~ bared beneath the ruthless neon

Before all else, I must tell you that we saw a sundog. For me, it was the first time. Something about the notion of sundogs, and the name. I’ve always loved them.

Now, experiencing The Church as a support band is a rare thing, but on this occasion – opening for The Divinyls at The Forum– they truly compensated for their lesser billing with an outstanding performance. Actually, I think it was one of the better Church gigs I’ve seen, at least in recent memory. Mr Wilson-Piper was impressive, cultivating the persona of a hunted bushranger, while Mr Kilbey was sufficiently limber to goad the audience with a yoga position, or two.

I’ve never really been a Divinyls fan, though one has to respect Chrissie Amphlett. Last night, I gave up after a few songs - too many strange Eighties overtones. The Divinyls used to be one of the scariest Australian pub-rock bands of their time. Meaner, possibly, than Cold Chisel. Yet not as dire as Midnight Oil. I’m speaking from the vantage of a lowly support band, of course, recalling the surly, lumpen, violently-inclined road crews with who we used to have to deal. Divinyls had the worst reputation for limiting volume, pulling channels and lights etc… I wonder if those nasty customs have endured into the current day? I’d like to think not.

The Church invited their friends down to a suite in the bowels of the Forum, where the chairs collapsed whenever I made a sudden move. It was there I met Sacha, my supposed doppelganger, of whom I spoke way back when I first began The Sails of Oblivion. Yes, there is a resemblance, but it’s more an overall impression rather than anything specific. His facial features, for instance, are quite different to mine, while the manner in which he lurches around is possibly quite similar. A nice guy too, by the way.

steve, me, donald, lynne

There’s a group of people, friends, who seem to only get together when Steve is in town; Donald, Simon. Bruce, Lynne, Sarah, Danny – and in the short period before I had to catch the last train - and despite my ordinary mood – I relaxed and enjoyed their company, without speaking very much at all.

I was astonished to encounter my long lost friend, Keisha. It was completely unexpected - she was there because she was a friend of the promoter. I have not seen her for years. Strange, because she’s been on my mind recently. I’d been worried for her, as the last time I saw her she was teetering on a precipitous brink – and could have gone either way.

Well, she toppled over, naturally, but claims to have crept back up. Judging from how healthy she looked, I had to believe her. And it seems as if circumstances are working for her, as usual … money, property, share portfolios; all dropping in her lap for the most bizarre [and unrecountable] of reasons. It’s hard to explain Keisha. She is unique. She has a certain beauty that attracts certain kinds of men [like ants to canned pineapple] – and on these men she happily thrives. But there are many other facets to her that defy description. We originally met via an obsession she was having with Michael Hutchence, which extended to the movie Dogs in Space and thence to me…

Oh, one more thing. I’ve been back in the petting zoo with Polly [and my briefcase]. A different one this time, classier birds and beasts, many with unusual growths on their heads. It was in Jells Park, during the hours immediately prior to Carols by Candlelight. J G Ballard has spoken of suburbia as the future psychic battleground of humanity and on this afternoon we caught a terrifying glimpse of his meaning. Pictured beneath are denizens of the marginal zones - four hours out from the carols and already in complete readiness.

Also in a state of preparedness was this mobile excrement pit or Faecal Utility Vehicle. It loomed with monstrous potential over the digestive systems of a steadily swelling crowd.

~ abnormal petting zoo

She has a dream in which she is half-fish half-slug half-horse. She is swimming around and around in an enclosed body of water, unable to escape.

The Spores are in abeyance, but the humdrum is coming into its own - and the humdrum has secret alliances with ancient demons. Now is a dangerous time, and - knowing she carries a neural implant that can steamroll her resolution at any time - I observe all things with great care.

I offer to look after her bank card, as she's getting paid the next morning. She complains that she feels like a child when other people look after her money. I stick to my guns. She suggests that we not pay off the Romanian tomorrow, but leave it a little while. I suggest that makes no sense. An argument ensues, and grows sufficiently intense to justify her spending the night at her mother's. I am left alone watching Blades of Glory, confused, miserable and unable to stop myself laughing. When she arrives home the next day, she reveals that she has her period. She admits that she was worried by her behaviour, thought she was actually going mad - but realised, thankfully, that it was only PMT, a condition that can affect her strongly.

- It's amazing what hormones can do, she says.

Later, I will find out if this entire scenario was a carefully drafted plan to facilitate a monstrous licking of the deadly honeycomb. Would she engineer an argument like that? Endanger the relationship? Just to seek traffic with the Spores? Am I paranoid? She is still asleep at 10.30 - a worrying sign. We shall see. ...

With Polly, I rode the train into town to participate in Children's Week festivities. The only thing of merit was an above average petting zoo. A penned in area lined with astroturf, teeming with highly exited children and resigned, almost soporific animals. I picked up a baby chicken for Polly when another set of little hands expertly divested me, briefly manipulated the chick, then threw it into the plastic yellow wading pool that was home to a turtle - a turtle whose head remained extended throughout the ordeal. What turtle would not take advantage of its natural abilities in such a perilous environment? A drugged turtle? A diseased turtle? Whatever. I plucked the chicken from the water.

Later, as I closed my briefcase, an official checked to see if I was stealing a bird or animal. I explained that a goat had been eating my papers. Polly really loved the rabbits. I liked the turkeys. I was kicked by a small cow.

Thinking about it, there was something off-beat about that petting zoo. There in the wildly post modern Federation Square Atrium - enslaved beasts; brought to the heart of Man's empire to be fondled by his young. Regard these creatures, any of you who doubt that we are the dominant species. We are superior to these guinea pigs in so very many ways. This turtle has developed none of the magnificent technologies we have. Our social structures are vastly more complex than anything these gobbling turkeys have in place.

Later, Polly told me that she had never seen a clown. Would that this state of purity shall last.