Rock n roll suicide

And she said, smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette. Puff, puff, puff and if you smoke yourself to death, tell St. Peter at the Golden Gate that you hate to make him wait but you just gotta have another cigarette.

Truth be told, I'd quite like to do just that right about now. Unfortunately, it happens that I'm as sick as a parrot. And as that persistent cough continues to do amazing job at restraining me from smoking any fragrant tobacco, I've been left in a limbo of daydreams. Chocolate and cigarettes, cigarette holders and matches.

The Dreamers by Bernardo Bertolucci

For the interest of those who can, and do, smoke (or even if you don't), the cult tobacconist Sol Levy is an adventure into a world long gone. They sell pipes, delicious tobaccos, cigars and cigarette holders not unlike Eva Green's in The Dreamers. And everything a smoker could dream of. They will even mail order, for those of you outside Sydney.

Hello sunshine

A week ago it would have been unthinkable. Yesterday, we didn't even blink twice at the prospect. Yes, the weather is finally conducive to picnicking and swimming and beaching and lying in the sun just because you can. It's awesome.

Beret: Salvation Army (charity store)
Mushroom broach: Birthday gift from the boy's super lovely house mates
Top: Gift
Lace: Grandmother's
Top, with the sleeves tucked in and neck folded under, worn as skirt: Local second hand store
Sunglasses: Paddys markets
Old binoculars bag and belt: Anglicare (charity store)
Shoes: Local second hand store

A book like this

It's not the most enjoyable realisation, when you realise this wonderful secret you've uncovered isn't really a secret at all. Much worse, it's been around for thirty-five years. Alas so was the case when only a month ago I uncovered the overwhelming treasure that is Gould's Book Arcade.


Their entire catalogue is available to browse and search online through AbeBooks, though you might find it more fun to take a blind eye and get wonderfully lost amongst the aisles and hundreds of books in the ridiculously brimming store.

Being bad feels pretty good.

Despite the sheer restraint it took not to name the post Being badde feels pretty good, it seems my willpower can't help when it comes to the first sentence. Perhaps I should explain the awful pun. We wandered off to Badde Manors in Glebe the other night for some food and liquor (sans liquor). Although I've had lunch there a fair few times, and excuse my ignorance here (I should know, as the cafe's been around longer than me), I never realised you could dine for dinner in the grungy cafe.


The food was lovely, I had crumbed eggplant steak on a bed of creamy potato and he had some sort of penne pasta. The service was incredibly fast (and after watching Gordon Ramsay that night I was convinced the plates had had three minutes in the microwave) and the food well priced. Also, it is discreetly, though strictly, vegetarian. Which suits me well. Unlike my cat, who, despite my previous thoughts is not vegetarian at all; she was found sneakily snuggling a bird carcass this morning. They also have a fair selection of vegan food. That said however, it's definitely not a cafe only for vegetarians, or especially famous for being as much. My lovely meat-loving friend and her boyfriend were going there for months before, one hungover morning, they discovered there was no bacon and eggs on the menu "But we're vegetarian" said the dreadlocked man with a look of annoyance. Oh and you can smoke in the courtyard (if that's the kind of thing that you think you might be into). And it's open till quite late (at least midnight most evenings). The only disappointment was that we failed to get lewd with the food, but it was pretty good night nonetheless.

Red belt as headband: From mother's to-be-thrown-out pile
Scarf: Birthday gift from the cool as chips neighbour
Cropped black top: Also stolen from that fateful pile
Purple top: Again, also from the pile (a rather good pile in hindsight)
Purple dress underneath: St Vincent de Paul
Bag: Found in an attic, in a box said to be mine.
Blue stockings: Thrifted
Shoes: Cream on crown

When the morning comes.

Terribly hungover. Indeed, still. Tucked and buttoned and folded my mothers old shirt slash blouse into a skirt, which I quite like.

Oh mornings.

Vest: Local charity store
Lace: Grandmother's
Top: Gift
Old binoculars bag: Thrifted
Shirt as skirt: Mother's
Tights: Gift from the boy (American Apparel)
Sunglasses: Paddys markets

I won't give you sympathy.

Given the 60s-inspired indie rock their old band, The Little Flames, oh-so-wonderfully created, one would expect similarly harmonious and catchy songs from The Rascals' debut album Rascalize. Unfortunately, they disappoint. Their Brit-rock sound is formulaic and unapologetically reminiscent of Arctic Monkeys and The Coral (who coincidentally have both toured with The Little Flames). Perhaps it is that they were the three youngest members of The Little Flames. Immature? The track How Do I End This? prompts one to ask that exact question of the album. Alas no, it's not terrible, and it is listenable. It's just a bit... boring.

With the addition of Eva Metersen on vocals and Mat Gregory on guitar, their former band is far more worth your ear. I don't believe their album was ever officially released as they split before it was due out (correct me if I'm wrong) but if you're sneaky you can certainly find it. Take the publicity of The Rascals as a chance to get into The Little Flames.

Angel Fingers

No spirit fingers here, we're all about the angels. Angel stuff. Angelic places. Anglicare is one such place. It might look like a hell hole, but dig a little deeper and you'll find some heavenly pay-by-the-kilo treasures.


Anglicare is the Summer Hill sorting warehouse from which the donation-run organisation distribute clothes and knick knacks to their 16 Sydney stores. Simply, it is massive (as well as incredibly exhausting). Clothes are inordinately piled and packed into trolleys and after spending two and a half hours there, the surface had barely been skimmed.

On Saturdays they open up about half of the warehouse, while during the week you can only access a quarter or so, but either way you'll find some goodies.

Four and a half kilos and an incredible Summer heat later (outfit regrettably being more Spring than Summer), we were absolutely knackered. Fantastic.

Camel vest: Surry Hills markets
Egg broach: birthday gift from the boy's super lovely house mates
Scarves as top: also birthday gifts from an awesome neighbour
Black top under scarves: Agent 99
Button up top as skirt: Nu & Nan
Green leather belt: mollini (i think)
Navy tights: avocado
Socks: old and (damn) mismatched
Aviators: John Sundry's.

Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me.

I also dreamt that the world was flat and I turned one year older. We woke up and hid under the bed sheets. Eggs and beans and black pepper bread. He wore suspenders and black rimmed glasses. We listened to Mingecock and Norks and I drank coffee inscribed with a message of wishes. We bought picture hooks from an old man in a cramped hardware store. I lit my tobacco with a zippo. Found shoes in a city of vintage and wore gloves from an 80s party long gone. Together we lay down shoelessly watched a movie in a cinema of pillows. Walked into a pole that told me not to stop. Licked salt and sucked on lemons. We came home to a lovingly baked strawberry sprinkled cake.


What oh.

Dress: thrifted
Scarf (as head band): Hibernian markets in Surry Hills
Brooch (on head band): Grandfather's gift from Venice
Gloves: Gift from wonderful housemate, ex 80's party prop
Shoes: Local second hand store
Hood: gift (i think it is shakuhachi)
Belt: buy-by-the-kilo thrift store
Old binoculars bag: thrifted

And so it begins.

It's a five-year-old institution. It's proudly independent, and it holds a wicked party. Indeed, if the music station were a person, it'd be in Kindergarten by now. Alas, it's much more than a person. Mature beyond it's years and mightily ahead of it's game, FBi held an excellent (and indeed tantrum-free) 5th birthday bash to rival any Sydney gig. While perhaps not the most popular kid in school, FBi is certainly the coolest, and pulled a crowd of band members, DJs and a good chunk of the Sydney scene last Friday night who were well worthy of the sounds on offer.

Performing that night was Sydney-based S.Y.L.K (pictured below) who played a highly entertaining set with tongues firmly planted in cheeks. Unmistakably very Salt 'n Pepa in dress, they were typically and fantastically wrapped in gold and all things 80's.


Spod is not-so-simply a whole lot of fun, his set (below) complete with dancing girls, cut-out faces of the leading man himself and a skilfully incorporated old-school Game Boy.


Yves Klein Blue, a promising band indeed, played a great set with strong Brit-rock influences while The Grates played enthusiastically to a packed floor.

The favourite band of the night for me however, unexpectedly came in the form of three-piece Philadelphia Grand Jury who performed wonderfully to a comfortably small crowd. They play again at Oxford Arts this Thursday, if you can catch them I recommend you do. (And they're sweet with being called The Philly Jays, so really its all yes's over here)


I won't review the entirety of the night (there are professionals for that sort of thing), I'll just end on the note that you should check out Philadelphia Grand Jury (pictured above) on their myspace. Listen to Wet Winter Holiday. Actually scrap that, all their songs are well worth a listen.