Captain Marvel Rocks

OH! Spoilers. Blah blah! If you haven’t seen Captain Marvel and want to see it without knowing stuff about it don’t read any more and come back later. Otherwise I guess the headline makes it obvious how I feel about it. Anyway read further at your own risk.

It’s a well covered fact that I think DC should be banned from making movies. Their superhero movies are utter shite. Considerably less entertaining and fulfilling than I imagine a Barnaby Joyce sex tape would be.

If I ever needed any more proof, and I didn’t, I now have Captain Marvel to hold up to Wonder Woman. Everyone knows how much I love WW and how much I was looking forward to the new movie last year… and how bitterly disappointed I was with the end result.

Well I won’t be turning my WW tattoo into a Captain Marvel tattoo any time soon but the movies are like chalk and cheese and CM is a the cheese; a delightful creamy luscious double brie.

I saw it on Saturday afternoon and I was fully expecting to snooze through it because I’d had little proper sleep the night before and I was tired and out of sorts. But I didn’t. I watched every second, alert and certainly alarmed because it was FUCKING AWESOME.

Captain Marvel is everything I wanted Wonder Woman to be. Fun, entertaining and best of all NO FUCKING LOVE INTEREST. Some of you may snigger about me complaining about love interests but they’re not always necessary and unless they’re a good, important part of the story (I give you Deadpool) they are totally unnecessary in a superhero movie because for fuck’s sake, if you’re busy saving the world surely flirting would be low on your list of priorities.

So the no love interest thing is a biggie for me. It’s completely not an issue throughout the entire movie, not a wink, not a single moment of flirtation of any sort. Can you believe it?

I tend to complain about movies over 90 minutes these days because I find too many movies are way too long for no good reason but CM clocks in at 125 minutes and not a minute is wasted and it certainly doesn’t feel too long.

It’s set in the mid 90s so of course the music is kickass. The 90s references are funny for us oldies and baffling for the young uns. The characters are great and there are lots of laughs and the right amount of action. In short it is bloody entertaining. For my money it’s worth the price of admission for the Stan Lee/Kevin Smith cross reference. Everything else is just a bonus really.

So all the thumbs up for this one. Bring on Endgame. Like Big Kev, I’m EXCITED!

Also: Goose the Flerken. Genius!

I can’t find a Frank Turner song for this situation

I met someone.

I actually met him four years ago. I remember that day so clearly. Our eyes met and a bell rang inside me and I didn’t know what it was but I heard it.

Over the next four years I’d see him at the various places where his brisket was legendary and our eyes would meet and the bell would ring…and my life would continue with the memory of his smile and the twinkle of his eyes.

So to find us both single in January, and that he had also noticed our spark from that first meeting, was a little bit rom-com magical.

I felt like I had manifested a list of my perfect man. All the boxes neatly ticked. I could even forgive the RHCP aversion and vice versa. So much happiness.

Except he lives a 90 minute drive away. We both thought it could be managed but the reality is it can’t. Not in the long term. It’ll just get much worse as feelings grow bigger and the distance doesn’t grow smaller.

Walking away is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. It’s been a two month bubble of joy and it’s been popped by the harsh needle of reality and it fucking hurts.

Motherforker it really hurts.

Life is a clusterfuck isn’t it? And Frank Turner hasn’t written a song for just this particular set of circumstances which is most shortsighted of him.

This song is going round and round in my head, though I can cry and have a lot. The association with the Supersuckers is obvious but fuck this song rips my heart out.

Throwing in the towel

This week I threw in the towel on something and wow, it feels great. I’ve been wanting to do it for ages but stubbornly I’ve persevered. I’m not saying there isn’t some regret, some measure of guilt but fuck it, it’s worth it.

I’ve been reading Bruce Springsteen’s autobiography Born To Run for approximately 4,000 years (well it feels that way) and I’m only half way through. I had been so looking forward to reading it but it turned out to be a trap…a quicksand trap that sucked me in and then slowly drowned me in tedium.

Look, I assume there was an editor involved but frankly they were asleep at the wheel. This book is sooooo slow and so repetitive and so dullsville I came to the conclusion I would die of old age before I finished it.

For a rockstar autobiography (much like Tex Perkins’ – who at least had the decency to keep his short) there was little sex or drugs and look, if we wanted to know about the music we’d just fucking listen to it. While his life and the music business is relatively interesting it’s not THAT interesting. I want the dirt man…a little dirt…give us something for fuck’s sake.

Maybe I’m just not a big enough fan. I’d classify myself as a middle sized fan. His songs are so evocative of a certain American fantasy. His version of Tom Waits’ Jersey Girl – again a fantasy of some sort of American sad/romantic dream – makes me feel all the feels to the point of pain at times. Fucked if I know why; the feminist in me hates the underlying idea of that song.

Nevertheless I’ve loved seeing him live and his music is smart, heart hurting and often brilliant.

But this book seriously made me lose the will to live. I had thought I’d lost my love of reading. I’d toyed with the idea of just stopping but I hate to give up on something potentially good (I give you three and a half years of torture known as my relationship with The Joker as exhibit A).

This week I finally decided to throw in the towel. Enough is enough is enough. Guess what? It wasn’t me, it was him. I immediately started reading Caitlin Moran’s How To Be A Woman (because fuck knows I need some tips) and I’m flying through it and loving it.

So good to recapture my love of reading. I really thought it’d just be me, Facebook, Netflix and this neverending book forever together from now on. Sorry Bruce, maybe stick to songwriting buddy.

Music is my aeroplane

I’m on the train heading to the city for the Don’t Kill Live Music protest. I’m passionate about live music and doing something to stop the bullshit happening in this city where apparently the rights of developers to build apartments on every square inch of dirt wins over the right of Sydney to be a vibrant city.

It may not be much but I want to lend my voice and my presence to those trying to revitalize, reanimate the live music scene in this city.

Look, in reality, it’s not dead but it’s starting to smell that way and it’s getting harder and harder. Lock out laws and the clamping down on festivals are just some of the ways the live music scene is getting squeezed.

It’s a little poetic that this protest is happening in the week I’ve been to two memorable live gigs; one awesome, one not so much.

On Sunday I went to Frankie’s Pizza in Hunter Street in the city (not an area you’d think would host such a cool live venue) to see the Supersuckers. Man, I’ve been waiting many fucking years to see these guys. For one reason or another I’ve always missed them when they’ve been here before.

(Amusingly last time they played here was at Hughes BBQ and considering my current situation with Mr Hughes…well a story for another day.)

It was such a brilliant night. Firstly Frankie’s is an awesome little venue (reminiscent of Cherry Bar in Melbs). Entry was free. Yep FREE. So the whole evening cost me the price of two G&Ts. No fucking kidding. Oh and some street parking.

The unexpected added bonus was the two support bands. Linking back to my comments about live music…it’s not dead and young people are still making kickass rock&roll (not just that tepid nonsense I catch on Nova occasionally).

The first band Fox Company were brilliant. Really great…and I always have a soft spot for a bass player with rock moves.

Then came Eightball Junkies and wow, the singer takes his job seriously. Sort of a ranga metal Jim Morrison. I didn’t even mind getting covered in beer during one of his performance pieces. (Not overly impressed with the baby groupies flashing their tits at him in front of me.)

Then came the Supersuckers and it was worth the wait. This was their 30th anniversary tour and really they should be much bigger than they are. A serious back catalogue of awesome music ranging from twangy country to full on rock&roll with a few softer detours along the way.

Eddie writes a fucking brilliant song and they are just terribly undervalued imho.

Unhonourable mention to the chick who just had to elbow her way in front of me for Pretty Fucked Up (obviously her theme song)….and then again for Born With A Tail. Then go on to kiss Eddie’s hand at the end. Sigh.

As I walked back to my car at 1:00am through the dark, quiet city streets I thought about how wonderful it was to have seen three such great bands. I felt alive, tingly with excitement, adrenalin, life. If live, hot, sweaty, loud rock&roll isn’t life affirming I don’t know what is.

Hang on a minute. It isn’t life affirming when it’s guys who’ve lost their zing. That’s how I felt on Tuesday night when I rocked up to a much bigger venue (and certainly far from free) to see my beloved Red Hot Chili Peppers.

It’s been a love affair over close to thirty years and I fear this concert may have marked the final chapter. At least of seeing them live.

I don’t want to rip it to shreds but it made me sad. The song list was bland. The stage chemistry flat. I felt nothing and in comparison to how much I felt on Sunday night it was a huge let down.

I have so many great memories of seeing them live…of listening to their music. The disappointment of Tuesday night doesn’t take away from our many years of history.

So here I am on the train. To support the music I love…to defend it in my tiny little way. In the end there’s not many things in life that I love more.

Music, it’s my substitute for love

The words from the song that made me lose my tiny little mind about Frank Turner. Fuck me but did “Substitute” send my life into a headspin…sitting on a ratty sofa in Blacktown all those years ago. Some moments stick with you forever.

Life is a bit swirly right now. Can’t explain because if you knew I’d have to kill you. Also trying to explain is like trying to hold smoke…not very do-able.

But music IS my substitute for love and for a lot of other things and today, when I woke up feeling a little out of focus, this is the song that floated up for me.

I was discussing the other day how much I love Leonard Cohen’s words but his voice and delivery make his songs unpalatable for me a lot of the time. Seeing him live was truly amazing but I just can’t listen to him in the recorded form.

So I turn to others to translate the words into songs of beauty. This Teddy Thompson version of this song rips me to shreds every time but it’s where I’m at today.

Cryptic Posts

I HATE cryptic posts. You know when people write “Worst day ever” or some such shit on their Facebook. Tell us a story, even a tiny story, or fuck off. Don’t fish for comments and concern.

So I’ll just say you never, ever know what’s around the corner. Sometimes stuff happens that even baffles a cranky old cynic like me.

Something that makes me think “really life, really…you had this up your sleeve? you cheeky minx”.

Don’t ask. You’ll be the first to know.

As you were.

Wish List

I loved Girls. Sure it gave me the shits at times and Hannah was a pain in the ass but Lena Dunham got it right much more than she got it wrong in her writing and characterization, for my money.

I came across this quote from the show in my FB memories feed the other day and it prompted me to write this post, based on thoughts percolating in my brain for a while now.

What do I want in a man? I certainly think I know what I don’t want. In the past my attempts at getting what I want have earned me the “control freak” tag but I think in hindsight I tend to step in to try and control situations when no one else will or where I feel a void.

Like with most things in life there is a balancing act in relationships: one person’s needs are balanced against the other’s. I understand that no relationship is perfect and no two people are perfectly compatible at all times and in all situations. But having been in a few relationships with incompatible people I still believe that something close to the ideal is possible.

So the below is really a wishlist based on best case scenario. The apex of what my ideal partner would be. (Many years of research have gone into this list.)

1) Be a fully formed human with thoughts, ideas, interests, friends of their own. I’m happy to share mine and get to know yours but I won’t be filling your voids.

2) Be interested in the world. Bring something to the table. Even if we don’t agree, have a damn opinion.

3) Be interested in your own life and what goes on around you. I need a man that’s alert but not alarmed. Hobbies, interests, passions… I need to see some joie de fucking vivre.

4) The thought of living with a man right now makes me twitchy but should such a miracle occur I need a man with a rocket up his ass (not sexually, though I’m willing to negotiate). I’m talking about a man who is actively involved in his household. Shock! Horror! Nothing for dinner? Make something. Bathroom needs cleaning? Clean it. I’m capable. I’m hardworking. But I’m not a damn maid. Nothing kills the romance faster than coming home to Darrin Stephens (if you don’t know the ref look it up). I don’t want to get your fucking pipe and slippers and heat up your meatloaf dinner.

5) Look alive. It’s soul destroying being with someone who makes no effort to talk or be involved when entertaining or out with friends. We don’t have to madly love each other’s friends but FFS make an effort, show some vital signs.

I was going to write ten neat points but it seams there is a theme here. I want someone alive and kicking. I truly feel I’ve spent a lot of my life pushing grown up men through life and I never want to do that again. It may be mercenary but I want something resembling an equal: financially, intellectually, socially.

I want someone to cook and eat with; watch and listen to stuff with and then have a robust discussion about the stuff; someone to rely on; someone who’ll bring me a coffee in bed. I want banter and laughs and sex and being in the trenches together. I don’t think I’ve ever had a true partnership but I’ve come close, I’ve had it for brief moments, and those moments were sweet.

[Extra brownie points for loving – or at least knowing of – Frank Turner – and thinking Deadpool is bloody awesome. Liking tattoos, doughnuts and cocktails in rooftop bars would be handy also.]

You Don’t Know Me (at all)

The kids and I spent New Year’s Eve at home. Just hanging out. I was looking forward to the ABC’s NYE concert from the Opera House forecourt because there was the promise of Tim Minchin, a very favourite human.

We sat through some fairly decent entertainment (though Kimbra frightened us somewhat) and then Tim came on which made me happy and made the kids roll their eyes because they seriously can’t understand the obsession attraction.

Better still Tim was soon joined by another fave, Ben Folds, who performed one of my dearly loved songs (see above), sadly without the brilliant Regina Spektor.

This song is a bloody beauty. Some relationship truths in a catchy, sing-a-long (I like to shout-a-long) ditty. Which got me thinking…

Since I’ve been on hols these past two weeks my mind has occasionally wondered to the cesspool I like to call dating. I can’t explain it. I’m happy, I’m content, I’m busy. There’s nothing missing from my life but still, during a quiet moment, the annoying little bastard in my head starts to whisper…what if, maybe you should, blah blah.

When that shitty voices pipes up and I start to think about the process of dating I shudder. The idea of scrolling through the profiles: the inevitable photos where the ex (or quite possibly current) wife/girlfriend has quite obviously been chopped out of the photo but is still partially visible; the giant fish photo; the wanky car photo; the photos where the care factor is zero in terms of attitude and presentation. Then there’s the 50+ year old men with 25-35 as their target age group. The 50+ year old men who either have very young children or are still keen to have children. Sigh.

Quite obviously I’m not ready to do this shit again but even the idea of going through the process and then trying to get to know anyone again fills me with COLD HARD DREAD.

To be honest I’m filled with doubt at my own ability to truly know someone. I’ve failed at that throughout my entire adult life. How do I allow myself to try again when it’s self evident that it’s close to impossible to really know anyone?

This song is so on the money. Do we really just project what we want onto our partners and then are shocked/disappointed when that’s not who they are? I suspect it’s at least partially true.

I wanna ask you
Do you ever sit and wonder,
It’s so strange
That we could be together for
So long, and never know, never care
What goes on in the other one’s head?

Things I’ve felt but I’ve never said
You said things that I never said
So I’ll say something that I should have said long ago:

You don’t know me at all


Remember when we did resolutions? I remember being a teen and taking them quite seriously. How funny that seems now.

I’m definitely a planner but that’s very different to having resolutions. A list of things to achieve. At this point in my life I’m happy getting through each week, month, year…living reasonably happily and steadily is my only true desire but I wouldn’t consider that a resolution.

Life has a way of whipping out the rug from under your feet when you feel you have things under control or maybe even getting somewhere. That’s a level of cynicism developed over many years of life whipping out the rug from your under your feet.

So I’m just going to keep on chugging along. Doing the best I can at this single parenting malarkey. Working, paying the bills. keeping the house clean enough so as not to attract the condemnation of the WHO. Spending time with my family and friends who are the scaffolding to my crumbling facade. Listening to music and going to gigs because that shit fills up my empty soulless interior area. Reading and watching stuff on the big and the small screen because, well, see above. More volunteering when I can because sweet baby cheesus us middle class white peeps need to put some effort in FFS (also see above).

Without wishing to cause nausea in any readers I do feel I’ve learnt some hard lessons about myself this year and I plan to keep those lessons front and centre as I go into 2019. I haven’t learnt the meaning of life and I haven’t made any saccharine revelations about the beauty of life but I have realized no one is going to save me from me or from the emptiness or loneliness. There’s just me. I can save myself. I always have and I always will.

If you read this drivel I wish you all the good things for the upcoming spin around the sun. Live. Love. Laugh. Take the piss. Whatever rocks your boat.

Here’s my buddy Frank with his buddy Jon to take us out.


I’ve been waiting for some sort of blog inspiration to strike this week so that I could write something profound but nothing… So just more drivel and bollocks.

I don’t know what to say about this year except it’s been weird and it’s been wonderful. The only negative this year has been hurting someone who didn’t deserve to be hurt but sadly sometimes a drowning person needs to take drastic action to save themselves.

I really feel saved. I saved myself. It’s taken five and a half years (since the wasband left) for me to stop trashing about, for me to stop self sabotaging myself under the guise of “I’m happier as part of a couple”. You don’t know what you don’t know; or more apt, you can’t see what you refuse to see.

I’ve spent a lifetime making excuses for my poor choices when it comes to men. At fifty I’ve finally, FINALLY, realized my worth and my days of pandering to pathetic man children are behind me. Maybe there’s a decent man out there in possession of the characteristics I truly need in an equal partner and maybe there isn’t. But the realization that this mythical creature is not a requirement for my happiness and well being is completely freeing.

There is quite obviously some deficiency in me, some dull psychological knot in my psyche that has prevented me from seeing, understanding, accepting this truth but I’ve seen now, I’ve accepted.

The things that truly matter, so cliche but true, are family and friends. The bedrock of my life. Barf bags located in seat pockets.

There have been a truckload of fabulous moments this year and none of them feature a male of the romantic interest variety. All of them feature my bestest, strongest women friends. Chance or coincidence?

When you step out of a jail of your own making the freedom is intoxicating. Onwards.