Oh mino! It's Paul Newman

After 6 months living together, Jerome has decided to leave ye old flatmate-ship. His decision to move on is probably based on one of the following reasons.

a) Musical differences. 23 hours of reggae a day just wasn't enough.
b) An increasing feeling that insufficient amounts of time were being alloted for the worship of Olympic Marseille in the household.
c) He's finally given into the psyche-out of the inflatable horse across the street with its weird fricken out-turned feet that never stops staring at us. It's still staring at us as I write this... always watching...
d) He is Michael Jackson and is now dead.
e) He's moving to Berlin and New York to undertake various internships.
f) The bed bugs have kicked in...

Oh jeune! Tu me manqueras!

Peter Costello retires himself

Getting Peter Costello to leave politics has been like trying to deflate a blow-up mattress - there's always that little bit of air left in there that you can't quite squeeze out of him.

But today, the Treasurer that so courageously guided Australia through a ten year period of unequalled economic stability and growth (that happened to coincide with a similar period of unequalled global economic stability and growth) announced his retirement. See his parting comments to the Australian Parliament in the following article in The Australian.

Mr Costello thanked both Mr Turnbull and Mr Rudd for their thoughts, saying he didn't think he would see the day when both sides of the parliament would say nice things about him.

“It is just possible both sides of the dispatch box are happy with the announcement I've made,” he said.

“It is a very nice thing to actually come here and not be quite departed and hear the kind of speeches one hears as eulogies.

“In fact, I might come back tomorrow, I'm enjoying it so much.”

I found this exchange to be rather sad. Here is a man leaving politics after 20 years of public service. And yet his words are so petty, so...crass almost, so utterly forgettable. Maybe that's why Paul Keating once described Costello as being "All tip and no iceberg." There's simply nothing there. No feeling of integrity. No final rhetorical flurry. No gravitas.

Instead Costello uses the occasion to launch a few rather futile passive-agressive quips at his adversaries. His heart's not in it though. His apathy, barely concealed. He's functioning on instinct. Here we witness a tired boxer in the thirteenth round. He's been punching blind for the last two rounds already. Already half-unconscious and knowing he is on his way to the mat, his arms flailing clumsily at anything that moves, he staggers ungracefully around the ring, a final drunken dance before his eyes finally roll back into his head. Out. Cold. You can hear the final capitulation and the bitterness of those final gasps of air as they slowly wheeze out of him.

Time to fold him over and lie on him, then fold him over and lie on him again, then fold him over again until the last bits of air are squeezed out, and then pop him in the cupboard. Thanks Pete. Maybe next winter.

My Cousin James

So, you will remember that my little cousin James has been in Paris as part of a six month exchange program. I have written about him before on this blog.

Well, throughout his stay here, James would often come over to my house, either to use our phone to make free calls to Australia, or just to hang out. These visits started a very strange tradition. Everytime James came over, he would secretly get my camera whilst I wasn't looking and take the most ugly photo of himself possible. He wouldn't tell me he had taken a photo. Often I would only discover that he had done so a month or so later.

Strangely enough, once I worked out what he was doing, I used to look forward to checking his latest deposit, just to see if he had outdone himself.

Here is a mere selection of his work:

Côte d'Azur: Route des Crêtes - The Ridge Road

About a month ago I spent a weekend in Marseille with my flatmate Jerome Piana (oh mino!). It was a perfect weekend. Jerome's band kindly let me play with them in their studio. We managed to get in some beach action and sampled the Marseille "mauvaises". We even managed to sneak in a cheeky football match between Olympic Marseille and Toulouse at which I saw 60,000 French people go off their collective faces. It was special. I went to a school where we were taught to show appreciation for good play by the opposition. At this football match, doing so would probably have put my life in danger.

However, I have to say that if you live in Europe and you have not take a car along la Route des Crêtes then you really ought to build it into your summer holidays somehow. La Route des Crêtes winds its way long the coast from the town of La Ciotat to Marseille. The views are spectacular. Mammoth mountains fall down sheer cliffs into a sea that seems to expand for ever, even past the horizon and into the sky itself. The scale of the views makes you feel very unimportant. Its definitely the most breathtaking place I have been to in Europe.

And time took back over...

San Fran Selection

Below are some photos from my recent trip to California. They include shots from Yosemite National Park - the giant Sequioa trees in Mariposa Grove, the Half-Dome walk, Waterfalls on the Mist trail, San Fran - some shots of the golden gate bridge, jetty near Fisherman's wharf near the Bay Bridge, girls selling lemonade (the American dream starts young), and a single shot from Lake Tahoe.

The Streets of San Francisco

Each year, on the third Sunday in May, a race takes place in San Francisco called the Bay to Breakers. It's a 12km footrace which starts downtown and goes west across the city, finishing at Ocean Beach (Got to love America's use of imagination in creating place names - Big Tree Hill. Red Rock. Green Mountain). While some people do run the race seriously (the winner did it in 33 minutes), it's also an opportunity for San Franciscanites to let their hair down. Many take all day to walk the race. Some do it in costume (there are prizes for best costumes). Some even do the race naked. There's music pumping from themed moving floats, people dancing, and folk drinking and throwing tortillas at each other. The end result is a wildly debaucherous 80,000 person street party that winds its way through the city. A local SF friend of mine told me that the first year she did the race, she saw an old man walking the race naked, despite being equipped with, wait for it - a catheter. Yes sir! I thank Megan for that mental image. Anyway, I managed to get a snap of these spacemen and women who were running the race as a team. It gives you a good idea of the amount of effort people put into their costumes. Don't they look great!

One of the funniest things I saw was a lone christian man standing in the middle of the road as a sea of naked or half dressed drunk people flowed past him. He was holding up a solitary sign to the oncoming throng saying "You are all going to hell". If you look up "hopeless cause" in the dictionary, there is a photo of him. You have got to give him points for trying.

Are you going to San Francisco?

Yes I am. Tomorrow morning to be exact...

The Slouch Hat and The Dawn

Anzac Day 2009

What a special Anzac day it was this year. Two Australian lasses and I hired a car and headed up to the Australian National Memorial in Villers Bretonneux for an Anzac Day dawn service. We left Paris at 2am to get there on time, and arrived at about 4am (Thanks for the driving Jo!) It was more than worth it. Almost 3000 Aussies made the pilgrimage for the service. For many it was the pinnacle of their sojourn to Europe from the wide brown land. What a special place that hill just outside Villers Bretonneux is. Something about arriving in the shadows of the early morning, moving amongst the rows of graves with only the sound of the wind in the leaves of the trees made it all the more moving. I felt like I had intruded on a sacred spot of earth at a time when it was not expecting my visit.

I also managed to trek out to see the site of the Battle of Pozières, where my great grandfather, from whom I get my middle name, was wounded. In the words of Australian official historian Charles Bean, the Pozières ridge is "more densely sown with Australian sacrifice than any other place on earth." I couldn't get over the fact that this insignificant mound on the side of the highway had been witness to such unnecessary violence.

Aint got no/I Got Life - Nina Simone

The second part of this song makes me smile out loud, everytime I hear it.

"Got my hair, got my head, got my brain, got my ears, got my eyes, got my nose, got my mouth, I got my smile!"



What a voice. No doubt she would be eliminated in the first week of Idol.

One for The Boss

I'm always amazed at just how much energy James Brown could generate through his vocals. You can't help but move your body. This song in particular always gets me going. Listen for the very first vocal. It's electrifying! It's as if the brass provides the introduction and then, right from the word go, on the down beat, he makes his entrance and gets his message out, like a bolt of lightning direct to your soul bone:

"RAISE UP! Get yourself together and drive that funky soul!!!!"

Put on your dancing shoes.

Songs that make me smile: The Summer - Josh Pyke

As the days in Paris get longer and longer, this song just gets more and more appropriate. Josh Pyke's lyrics are so unapologetically Australian. The imagery he manages to squeeze into a pretty standard verse/chorus song is quite superb. It is a complement to the "evocativeness" of the lyrics that I found the actual clip to be a bit of a disappointment. It was as if I didn't really need someone to provide me with images for the music. I had them all in my head already.

Listen for the perfect slide guitar on the very last note. It's like the very last of the sunlight slipping away on a summer evening as you play cricket in the street with your mates, using a taped up tennis ball and an otto bin for stumps. All songs should end this way.



The Summer - Josh Pyke

If I could bottle up the sea breeze I would take it over to your house
And pour it loose through your garden (Does everyone feel warm inside?)
So the hinges on your windows would rust and colour
Like the boats pulled up on the sand for the summer
And your sweet clean clothes would go stiff on the line
And there’d be sand in your pockets and nothing on your mind

But every year it gets a little bit harder
To get back to the feeling of when we were fifteen
And we could jump in the river upstream
And let the current carry us to the beginning where
The river met the sea again
And all our days were a sun-drenched haze
While the salt spray crusted on the window panes

We should be living like we lived that summer
I wanna live like we live in the summer

And I’ll remember that summer as the right one
The storms made the pavement steam like a kettle (so great!)
And our first goodbye always seemed like hours
In the car park in between my house and yours
And if the summer holds a song we might sing forever
Then the winter holds a bite we’d never felt before

But time is like the ocean
You can only hold a little in your hands
So swim before we’re broken
Before our bones become
Black coral on the sand

The dark side of living far from home...

I got a voice mail message from my sister Fie and my two and a half year old niece Anna yesterday (yep, that's them above). It went like this:

Fie: Hi James. It's us. We just got home from camping and we were wondering if we could ring you up and tell you some of our camping stories. Hope that you're well. And if you'd like to give us a ring in the next two hours, Anna would love to see you on the computer. (to Anna) Have you got any messages for James.

Anna: (Pause) James you need to come here first of all.

Fie: "James you need to come here first of all". (Pause) I agree. Bye.

After I hung up the phone I realised I was physically clutching at my heart.

Have a listen for yourself:


A message from home from james on Vimeo.

Easter in Normandy

The next train goes to Brahms via Elgar, first stop Nina Simone.

I noticed the other day, whilst standing waiting for my train home from work, that classical music is now being played in the Paris metro. I like this development for three reasons.

1: New music: Sometimes you hear music you've never heard before. I like this.

2: In an environment which is all about "moving on", "being on time" and "getting to the next destination", the music acts as a reminder to stop and enjoy the moment. I love the juxtaposition of these two apposite energies.

3: There is something significant about the fact that music is played through the platform loud speakers to all of us, as opposed to the endemic individualism promoted by ipods. It emphasises our togetherness over our being alone. I find it refreshing to see people take out their ipod headphones, look up and listen to what's going on around them.

Good work City of Paris

Useless observation #342

A day will come in your life when you realise that you have reached the magical age where covering your index finger with a handkerchief and using it to forage away at the insides of your nostrils in front of a whole carriage of strangers is 100% acceptable.

Silence

Those Magnificent Men - Part II

My little cousin James is currently in Paris on exchange at the Sorbonne. It's great to have someone from home in this "overseas life". It makes it more real.

Most of my social relationships in Paris are 2 or 3 years old at the longest. I sometimes feel that it is too easy to split my personality into "pre" and "post" Paris - two completely distinct worlds. The experiences in each world don't know each other, or mix.

So it's great to have James in Paris, because the shared memories I have with him go back 20 years. The sort of memories that have now faded into the background, forming a category you now only know as "childhood". They are memories you can no longer pin point, or at least, no longer feel the need to. You just know that collectively, they somehow formed the basis of your personality.

James and I met up to watch a game of rugby in Paris the other day. I was surprised when he turned up wearing a vintage Eastwood jumper (see previous post). It was a classic rich navy blue, a v-neck of pure wool with the crest of the club emblazoned on the front. It looked like the sort of jumper that might be worn by a character in a post war BBC drama, except that it wasn't beige. Just underneath the crest, a single word was embroidered in white. "Eastwood". Dignified and simple, just like the club. To most it would have meant nothing, and yet to me, it could not have meant more. A thousand questions. Where did he get it? They don't sell those jumpers anywhere. What vintage shop did he find it in? How lucky could you be? But how? But how? But how?

"Oh my god, where did you get that?" I said, trying not to sound too incredulous.

"What?"

"Um, that jumper."

"Oh! Guess what? Your Mum gave it to me."

"- I'm sorry?"

"Your Mum gave it to me before I left Australia. Apparently some 70 year old club doctor gave it to her in the 60s because it didn't fit him anymore. She told me she kept it wrapped in plastic in the bottom drawer of her wardrobe all this time. She'd been waiting to give it to someone. You were overseas. So she gave it to me. It's funny, I remember thinking that you love that club and that it was weird that she was giving it to me, her nephew, and not you, her son, considering how much you love that club and all. And I mean, she had it in her drawer all that time. She could have just given it to you, you know, for your 21st, or when you finished school, or when you left the country... you know, on a special occasion. But she didn't give it to you, did she? Who'd she give it to?"

I stared at him, blank faced as he answered his own question by pointing to himself with both thumbs while smiling.

"This guy!" he finished, just in case there was any doubt.

Well, it probably doesn't fit me, I thought to myself. I mean, otherwise mum would have mentioned that she had it.

I tried it on. It fit perfectly.

As you can see from the photos, James, my cousin, has been pretty good about not gloating. He wears it every time he sees me. If for whatever reason, he thinks I haven't sufficiently noticed that he has the jumper on, he will say something inconspicuous like, "Geez, I'd hate to not have this awesome Eastwood jumper." As I said. He's very subtle.

As you can tell, I'm taking it pretty well.

Those Magnificent Men - Part I

I have loved Eastwood Rugby Club ever since I can remember.

My maternal grandfather played for them after the war. In fact, he died while watching them play in the ABC television match of the day from his home in Mudgee.

One of my earliest childhood memories I have is of running around on the grass in front of the club house at TG Milner field (above) as my paternal grandfather made a daisy chain for me from the aluminium pull rings of his empty beer cans. I remember the general murmer of grown men, the smell of beer, the warmth of the sun that bathed the field and the players in gold, and the old tree leaning over the fence by the scoreboard.

Heading down to TG Milner on Saturday to watch "The Woods" run around was a weekly ritual in my family. It wasn't just a match of rugby. It was so much more than that. It was the end of the week. It was Saturdays. For my parents, I'm sure it was a welcome refuge from the week that was. For my Mum, perhaps it provided a furtive connection to those times she had spent at the ground with her own father.

Each Saturday afternoon had the same familiar liturgy. We arrived at the ground in time to watch 3rd grade. That way, Mum and Dad had two games of rugby in which to let the worries of the week dissipate before the arrival of 1st grade. Mum would lay the tartan rug on the wooden benches in the grand stand opposite the club house. We always sat on the half way line. At half time, my dad would stand to stretch his legs and gaze pensively across the field at the clouds behind the clubhouse, or the trees on the other side. Mum would reach for the 1972 green thermos, and would somehow instantly produce a cup of tea or coffee for whoever was there. There were biscuits too (iced vovos, tim tams -the "special biscuits" that we weren't allowed to touch during the week), or an apple, or a home made cake, all lovingly prepared at home by Mum for the afternoon. Our spot in the grandstand became a regular meeting point for friends and family. They would drop by unannounced to catch up. No need to arrange ahead. We were invariably always there.

I can remember the early players. Space Housten. Tim Dalton, Tony Carter, Steve Tyneman, Marty Roebuck, Ian Williams, Niel Tyler, the great Daniel Manu, Travis Hall, Scott Fava, Scott Staniforth, Matt Burke, Graeme Bond, the freakish skills of the Miller brothers, Tim Donnelly - these magnifiscent men stride around the field of my memory as superhuman versions of themselves - great, decent, blue and white striped childhood heros.

I can remember the bloody battles with famous foes, most of them with Randwick but more recently, with Sydney University. Each club we played had its own unique associated memory. Away games at Manly would end in fish and chips on the beach at Dee Why; games at Sydney University in complaints at the distance of the grand stand from the actual playing field; at Southern Districts, the distance of the drive home was particularly long after a loss; Randwick, the nasty one eyed nature of the supporters; Gordon, the silver tails from the north shore, would spark arguments about why my Dad ever left his well paid job in taxation.

I remember that when the game had finished, we drove home and I would spend what was left of the Winter light replaying the match by myself in our back yard. The jacaranda tree suddenly became a corner flag. The camelea bush doubled as the base of the scrum. The azalea shrub was personified as the imposing second rower from some hated foe. I would chip him to score the winning try of the match. Sometimes, I'd even provide my own accompanying commentary. "There's seconds to go, he chips the fullback, and... oh he knocks on over the line... but that's ok because amazingly there's still some more time, so he regathers the ball, chips again, sidesteps the sandpit and that's a great try to Eastwood, just next to the BBQ!"

I remember that sometimes, when I closed my eyes to go to sleep on a Saturday night, I would still see images of the game, with faceless shapes in blue and white jerseys running out onto TG Milner field, as if it were all playing out on the back of my eyelids.

I have loved Eastwood Rugby Club ever since I can remember.

~~~~~~~~~~

Club song (to the tune of those magnifiscent men with their flying machines)

La, La La, La La La La La La Hey !
Those magnificent players from Eastwood are here,
playing their rugby and drinking their beer.
They win in the tight play and also the ruck,
and if they don't score well they don't give a... damn!
See them go for a try -
heads down in the scrum and their arses up high.
They're all frightfully good,
those Magnificent Men,
those Magnificent Men,
those Magnificent Men who shout,
Up the WOODS !

WOODS WOODS WOODS!

Ari Hoenig

I went to Paris jazz club Sunset-Sunside a couple of weeks back and heard New York-based drummer Ari Hoenig's group Punk Bop. The drumming is exciting, imaginative and, as my flatmate Jerome (who is also a drummer) noted, tellement précise. Go check out Hoenig's myspace page and listen to Bert's Playground. He told us he wrote it for his fish. Oh that a fish would inspire that much creativity in me.

Some recent shots

Why am I so fat?

Got sent this website: http://thisiswhyyourefat.com/.

It's pretty self-explanatory. My favourites are the Slinger and the Loco Moco, basically because I think they look pretty similar pre-consumption to what I imagine they would look like post-consumption. I love that someone actually invented "the Slinger", called it "the Slinger", and then sold it for money.

Toutes mes excuses à ceux et celles de Québec, mais il faut avouer que la poutine se trouverait bien à sa place sur ce site:

Pétanque à Paris

Spring has finally arrived in Paris. The trees are gradually budding with leaves, the temperatures are rising, and the femme fatales are preparing themselves for hunting season.

My cousin Lizzie has also arrived in Paris in order to visit her brother James (also my cousin). Saturday was a beautiful spring day, so we decided to head down to Canal St Martin with my flatmate Jerome (not my cousin), to play a bit of Pétanque.

It was once said that the reason the game of lawn bowls is so popular in Australia is because :

1. You can still play the game while holding your beer; and
   
2. There are ash trays at each end of the green for your ciggies.

Quite amazingly, Pétanque is even less strenuous on the body than lawn bowls! (Bloody genius these frenchies!) In fact, in the South of France, where Pétanque was invented, it is clearly stated in the rule book that players caught playing without a Pastis in one hand and at least one Gauloise in the other may be disqualified.

I assumed the game was called Pétanque because of the sound the metal balls make when they hit the ground. But for those who are interested, the word Pétanque actually comes from the old French, pès tancats, meaning "feet together", a reference to the standing position of the person throwing the boules.

Jamison Inc turns 10,000

It’s now three years since I began writing this blog, which I started chiefly as a way of staying in touch with friends and family back home in Australia. Gradually, it’s developed into less of a travel blog and more of a random collection of observations, thoughts, favourite songs, photos, videos etc. Yesterday, Jamison Inc had its 10,000th visitor. (To put that in perspective, a youtube video of a baby falling over in a puddle would probably get 10,000 hits in a day.)

It’s a meagre milestone, in the grand scheme of things. But, despite the lameness of maintaining a blog ("I have a blog" is not the first thing you say when you meet someone at a party, is it?) I do like the fact that I can now look back at the last three years and easily tap into what I was up to, or what I was thinking about (or what you were thinking about for that matter) at a particular time.

A lot has changed since I started writing. Who knows what wondrous adventures lay ahead. Hell, maybe I’ll take another photo of a teapot. I know, I know, - you’re holding your breath. ; )

Looking forward to continuing to share the journey together. Insha'allah.

Jamison

Teapot

Lift

Stroop!

Stroop Waffles. They are the best thing to have ever been invented. And here we see them in their natural habitat. Look at them, just grazing peacefully in aisle 4 of Albert Heijn supermarket in The Hague. I just feel so very lucky to have seen so many of them gathered in the one place- a real treat. 

You'll notice that I even managed to spot the rare cousin of the stroop waffle, the stroop-waffle-flavoured-ice-cream (yummymilius icecreamus), which hasn't been seen since 1946 and was hitherto thought to be extinct.

Thanks to Eric for the heads up on this one. It's as if Dave Brubeck was commissioned by Radiohead to write a catchy lick for one of their songs. Put your dancing shoes on. This is yummy.

iphone: the new way of telling someone how good you are.

I know it's probably totally normal, but does anyone else find the little message "sent from my iphone" that you get at the end of an email from someone's iphone a little unnecessary? I mean, to be honest, I don't need to know. I'll just read your email. It doesn't bother me where you sent it from. Or is it more important that you let me know you have an iphone... and that you're using it... to send me an email... when you could have used a computer...
...but you didn't use a computer... you used your iphone... because you have an iphone... which is quite expensive... probably better than the computer I'm reading this on... not like your iphone... which you own... iphone...

This message was typed from my computer.

...Cause I have a computer.