashions, in particular the Chronic Misplacing of Waists. My waist lies directly between my hips and my ribs. Not just beneath my breasts. Designers TAKE NOTE: by hiding waists and making frocks all flouncy from the ribcage down, you infantalise women and by combining infantalisation (did I make up a word?) with supposed increased attractiveness you are being OFFENSIVE and vaguely pedophilic. Which makes me inclined to type in SHOUTY LETTERS.

We've also been playing in the new exhibition at ACMI called 'Eyes, Lies and Illusions' that features an installation of eyeballs that follow you around the room. They are splendid; even more so for making people flail about in front of them (myself included) to see how sensitive they are to movement.

The title of this post is just about the happiest text message you can get from my friend K. And it's one that I received this afternoon. And the cake... oooh. Pear, apple and rhubarb tea cake. No recipe. It was a great moment in my life when I realised that the Cake Police didn't come to getcha if you didn't follow a recipe. Turns out that some of my best cakes have been entirely experimental. Perhaps I can just feel it in my waters when I have added enough milk or the proportions are just so. In any case, it seems K is similarly endowned with spooky cake-intuition because her cake was SUBLIME. (Please note... use of past tense is highly accurate here.)

The tin in which said cake was baked was purchased at an op shop yesterday, where I also saw a Little Golden Book called "Big Bird's Red Book." And I thought only Chairman Mao wrote one...

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.