| This is not a joke, so please stop smiling |
[15 Aug 2009|01:44pm] |
I don't know why, but about two years ago I first heard "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart" by Wilco and in those years since then, I can't shake as being a song I never tire of. There's nothing all that incredible about it, I guess. A standard love/heartbreak song, it's meaning incomprehensible at times, yet punctuated by phrases that just seem to reach down in you and pull at those things you usually keep buried - "i want to hold you in the bible-black pre-dawn", "i always thought that if i held you tightly, you would always love me like you did back then - but there's something in the way it seems to disintegrate before it's begun, and how it just seems to fall apart by it's end. I don't know. I just love it.
And here's the acoustic version that omits most of the complexity. Anyways, I'm just going to trail off now.
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[06 Aug 2009|05:40pm] |
Two songs I've dug for a while now and just wish to share:
Frank Turner - Reasons to Not Be An Idiot (You gotta admire the british for their ability to enunciate their words clearly so you get the message loud and clear)
James Yuill - No Surprise (discovered him on a whim a few months ago. Really love him, despite him looking a bit like the bedroom philosopher)
That's about it for now.
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[05 Jul 2009|04:10am] |
So, my friend has gone off to Cannes. Cannes. Won a competition at uni - first prize was a screening of their short-collaborative piece in... Cannes. And I can't help but admit that inbetween being extraordinarily happy for them as the plane takes off and they go on to (wherewasitagain?) Cannes, i think to myself "So... When's your plane ticket arriving, eh?"
No, it's not a bikini-clad Lara Bingle asking me 'Where tha bloody hell r ya?', it's my over-inflated sense of self-importance and delusions of grandeur (no doubt cooked from simmering to boiling point by the cult of personality that dogs our western culture etc etc etc [go on man, blame the big bad media, capitalism, whateverthefuck makes it easier for you to externalise your own failings - Eds]) persistently, calmly inquiring, arms crossed like a disapproving mother, "what the bloody hell are you actually doing?"
So I sit here now finishing off an assignment due too long ago, the landfill of my future yawning wide before me, begging to be filled, and I'm trying to think from what spring my passion can be tapped, bottled and traded for opportunity, recognition, achievement, whatever. And what is the one thought that runs through my head, over and over so unashamedly that it runs the risk of becoming a cliche?
God I love the way she smiles.
Hopeless.
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[26 May 2009|11:56pm] |
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hung around emerald lake tonight drinking sherry with some people from work. not work work, the wedding reception people. topics included: girls, guys, girls, love, and the significance of holding hands. this really did make me wonder how much things are going to change in a few weeks when i make that shift into the city. as per my usual effort, i'm thinking about this stuff way too much. even as the bus moved through belgrave tonight i looked out at the reel cafe and rubys and the cameo and even earthly pleasures and realised how these weren't going to be my locals anymore. and that the simple circumstance of bumping into someone i know at the train station may not be so frequent. fuck. i'm acting like i'm in some damn blink-182 song and i'm moving to college. but still. i'll have to find someone who likes drinking sherry of a tuesday evening.
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[07 May 2009|11:25am] |
The world is too big for love to be real. There are too many people in the world to ever know, beyond everything, that you are with the right person. That your heart is as swollen as it can be. Think of all the people in China. It is unlikely anyone will ever meet all of them. How can we know for certain, for absolute certain, that trapped inside a foreign language and thumping in a foreign heart there isn't a love that is meant for us. The infinite possibility of existence, its limitless potential, is the proof we need that love is nothing more than an imagination, a human folly, friendship swollen with self-importance, a final retreat from the storm of possibility. The love of our life could so easily have been someone else. It is random and accidental, haphazard and unsystematic. That which we fell for one person, clinging on to the delusion of destiny, could so easily be felt for a million people should the timing and the meetings and the mutual readiness have coalesced at some other time in some other place. Should someone else have accepted us or rejected us then everything would have been different. And once we know this, we know that all love is a lie. Not honesty but deception. Not heroism but cowardice. An unspoken agreement of mutual consolidation and compromise, a shield from possibility and a bed in which to sleep, nothing more than that.
But I do still miss her.
- Daniel Kitson, stolen from the back of a Lucksmiths EP.
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[25 Apr 2009|04:04am] |
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You know, man, when all is said and done, I just think of everyone I know, and all those faces, and all I can think of is quotes from books and movies, from theater and film, all the ones about cups overflowing and love for all, and sure, they're cliches, but I just want to squeeze the lot of you and hope you never disappear.
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| One Month Early |
[23 Apr 2009|07:49pm] |
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Nevermind the calendar. The official start of winter for me was standing in a bookstore on Smith Street as Yo La Tengo's "Sugarcube" came on lightly over the store speakers. This year, I think I'm going to love the city and the city rain.
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| Letter From The Suburbs, Iss. # 3 |
[23 Apr 2009|07:39pm] |
Ah. Do you smell that, kids? Wintertime. A season for stories, reflection, sentimental drivel, blah, blah, blah. Come now, join me around the fireplace, it’s about time you heard about the town I grew up on the outskirts of. It was a mythical land, of the tallest flowering trees in the world (the mighty Mountain Ash), the most annoying parrots on the planet (Crimson Rosellas) and a booming tourist industry sourced entirely from visitors feeding the most annoying parrots on the planet while gaping wide-eyed at the tallest flowering plants in the world. Yes, kiddies. I’m talkin’ about the end of the line. Belgrave.
Stories, children, are the lifeblood of our land, society and culture. Unless they’re shit, which are reserved for sitcoms. But I shall not bother you with the tiresome details of my life in Belgrave – let me tell you the tale of the town through the eyes of a visitor. For they are the ones whose fresh eyes find the most commonplace things to a local so utterly enthralling, do they not? True. So, I introduce to you Scott – it’s Friday night, and he’s travelled up to Belgrave to hang out at Rubys (the former “Oasis in a desert of bogans” – all oasis’ dry up, don’t forget) to watch a band called “First Time Hookers.”
Scott is a nice guy. He used to date my sister. Not a mean bone in his Kilsyth-bred body. Once inside Rubys, he did what most Belgrave residents do most nights of the week – he threw back shots at such an alarming rate that it was only minutes before he was well and truly plastered.
So, the time came (as it always does) that Scott needed to the means to continue the night of drunken inhibition. So Scott wanders out of Rubys to the local Bendigo Bank ATM. There he drunkedly paws the keys and follows the prompts. Three kids out on a Friday night from Narre Warren line up to use the machine after him. A cricket creaks. The breeze blows. Nothing unusual.
However, things start to get a little strange when the three kids ask Scott to withdraw money from his account for them. Scott declines, thank you very much. In one of those interesting twists of events, these nice kids ask Scott if he wishes to go for a ride in their car. Scott neither obliges nor declines, but thanks to our good friend alcohol, he manages to end up in their car anyway.
Curious and curiouser.
The following hours are a bit of a “black hole”, in the words of Scott. Before he knows it, he’s come out of hyperspace and has been dumped on the dewy nature strip of Kallista, a few kilometers from Belgrave, at 4am. He’s managed to lose weight, particularly that which was in the form of his wallet, phone, hat and pants. Mildly confusing, to say the least.
Now boys and girls, this is what we call a bit of a paradox. See, Scott needs to get home so he can put some pants on. But to get home (where he’ll put the pants on) he needs a taxi. And the chances of a taxi picking up a man to take him home (to put pants on) is somewhat diminished when you’re standing on the street at 4am without any pants on.
Don’t fear. He got home all OK, safe and sound, after wandering through a patch of forest with the tallest flowering plants in the world home to the most annoying parrots on the planet, which were all soundly sleeping.
But if there’s one thing you take from this kids, make it this – sure, it may take me an hour to get home to Belgrave. Sure, people laugh at me because I live near Puffing Billy. And sure, I’ll probably grow up to be conservative, traditional and enormously uncool (more so than now). But for fucks sake – at least I’m not a pimply-faced brat from Narre Warren.
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[06 Apr 2009|12:05am] |
The only thing worse than bad memories,
is no memories at all.
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[24 Mar 2009|10:19pm] |
For more shits and giggles, here's my resignation letter from Safeway. Fuck it was fun to write and more to the point, hand in. And yes. It appears I'm turning this blog into one of those disgustingly pretentious "Mmmm-i'd-just-thought-i'd-share-sum-of-my-writing-with-you-wank-wank-wank" blogs. Eat it up, readers (What readers? Who are you talking to, Tom?)
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TOM FAIRMAN’S RESIGNATION LETTER.
“Omnia mutantur, nihil interit.”
- Ovid
To Whom It May Concern:
WHEN ONE SEES those proverbial autumn leaves falling in the coldest moments of May, a simple thought strikes the mind, one so rudimentary it is easily forgotten in the heady swill of modern existence. This common notion invokes the commonest of clichés – that in life, the only constant is change. As it must be - our world is part of a dynamic flux located somewhere between equilibrium and total chaos, our laurels resting on little more than sand foundations and rusted ideals. The values we ascribe to – or, our ‘table of values’, as explored in Nietzsche’s magnum opus Thus Spoke Zarathustra - are little more than notions and ideas put forth by others, no more applicable to you yourself than if it were another man’s boots were to be tied on your feet, with which you will grudgingly trudge through your life with. However, amidst the cacophony of change and uncertainty, meaning can be salvaged – hope can be saved. To paraphrase the Roman poet Publius Ovidius Naso, known commonly in the English speaking world as Ovid, ‘everything changes, yet nothing perishes.’ That is to say, whilst the autumnal leaves undergo apoptosis, fade, wilt, and fall to the ground, the system remains the same; the dynamic still exists. You, I, We - nothing is truly perishable. And it is in this contextual framework that I write my resignation from the Perishable Department of Safeway Monbulk.
Safeway has meant a lot to me. It was my first job, as it no doubt has been for many other people – but, like a first lover, whom which you may fall deeply in love, to stay with this only one lover your whole life threatens to turn the sanctity of loving into the insanity of loathing. In all honesty, that threshold was crossed many years ago, and, if I can draw further the metaphor, while Safeway and I have been sleeping in the same bed for all of our eight years together, we now sleep on our separate sides, and if the chance comes that we are intimate and (usually drunkenly) decide to consummate our “love”, it is short-lived and usually without any eye contact.
This is not to say that there hasn’t been fruitful lessons or rewards from Safeway. First of all, my bank account has fared pretty well from my employment. Second of all, but perhaps most importantly, I have met some truly great people whilst working there. I will always hold Emil Tuller in high regard for the work he has provided and the friend he has been to me. I truly think of him as a good human being that deserves the best in life – and can only hope that the management of Safeway has it in their heart to ensure this for him. Other people, such as Leslie Savage, Tegan Marshall, virtually anyone who joined me in facing the freezer at 9:30pm on any given night, and all of the nightcrew workers, are people I am glad to have met and shared stories, laughs or simple ideas with. I wish them the best and mercy under the bureaucracy of the ever-interchanging upper echelons of Safeway Middle Management.
In the time that I have spent with Safeway, I have learnt the importance of good governance, management, team-work and the revitalizing power of compassion in a workforce. Hopefully, someday Safeway will have the wisdom and integrity to work these notions into their own management. Until then I wish you the best of luck.
Catch you on the flip-side,
Tom Fairman
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[19 Mar 2009|10:19pm] |
For the hell of it - this was my first article published as sub-editor as Farrago this year. It's far too long for a blog, and I expect zero people to read it, but for the sake of it, whatever. It's about stencil art in Melbourne and the loss of the Banksy's Little Diver on Flinders Lane. Nothin' spesh. And in effort to destroy your friends page, I'm not putting it behind a cut.
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“There are four basic human needs: food, sleep, sex and revenge.”
- Banksy, Existencilism (2002)
Banksy. For an essentially anonymous wall-scrawler, he’s a high achiever – pumping out street art, exhibitions and books, all while establishing himself as a household name, and precipitating debates around the world on the virtues of art not applied with paintbrush on canvas, but with spraycan upon municipal property.
And if there’s a chance you haven’t heard of this unknown urban-art-crusader, ask Brangelina or Jude Law (all of whom have frequented his exhibitions), or perhaps Christina Aguilera (who bought prints of his for £25,000), or even Blur (the cover of 2003s Think Tank bears his artwork). And if not any of these, simply google “Space Girl & Bird”, and view the piece that sold for a record £288,000 during a 2007 London-based auction. And while viewing this, you may recognise this image from our very own streets of Melbourne.
The beauty in stencils is their simplicity, their ease of application, and they way in which a large piece can be divided apart like puzzle pieces and concealed. Like all puzzle pieces, mixing and matching can occur if the fit is right and Space Girl & Bird itself is a variation of a stencil applied in 2003 by Banksy himself, lovingly titled ‘Little Diver’ by the patrons of this fine city, that can be – or rather, could be – found on Flinders Lane. Little Diver stood on the cusp of the corner of the Nicholson Building, enduring rain, rats, zealous anti-graffiti crusaders, and street-art-fanboys such as myself for over five years – an extraordinary shelf life for an art form that has strong roots in the transitory.
However, in the final weeks of 2008, as anonymously as the piece was applied, it was silently removed (or ‘vandalised’ as mourners are exclaiming, without any sense of irony) overnight by an unknown person(s), whitewashing the wall in simple silver paint (which was poured behind the plastic screen attached the previous April to protect it from the elements) before inscribing a final sardonic epitaph in crude black paint – ‘Banksy woz ere.’ And so, an era has ended. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves, so lets wind the timescale back a bit.
“People say there is a graffiti problem. The only problem with graffiti is there isn’t enough of it.” – Banksy, Existencilism (2002)
My first exposure to Banksy was in 2002, a naïve-idealist-cum-15-year-old stumbling across an issue of Adbusters. The simple black and white cover emblazoned with “I Want You To Curb Your Consumption” alongside an image of a masked activist holding not a molitov cocktail, but a bouquet of flowers. A classic juxtaposition – meaning what? Well, that can be debated. But perhaps it was the medium rather than the message that won the me over – a simple black & white image, scrawled upon the walls of cities, under the cover of darkness, while giving the steadfast middle-finger response to The Man. Banksy has acknowledged himself that stencils carry a revolutionary tone through the style alone – even “a picture of a rabbit playing a piano looks hard as a stencil.” Suitably, stencils have been used around the world for decades by guerrillas to start revolutions, stop wars, and pierce the comfort of the citizenry with boorish expressions of doubt – or at least create the illusion of doing so. Adbusters lauded him as a “guerrilla activist”, and I joined legions of others adopting him as their favourite subversive.
And so, with time, Banksy began to make more appearances and became steadily namedropped and acknowledged with a nod from the artistic community. Stencil-art became synonymous with gentrification. Countless Flickr accounts opened dedicated to documenting his work – and his imitators – from cities all around the world. The public consciousness began to see the hues of grey in the previously black and white world of ‘graffiti’. No longer did the spraycan just signify chromers and train-taggers, the blights of our landscape, but also bespectacled VCA art graduates, who, on the pulse of the newest trend, would comfortably don dark hoodies and ulterior identities to exercise their craft. Melbourne was named the World Capital of Stencil Street-Art. A documentary, Rash, was made and premiered on the ABC. Despite the usual suspects of councils, shires, premiers offices and the elderly who so typically rebuffed it as ‘all-the-same’, street art has taken a life of its own in Melbourne, and the epicentre of it all was that Little Diver standing on the corner of Flinders Lane and Cocker Alley.
“[Banksy] is somehow managing to straddle the commercial, artistic and street worlds… His work feels personal, as if they are just for me, and public, as if they are a gift to everyone.” – Simon Hattenstone, The Guardian (17/7/03)
Naturally, when something is appreciated, it skyrockets in value. The Little Diver, being analogous of Space Girl & Bird, was estimated to potentially have a value of $AUS450,000. It is easy, therefore, to understand why the local owners decided to protect it by installing a plastic cover, allowing viewing but not damage. The Little Diver had, in essence, become as asset. And it is in this breath of interpretive transformation that things get a little hairy.
Banksy often railed against modern art institutions, frequently mocking the Tate Modern and its contemporaries. Furthermore, it was the buzz of street art that made him wary of these institutions, a star-studded exhibition nowhere near as thrilling as painting “something big where you shouldn’t.” His work was seen in itself as reclaiming the streets, and re-imagining what we define as our art – taking the power back from advertising billboards that cover our walls (brandalism, he dubbed), and the exclusive elitism that block so many of our art galleries. He proposed art by anybody, for everybody. Seriously – why wouldn’t Adbusters love this guy with that kind of rhetoric?
However, when the price tags started being affixed, we saw advertisers adopting stencil art, and the gallery-owners moved out onto the streets in the search of the hottest new talent. Exclusivity starting appearing on our public walls, and the evolutionary cycle followed the steps like an over-rehearsed Macarena – art is created, absorbed into the collective conciousness, then coveted. Banksy, for all his words, was no exception. He was good at what he did, and for the love of it, his works would be preserved and held in higher esteem, and dollars, above all others.
The street art community doesn’t deal well with the coveting part, however. As previously mentioned, street art has its strongest roots in the transitory. This is how it differs from traditional galleries, which hoard and protect artworks like overbearing, obsessive-compulsive mothers. Loss of art by street cleaners keeps the evolutionary cycle moving. Sure there are a few peculiarities that adorn our walls for years, perhaps to inform some roving archaeological research team of the distant future. One of Pompeii’s contributions to the global graffiti community, preserved by the volcanic eruption, allegedly read Cosmus Equitiaes magnus cinaedus et fellator est suris apertis – for those not savvy in the dead language, “Equitas' slave Cosmus is a big queer and a cocksucker with his legs wide open.” At least that’s amusing. All Camberwell will be remembered for is FREE ENERGY IS COMING EMBRACE GLOBAL CONSCIOUSNESS.
“Revolutionary creativity doesn’t not shock or entertain the bourgeoisie, it destroys them.” – The Splasher Manifesto, 2007
Meanwhile, in New York an anonymous person(s) identifying themselves as the Splasher targeted famous street art pieces during 2007, applying furious bright bursts of paint, obliterating the revered images of artists such as Swoon, Shepard Fairey, and Banksy. The reasoning, in their simplest interpretation, was that the Splasher was targeting the artists that had acted as the “advance scouts for capital”, assisting the advertising and street art worlds in getting acquainted. The issue here is that Banksy himself has never “sold out” per se – he has just sold a lot. So how can one justify the Splasher, or the loss of the Little Diver?
Banksy was been adored for his sense of the absurd. He has never taken his art seriously, nor has he of himself. It is hard to imagine him outraged at the Splasher, or the unknown Little Diver-defacer. Rather, this issue comes down to how the public consume and digest the art. While you could easily dismiss the Splasher and their ilk as snotty-nosed punx who hate the taste of others success, perhaps we should consider thanking them. For all the most valuable street art in the world began with a blank wall and an idea. The corner of Flinders Lane and Cocker Alley is clear now, ready for a fresh round of paint. And while we can’t deny people will be braying for the blood of the defacer, there lies a potential clue in that crude epitaph. Perhaps he really woz ere this time, leaving under the cover of darkness with a clunky silver-paint tin under his arm and his sense of absurdity well intact.
“Imagine a city where graffiti wasn’t illegal, a city where everybody could draw wherever they liked. Where every street was awash with a million colours and little phrases. Where standing at a bus stop was never boring. A city that felt like a living breathing thing which belonged to everybody, not just the estate agents and barons of big business. Imagine a city like that and stop leaning against the wall - its wet.” – Banksy, Wall & Piece (2005)
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| If only the Garnaut Report were as poetic. |
[02 Oct 2008|06:05pm] |
People are a waste of food
You'll never hear the end
They're only ever happy
When they're burying their friends
And they take take take
But they never take a hint
The ice caps getting skinny
Still they're not concerned
They're very near extinct
People are a waste of food
The end is nearly nigh
They've always said the sky would fall
Now it is you have to wonder why
You want to shrink your stinky footprint?
Get your tubes tied
Or even better yet
Go commit suicide
They can't say you didn't try
If money is the root of evil
Fear of death is worse
This mortal coil is not a test
And you can't hide in a purse
So don't go casting no dispersions in the street
'Cause the half of the world that starves
Will know the half you're in
Does not deserve to eat
And oh my,
Well i hear the sound of horses' hooves
Come the middle of the night
And oh my,
It's time to get your gun license
I see four horsemen riding through
A cold and endless night
People are a waste of food
Don't bother learning Chinese
Thou shalt find oneself perturbed
By less verbose calamities
Just get some Heinz baked beans,
A 12 gauge, bandolier and tinned dog food
We'll eat your dog, bury our dead
Or eat them instead
That's entirely up to you
And oh my,
I hear the sound of unshod hooves come the middle of the night
And oh why
Well, from now on 'til your grandkids finally get what you deserve
I'm going to be stuck here with you wookies
Eating fortune cookies
Until my guts churn
- "Oh My", The Drones.
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| there could be a word to explain it in german. |
[23 Jul 2008|04:17pm] |
Whilst not known for their softness and subtlety, I really think the Germans nailed it upon creation of these three words, in a romantic manner the French could not surpass.
Erdbeere
Literal translation: "Earth berry"
English equivalent: "Strawberry"
Handschuh
Literal translation: "Hand shoe"
English equivalent: "Glove"
Luftkissenfahrzeug
Literal translation: "Air cushion vehicle"
English equivalent: "Hovercraft"
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| songs as graphs |
[26 May 2008|07:30pm] |
( XY )
let me know if you don't get any of them (shame!)
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[16 May 2008|04:40pm] |
I don't really listen to the radio, so i always find myself about 6 months behind everyone else when it comes to "discovering" "new" "music." It's happened to me with Okkervil River, Modest Mouse, and more recently, Justice. Anyway, so i've heard a bit about this Knights of Cydonia song by Muse. I mean it took out the #1 on the Hottest 100, and i had never, ever heard of it, or even a bit of it. So, I downloaded it in a forestry-enduced stupor of boredom the other night, and well...
It's fucking shit.
Seriously, what the fuck. Laser beam SFX? Galloping stallions? "Bohmeian Rhapsody"-esque double tracking? "No one's going to take me alive"?! (Turns out "Cydonia" is a region of Mars. OH WOW, HOW SCI-FI!!) Again, seriously guys, what the fuck. Has our senses of decency in music-making been blasted out of all of us from too many late night Guitar Hero sessions? WHY IS PROG-ROCK MAKING A COMEBACK? Anything with "Prog" as the prefix of the genre is inherently bad. Apart from "Progressive-Thrash", which is just funny.
Don't get me wrong, I've enjoyed Muse at least once in the history. Muscle Museum is a marvelous song. But Sam from Pitchfork nails it:
What's most difficult of all to look past is that Black Holes & Revelations was created in all earnestness by three dudes in Hot Topic shirts advancing a vision of rock music that operates on three fundamental assumptions: 1) distortion is always better than no distortion; 2) every measure of music should contain at least one drum fill; and 3) the future will be dominated by robots.
To finish up, I'd like to declare that The Kings of Leon are shit too. Alright. That's it I'm out of here.
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| RumiNation |
[16 Apr 2008|07:57pm] |
"The strange, as it were, invisible beauty of Australia, which is undeniably there... seems to lurk just beyond the range of our white vision."
- D.H. Lawrence, 1923
"Alienation and rootlessness, writes Jung, are the dangers that lie in wait for the conquerers of foreign lands."
- David Tacey, 1995
Listen, listen
latecomers to my country
eat of wild manna
there is
there was
a country
that spoke in the language of the leaves.
- Judith Wright, 1994
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| The Australian Barbecued |
[28 Mar 2008|03:37pm] |
www.theage.com.au!! How are you, give me some news.
Well, US prosecutors have filed torture and assault charges against two men suspected of throwing an Australian tourist into a burning firepit on a Californian beach.
A firepit! Poor guy. That does suck. Who was he?
The victim was Adelaide electrician Robert Schneider, 26, NBC San Diego reported, who was found in the surfside pit in Ocean Beach with third-degree burns on February 27.
A sparky, eh? Nasty. Any idea why it happened? Who did it?
According to the network, Mr Schneider was attacked following an argument near a lifeguard tower. The San Diego County district attorney's office said today that two alleged transients, 21-year-old Damian Maple and 46-year-old Frank Montoya, faced five felony counts and up to life in prison if convicted. The attackers allegedly took turns beating Mr Schneider, before tossing him into the firepit. He was left with broken bones and was covered in second and third-degree burns, NBC said.
Whoah, that is pretty horrible. I'm still not completely certain what you mean by "firepit", but you know, I'm guessing it's like a barbecue pit, right? Those crazy Americans. How's the family coping?
Mr Schneider's parents, Judy and Peter Schneider, had travelled to San Diego to be with their son. "We got a couple of words and a recognition of who we are, and he started to cry,'' Peter Schneider told NBC. "There were tears down his eyes. "He had staples on his head from where his head was smashed open," Judy Schneider said. "He had a laceration on his forehead, his face. His wrist was broken.''
Total bummer. That's horrible. If only someone had stepped in to help him.
Well, San Diego Union Tribune has reported that San Diego locals Carl Gregory and Roseann Iovine planned to host an "Australian barbeque" on April 13 to support Mr Schneider's recovery.
... pardon? An Australian... BBQ?
"It's going to be a big, typical Australian barbecue,'' the promoter said.
... seriously?
"A big, typical Australian barbecue.''
... thanks, theage.com.au
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