The Captain and the Skipper

Vegan roasted Buckwheat, and The Captain and the Skipper. The first is a recipe I just made up tonight (nah, I do eat meat just trying to cut down). The second I just rediscovered. Does anyone know what happened to them?

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The number of blogging apps proliferating is ridiculous. This Blogsy one could be a winner.

I dragged this pic straight from Facebook albums. The image was my birthday wish for Precious Few this year. I took it in a laneway behind Piedemontes. Sorry not sure how to place it properly yet.

Naw and here is an oldie of Nufevah and my Dawg, from my Picasa account, taken near the Fitzroy Pools way back when, one winter morning.

By promising Yahoo that I will burn toast and sleep on the crumbs between flannelette sheets for a month, Flickr granted access my old sets. Fucking RAD. Above, I have dragged a snap from years ago, my favourite wall.

And here, just straight from my gallery, which was uploaded directly from my phone a couple of weeks ago.

And finally a recent self portrait from Instagram.

This Blogsy App has taken access to a new level. Every photo I have ever posted on any forum (not tumblr or twitter tho) is there, ready for me to grab. But it required a hundred passwords and a hundred more authorisations.

A cool thing about this is that you can immediately go to your posts and edit. From inside the App.

The coolest thing about this is that I can indulge instantly in links and comparisons. No more trawling through external drives for that throwie that was on that wall three years ago. I have them all here, to my right. Apologies in advance y'all about to be post bombed for a while. The modern version of sifting through that old photo box. I will try to make it slightly more interesting than that.

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Beer Bottles of Fitzroy / Flasher does DRY JULY

I hate beer. I hate the taste, the smell and the feeling of being pissed on it. It is, however, the drink of choice for many a dude stumbling back to his mates car from the dubiously licensed venues on Brunswick St.

     

The change in Brunswick St before 9.30 pm and Brunswick St post 9.30 pm is immeasurable. As all locals know, it is remarkable how funny a very un-funny dickhead can think he is at 2.00 am in the middle of Kerr St, or Argyle, or Westgarth.

        

I am not going to apologise if you are reading this and happen to be a 38 year old man called Steve/Damo/Jeza from Glen Waverley, with one Code Male "good shirt" and really long pointy pseudo brogues. Stop wearing that shit it looks really bad, and stop pissing on our doorsteps it stinks. Seriously your girlfriend/wife Tanya/Belinda/Stace will thank me. 

        

If you are part of the younger generation that live in your parents investment units in The (bullshit) Artist, I also implore you to reconsider your 5.00 am balcony chats. I don't care if Thomas will get his second wind, I just want you all to shut the fuck up. Smoke a cone and chill in your lounge rooms in silence. 

      

Honestly, this is not me being all gentrified, moving in and demanding a clean up. I love our traditional owners, our institutional cafe's, our artists, our yummy mummies, our spare change seekers, our druggies, our oldies and our hipsters. But you, my rowdy fellows, please put your empties in a bin and exit with your dignity intact.

Perhaps I am a little grumpier than usual. It is Dry July and I am doing it and it is FUCKING KILLING ME. But the cause is good. Dry July is a fundraiser that this year seeks to raise money to improve the quality of life and access to health services for those who have cancer. Better services = better quality of life, more dignified assistance and for some it will mean living well, longer.  The crew I am raising the dollars for is the Andrew Love centre in Geelong. They are awesome. I have first hand experience of a family members treatment there. 

       

The most important reason, or inspiration that I have, is The Mr Ben Naz. There is no one quite like him. At all times he has his head held high, and bucket loads of tenacity. One of those brave few who raises money for cancer (F*ck You Cancer, London) when they are coping with their own battle. He curated a show FFS. No-one has shown me what it is to fight in any way greater than this man. I could go on and on and on. 

So yeah, if you could just donate the cost of a drink that you will forego, even you bastards I have named, shamed and humiliated in this post, drop me a line. I will send you a link to my donation page. Which is in my real name, so there is another element of Dry July that I am braving. Sponsor me, find out who I am, pay props to Ben, and stick your finger up to cancer.  

Crazy Graff Lady

If I am ever alone in my old age I have a wish list. I want a bulldog. I will call her Butch. She will sleep on the duman (dog human) bed I will design. i will sell the patent on that bed for a pretty penny.

I will live in a small house in the city somewhere. I will take Butch with me through the laneways at night. I will wear silver docs and I will tattoo my wrinkled fingers with the gordon clan shield and symbols.

I will have a red ute. It will be about 10 years old. It will have to be an auto and I will probably need a special car seat, if I have arthritis.

I will listen to the 'golden oldies' loud. Maybe death metal just to be ironic. But mostly Salt n Pepper, Nenah Cherry and Nirvana.

And best of all, my house will be tagged all over. Big, beautiful tags everywhere. Neighbours will call the council. Today Tonight will interview me.  And all the writers from all the burbs will strive to get up on the crazy graff lady's walls.

Presh

There I was on the block, at the lights, dog sitting nicely and Eminem blasting through shitty earplugs. Dont smirk he is a modern poetic genius.

So yeah Marshall was running out of Backstreet Boys and suddenly from a building above this handsome devil waved, those curls cascading in slow mo, the double denim half on, smile as broad as Texas.

I was so excited that I dropped my coffee. It splattered all over the dog who was suddenly not able to sit.

Ah what a moment. That window, that Precious Angel.

Core

So apparently Earth's tectonic plates are moving more quickly than they used to because the earth's core is cooler.

Could that be true for street art? Is it evolving more rapidly because it is cooler?

That would possibly be true if you agreed with the assumption that mainstream popularity equates to cool. I happen to think that the opposite is true.

Probably the saving grace is that alongside the socially popular work continues the stuff they don't like.  So it is that boundaries continue to be pushed.

And it seems this art is moved by the hotness, not the cool.

#86

#86 is a great route. Pun intended. Probably not that funny. But through scratched up shatter proof windows and to the drone of the tracks you can watch the world

Faces

Facebook, face it, two faced, on the face of it, face facts. Faces matter. We read faces, make faces up, slap them. Pluck, shave and redesign them. And sometimes, we just draw them...

Kaff Face

Talurk/Taylor White beautiful Face

Hare Face and ...?Yok face (someone help me out)

Loads of new and wonderful Faces

Alistair Moonie Face

S Face

  

Why Change Is Good

I challenged my father to stay in the present for one car trip over the Westgate last Thursday, so he started talking about refugees and then he cried. I let him retreat back to the safety of reminiscing. 

Then

Now

I am guilty of hiding out in the good old days myself, as are most paint spotters. A stroll down Melburn's memory laneways is something many of us do (All Those Shapes, Dean Sunshine, Arty Graffarti, Melbourne Street Art). Everything we document has already been done and has therefore begun it's journey to decay, demise, or demolition. That's a lot of D's.

Now

Then

The best thing and the worst thing about street art is it's transience. The constant change gives us the chance to capture the ancient, the old, and the new in one image. But it also reminds us of what once was and isn't any more. Some of us tackle this loss bravely and others rally against it.

Sydney Contemporary Art Museum - installation filming the viewer, who becomes the subject 

Nostalgia comforts us in changing times, when what we see is not what it used to be. But we shouldn't resist moving on. In fact, we cannot reminisce unless we keep moving forward. Changing the present gives us a past. 

So why is there always a resistance to change? Why are we so scared when Google sets out to homogenize us? Why do we show off only to recoil when the Herald Sun notices ? Why do we get shitty about tags ?

Leaving for greener pastures

There is a fear of being taken over, subsumed by the machine that extends beyond the walls growing, decaying and growing again around us. I would like to propose that we fear change (and the people representing it) because it might make us irrelevant.  It is a fitting idea to contemplate during refugee week, don't you think?

Way back when