Moon Temple restaurant, soon to be knocked down, December ’13
the lady vanishes — alfred hitchcock
the thin man — dashiell hammett
thomas fehlmann — chop suey
planet x — silkie
trapez turns 100 — oliver hacke
hold me (breakbot remix) — pacific!
greenwood art walk
gertrude’s brown couch
how to cook a wolf
the paris bistro
I can trace it back to a childhood trip to Yellowstone, walking around the mud pots, smelling the sulphur, looking at the colored pools and the geysers. I must have figured out I could fart and get away with it.
Or maybe it goes back even earlier, playing in the mud as a kid.
I’ve spent the past few days in Rotorua, south of Auckland. It’s famous for its steaming lakes and mud pools around the city. It stinks here, in a good way. Yesterday and today I’ve gone to the Polynesian Spa. They have a group of 7 outdoor pools, facing the lake. Last night I sat in the rain, in a 40 degree (110 farenheit maybe?) pool, looking out at the lake. My shoulders relaxed. My breathing slowed.
One of the pools reminded me of kombucha. Stuff floats around.
Today was the big game, the AFL Championship. Picture the pageantry of and feigned interest in the Super Bowl, add accents, and you’ve pretty much got it.
The teenage body spray epidemic is out of hand. They spray down themselves and one another on the train, in restaurants, on the high street. It’s an abomination, and by proximity I end up smelling like that abomination. Sure I feel 20 years younger, but at what price?
Australian ‘Breakfast Programmes’ (Brekkie Progs?) stoop lower than their American counterparts. Like, below the belt. A man you’d never want to imagine naked, talking about how to work in lovemaking ahead of the big game? At least Al Roker has the decency not to opine about sex.