A Paying Gig

Yours truly, caught in the rapture at Cherry Rock 2008.

It seems that you can fool some of the people some of the time!  I have scored myself a writing gig, working for a new music magazine called veri.live.  Here's a link to the official website http://www.verilive.com.au/

I am excited as hell!  The mag looks beautiful, printed in a large format, there's lots of pretty damned amazing looking photography, and I have been hired (can I say 'headhunted'?) to help provide some hard-hitting insight and honest-to-god 'tude about the music industry.  Well they bloody well came to the right man for that job!

veri.live hits the newsstands and bookstores 27th March.

To Nod, Or Not To Nod.

When my father first started teaching me how to drive, I was about 12 or 13  years of age, the car of choice was a 1964 Valiant AP5.  You may know the car.  Simple lines, Chrysler 3.6L 225 slant-6 engine, automatic with push button gears - looking back I think of this car as being a total classic.  At the time, I was both thrilled to be driving and mortified that it was in such a bomb.  My father continued his love affair with what he called the 'Marrickville Mercedes'.  Once that old Val had been run into the ground he acquired a marvelous VE, which I loved, and after that one had gone to God a terrific VF coupe, never paying more than a few hundred dollars for the old things.  They would seem to go forever, be very cheap to run, they just didn't know how to die.  Then as I came of age to own and drive myself I purchased a 1966 VC (my all-time favourite) and then later on a 1964 AP5.  All lovely, distinguished and classy cars, if a little rusted, tired and worn.  This was all in the 80's and early 90's mind you, well before the old Chrysler Valiant brand had anything like esteem or respect or even a hint of coolness.  Now, of course, it's a different story.  They, like the old Holden and Ford marques of the 1960's, are the ubercool of the inner-city set.  I see lots of hot little Fitzroy chicks (who weren't even born in the 80's, when I would be laughed at and mocked by the Torana-driving, flanny-wearing Westies in North Canberra) floating around on the soft suspension of VCs.  I see many trendy Northcote boys cruising around the inner-North in their exquisitely and faithfully restored S Series, frequenting drive-thru bottle shops and choking up Brunswick Street with their low-octane fumes.  It is more than ironic that so many of these old beauties sport Greens Party bumper stickers!  But I digress.  The point to all this is despite the brand being hijacked by these 21st Century urban trendies, despite the fact that my first auto love is now the plaything and objet d'ego of arts students, new-age wannabe Trotskyists and pro bono Collingwood solicitors, they all have one thing in common with the time when I was driving the wide avenues and endless roundabouts of my youth - as one Valiant driver passes another they wave to each other.

Valiant drivers are special.  They share a common bond.  There is a special link between each driver that no other car owner can truly understand, that other drivers may only aspire to, if you will.  The wave is a part of the Valiant driving experience.  Whether the wave is a signal of shared pleasure (or pain), or just a cursory gesture of acknowledgement, it is, as much as I can gather, unique amongst car drivers.  And so I come to the crux of this article:  The Wave, or it's equivalent amongst motorcycle riders, who also share a special and common bond - The Nod.

Motorcycle riders are a breed unto themselves.  Most people regard them as reckless at best, insane at their worst.  A friend of mine (who, incidently, was killed in a motorcycle accident a couple of years ago) always used to describe motorcyclists as 'temporary citizens' (you see the sad irony).  I like to call (most of them) 'tourists' (from the idea that they are here on this Earth just briefly, for a visit).  Now I too am a rider, a motorcycling commuter - I have already been described as a temporary citizen by a friend, despite the fact that I ride like a grandma.  Since spending a good deal of time on the road on my bike I have noticed the Valiant-analogue Wave occur amongst motorcycle riders, except of course waving whilst riding is quite dangerous and would look totally naff to boot.

So - The Nod.  Unlike the Valiant Wave, The Nod is a much more difficult thing to pin down.  Not every rider will do the Nod to another.  I have noticed that there is a Nod Hierarchy amongst riders.  For example, no self-respecting motobike rider will Nod to a scooter rider (perhaps the scooter riders Nod to each other?).  No one who rides either a sports bike or a naked will Nod to a Harley or Harley-wannabe (think Yamaha Virago or Honda Shadow) rider.  People who ride tourers don't tend to Nod much to anyone.  And the Harley riders themselves are best left alone, whether they be the professional, enthusiastically hirsute Harley folk (or of the conspicuously bald kind), or just the weekend-riding, rich-boy try-hards.

I ride a 2005 Honda CB900F Hornet, a big naked bike with a sports pedigree (see article below for a wee little peek).  As far as The Nod is concerned, I feel pretty much caught in the middle.  If I see any other rider (with the exception, of course, of a scooter commuter) passing on the other side of the road I will pretty much always give it, and I do feel slighted when it is not reciprocated.  Yesterday I passed some racing leathers-clad dude on a big Kawasaki sports bike, who was screaming up High Street Road in Glen Iris at 60 kph in second gear, gave him The Nod, and got no reaction whatsoever.  What a tosser.  There is no doubt he saw me give it.  There is no possibility he missed it.  I gave him the signal of recognition, the subtle hail of rider to rider, and the prick left me hanging!  And so I got to thinking about the unwritten Nod etiquette of riders.

Behold, the unwritten now written.

Nod Etiquette

• For the sake of camaraderie, fraternity and kinship, all riders may Nod to each other, regardless of make, style or size of machine.
• Scooter riders are the exception to the above.  If one receives a Nod from a scooter rider one is allowed to either give a very slight Nod in return (think neck twitch, allowing a slight dipping of the helmet), or one may simply ignore said Nod.
• The Nod itself can be a proper full Nod, a forward dip (see above), or a side twitch (think of the movement a dog makes when it is either confused, or just been shown a card trick, or the movement ones makes when winking and making that clicking sound at the back of the mouth).
• Hand signals, or waves, are forbidden.
• No rider should acknowledge a rider (or group of riders) of Harley Davidson motorcycles.
• If one is Nodded at by a rider of an HD motorcycle, one is encouraged to Nod back in a non-threatening/inoffensive manner.  Immediately afterwards maintain the eyes-front position.
• It is optional to give The Nod to anyone riding a Harley analogue, as these riders are little more than glorified scooter riders (just get a real one!)
• If one gives The Nod and receives no Nod in return, ride on.  Remember - hand signals and gestures are forbidden.

I'm A Mechanic! Sort of...

Yesterday was a great day in the life of Koops.  I did a chain adjustment and full chain clean on my CB900F - all by myself!  Now I know what you motorcycle rev-heads are all thinking - "Pah, I can do that stuff in my sleep," but this was an important event for me, having never attempted any mechanical feat on my machine (even when I installed frame sliders most of the work was done by a more experienced friend).  Hey - I gotta start somewhere, right?  So I got to use my new tool kit, got my camo coveralls on and dirty, and got stuck in!  It took about an hour (the chain clean was the most time-consuming task, using kerosene, tooth brush and rag), but I managed to reattach the one-piece chain and mud guard, the left-side pedal and gearshift thingy, and re-tighten the axle, take it on a test ride, and not get killed!  It worked!

So, to the motorcycle mechanic who took a look at my chain and said that it was "rooted", and needed to be replaced, along with the sprockets (at a cost of $470), I say "Fiddlesticks to you, dickhead."  After the adjustment, clean and lube, the chain has re-straightened (no kinks or stiffness) and the sprockets (upon detailed inspection by moi) are perfectly fine.  Having spent $220 at Bunnings (Oh!  What wonderful retail therapy that is!) for the required tools, I have saved myself $250 and spared myself the humiliation of being ripped-off by a smart-arse mechanic who saw only inexperience, but no intelligence.

Footnote:  My Bunnings adventure included the purchase of a wonderful Stanley socket wrench set ($110), a Stanley screwdriver set ($30) and a torque wrench ($80).  I wouldn't usually mention the name of the store in the blog (just as I won't mention the name of the motorcycle mechanic whose advice and expertise I will not seek again), but a trip to this wonderful hardware shop is always an exciting adventure, it really makes me feel like a kid!

Compression Tights Are Sexy

Last night at indoor football I was asked by a fellow player what the hell was I doing wearing Skins when it was so damned hot?  Well, I said, it was probably because they feel so damned sexy!  He looked at me like I had just declared my homosexuality in a locker room full of naked men, which is funny, because I was in a locker room full of naked men!  (But, I might add,  I am most definitely NOT gay - not there is anything wrong with that - sorry boys!)  The compression tights available for all sporting endeavours are sold on the premise that they reduce muscle wobble in exercise, reduce micro-bleeding in and around muscle fibres, thus lessening the likelihood of soft-tissue injury, but the main reason why I wear them is three-fold:  1.  As I am getting older I am looking for any kind of advantage in preventing soreness and injury.  2.  They look fucking sexy.  3.  They feel fucking sexy.

So there.

New Year's Dedication

I have deliberately avoided the word "resolution" in this entry's title, lest I succumb (like those recalcitrant and sham nations the world over who do so to the decisive declarations passed by the United Nations - think Ba'athist Iraq, Iran, North Korea, Sudan and Israel as a start...) to not taking it seriously at all.

The beginning of a new year is symbolic of life's cycles, significant only, of course, to those who decide it is, but allows us - at least the people that follow the Gregorian calendar - an opportunity to pause, analyse, reassess and then make provision for the coming twelve months. I choose to do so thus:

• I refuse to allow my fucking back with it's two herniated discs to dictate to me what I can and can't do.  I will not bow to the false god Sciatica.

• I have determined that 2011 is the Year of the Memoir.  Therefore, this year I will read no work of fiction other than that manufactured (as deliberate deception or otherwise) by auto- or biography.   I have begun with Christopher Hitchens' Hitch-22, and am now on Don Watson's Recollections of a Bleeding Heart.  There are some that I will revisit, namely Karen de Young's excellent biography of Colin Powell, Soldier:  The Life of Colin Powell, and Ghandi's The Story of My Experiments With Truth.  There are others that are on my list, like Bill Clinton's autobiography (surprising that it is simply titled My Life), Keith Richards' ghostwritten tome, Life, and, heaven help me, John Howard's intimidating and impudently titled Lazarus Rising and George W Bush's Decision Points (goddammit, he's done it again - what the fuck is a 'decision point'?).  Any other suggestions are appreciated, but I would ask you to refrain from suggesting anything like the fraudulent Pentateuch or any other such religious fabrications - and the Forum section in Penthouse magazine, as tantalizing and provocative that it may be, doesn't qualify either!

That's it.  Just the two things.  Should be easy enough, eh?  I have spared myself the more predictable "I'm going to do X amount of charity work this year" and "I'm going to swear less" and "I'm going to have more sex" and "I'm going to be a better father" and so on.  These are the kinds of  throw-away and churlish resolutions that I feel cheapen the endeavour of bettering oneself.  One should be doing that kind of thing anyway, without having to declare it - the racist, stereotypical, Judean view of the Philistines of the New Testament come to mind (pardon the religious metaphor).

So now it's January 13th, let's get on with it!

I'm SoooTired...

I am so tired of China being the World's seamstress.

...of politics in Australia (and indeed of the entire Western world) being a game of anti-ideas.

...of money being a requisite of experience.

...of theological institutions being accorded respect.

...of not having enough of a multifarious and capacious vocabulary.

...of the abhorrence of fundamentalism in only the dark-skinned format.

...of the media refusing to publish cartoons featuring that strange and nefarious character called 'Muhammad'.

...of grabbing a towel off the rack and it smelling of urine.  What the hell are my kids up to?

Death. The End.

A couple of years ago a good friend of mine committed suicide.  Utterly out of the blue.  No history of failed attempts, no obvious signals, nothing that alerted any of his mates that he was on the edge.  His death hit me very hard, and despite being a relatively happy father of (at that stage) two kids, in a loving and positive long-term relationship, and having so many things to live for, I too contemplated the unthinkable.  His death brought on a profound period of darkness and depression in my life, short-lived as it was.  I confronted my own mortality, mirrored in that of my mate's.  I questioned everything that I held to be true about existence, about my ideas of religion/God/destiny/fate/death/purpose/etc.  I was angry at my departed friend, angry at myself for not doing enough, angry at the world for being so cold, heartless and twisted.  I indulged myself in that most pathetic, selfish and adolescent idea of "What's the point to it all anyway?" and felt close to the concept of an early exit.  I had no choice, no thanks to the decision and final action of my friend, but to hold up the mirror to my own life and look hard at my reflection.  My friend was forcing me to live a more examined life, and I resented it.  And then I got over it.

Then, not so long after, another friend was killed in a motorbike accident.  Another funeral for a young man.  They are never particularly joyous affairs, are they?  This time I felt better armed against the attack of the deep-blue-funks.  Yes, there were the probing incursions of negative mind-states, but previous experience had forewarned me, and so I did not fall as hard into the blues.  Don't get me wrong, though, this friend's death still kicked me hard in the existential guts - I helped go through his apartment, sorting through his personal belongings, throwing out things that had significance for one man, and none for anyone else - that was a trip, a hard one.  The affect on me this time, with this experience, was different.  I had a different set of skills to cope, skills that admittedly were centred around the concept of dealing with my own mortality that, let's face it, is where a hell of a lot of our feelings of grief and sense of loss is derived.

Recently, this has happened to me again.  Another friend, another very young man, another motorcycle accident.  We had messaged one another on Facebook about five minutes before his death.  Shocking, tragic, and freakish.  Another funeral for a young man, one of those kind where many women wail, where the men attempt a kind of stoic hardness, and where we all laugh too easily at inane and tragically ordinary anecdotes from a life cut too short.   Here was another lesson on life's seemingly indiscriminate cruelty and randomness.

We carry on.

Touching The Void.

I have been out of action for a while - out of action, that is, in regards to the blogoshpere.  There have been a number of events that have occurred in my life over the last few months that have given me pause to indulge in a little bit of self-examination, re-assessment, and all of the other little awakenings and shake-ups that come from adversity.  I guess it's one of the pitfalls of having an over-active existential bent.  I suppose that the benefit of all this is that as one comes through adversity one has the chance to learn from it, and so also grow and be better prepared for the next sequence of misadventure and tribulation.  Of course, as one experiences the downside of life one must confront it with the only reasonable response that any self-respecting existential philospher can make:  WHATEVER!

Letter to Foxtel - 29/10/10 Re: Bad Service.

My name is Matt Cooper, acc # *******, (address here), ph ** **** ****.

As at this time, 1945, 29/10/10, I have no audio on any of my Foxtel channels, including Foxtel HD.

I have subscribed to Foxtel with the specific purpose of viewing Hyundai A-League matches live, and it seems that tonight I will be forced to watch a silent broadcast - in effect, half a broadcast - admittedly in wonderful high-definition, but with a very 20th Century problem.

I have attempted to glean some kind of information from the Foxtel Enquiries number at 131 999, but was met with only a recorded message that in fact told me nothing at all, aside from that there were technical difficulties (my suburb not included in the ad hoc listing), and that (of course) Foxtel were working to remedy the situation.  I was unable to connect with a Human Being, but instead was in effect told to not worry, it'll all be okay in the end.  The connection was then abruptly terminated.

As a Foxtel customer, and in fact as a Human Being, I demand to have effective communicaton with my service provider, and directly, not via a recorded message with electronic voice prompts, and especially not with one that simply cuts out and offers no feedback whatsoever.  This is utterly unacceptable.

I want my Foxtel!  And as a paying customer, I want it now!  I understand that from time to time there may be the occasional issue with signal reception, with broadcast interruptions, and what have you - BUT NOT DURING MY A-LEAGUE GAMES!!!  I do not have the time to watch every show about Lifestyles, or models, or selling property, or indeed even the delights offered by the adult oriented "Special Interest" channels.  All I want is my football, and the only option I have tonight, after a long week at work, is to evoke bygone days of silent moving pictures by watching the Melbourne Victory with the only audio being the whingeing of my children, the criticisms of my wife, and the mordant sighs of my own tortured soul, instead of the inane but entertaining commentary of Andy Harper and the insufferable Michael Cockerill.

Thanks a lot.

Sincerely,

--
Matt Cooper

Mucho Frustrazione!

Yeah yeah, I know, it's a terrible mash-up of language in the title, but I'm going insane here!

I've spent the last three days dealing with a virus infection on my computer, and I have had enough!  The little basterd is called 'Desktop Security 2010' and it has invaded all of the good shit on my machine.  Just when you are happy with the way your pc is running you get infected by this kind of crap!  To whoever is responsible for this program, let it be known:  You are a miserable piece of shit, worthy of none of the good things that life can bring.  FUCK YOU!

Right.  That is partially out of my system.  I have been consoling myself with the counsel of wise friends and enthusiasts, listening to Abbey Road (yep, I have been low!), re-organising my little studio, sampling some of my excellent home-brew, and cursing the little fuckers responsible - you know who you are.

There has been one positive in all this.  If there is one way to get to learn about computers, it's to wreck one and then rebuild/disinfect it!  Not the way I would prefer, of course, but meh.  Now I know slightly more about modern personal computing than I did a week ago.

Another little problem I have encountered is my preamp in my studio is playing up.  I get crackling and signal loss on the right hand channel, particularly when playing at low levels.  I can put up with it (kind of), but it's driving me nuts.  My fixit man told me a while back that this is a common problem with older amps of the NAD brand (it's a 314 integrated amp that I have switched to preamp mode, powered by a great little Proton AA-1150), easily fixed, apparently, but the $$$ just aint there at the mo.  Come on tax return!  Come on lottery win!  Come on new job!!!

I've also got a couple of additions to my Freezing Phoenix blog to do, but I'm unwilling to add any more photos to my system while this Desktop shit is plagueing me.  But regarding The Local's  stout range (especially the offerings from 3 Ravens, Moo Brew and Mountain Goat), and some of the brews from Bridge Road Brewers, James Squire (Malt Runner) and Monteith's, the reviews are coming...

Enough already.   I'm still cranky.