Wintoning Weekends

Should the vacant Saturday slot be open for some Wintoning?

Tim Winton Lecture Theatre

At least it wasn’t a cafe, but the guest lecture at the Tim Winton Lecture Theatre was another way of avoiding writing. But. Phwoar. Me own lecture theatre. Bewdy.  He knew there was a Coetzee Centre for Magical Realism at the University of Adelaide, but surely it couldn’t look this good could it? The Tim Winton Lecture Theatre at Curtin University looked pleasingly like a giant glass dunny in the skittish sunshine. The vitrified carapace was the green of a louvered window in the sleepout of the holiday shack where the rivers of dust motes would coil and crimp in the yellow air of that eternal 6 o’clock stretching almost to infinity, waiting for Dad to get back with the forgotten bag of complimentary prawn crackers. Takes ya breath away.

He hadn’t got a proper look at the place when he was special guest at the opening. Too busy trying to fight his way to the plate of mini quiches afterwards to be honest, and by the time he’d got a napkin full of ‘em and a platter of the last cocktail sushis nestling like… like…, in any case nestling, – which, by the way had gone suspiciously astray when he had to put them down to shake the Vice Chancellor’s icy hand – it had gotten dark. The sushi heist had been nicely done. Pickled ginger, plastic soy fish, everything. Gone, no doubt to some young writer’s shrine. Making matters worse was that the photographer had been constantly in his face every time he had tried to lift the one chicken satay he had managed to snaffle. And what had happened to the crumbed whiting they had said was going to be laid out? Jeezus you’d think they’d let the VIP’s get the feedbag on before the rest of the mob got a go. By the time you’d done the last photos and unveiled the plaque the bloody audience was all over the finger food like…

Phwoar he breathed. Put it behind you Tim. This time he had gotten to the place early. Have a proper squizz. The talk of mini quiches had got the digestion into gear and he pushed into the deserted dunnies.The crack of the door hinges skipping out over the tiles like a Blackwood River flatstone. “Me own theatre, and therefore me own dunny.” He seated himself on it, the last cubicle, settling his hocks like a net full of buoys, the kind you’d see trailing out over the back window of Deano’s battered old Townace on one of those resplendent arvos when we all used to scamper down the Quindalup dunes, our stubby fingers Cheezel-ringed and wrapped around each other’s scrawny wrists like rustic talismans against our own bad driving. But that was all to come much later, he mused, shifting his weight like a Cable Beach loggerhead waiting for that first leathery egg to emerge.

And speaking of which –

“Keeerist,” he grunted, cheeks flushed and sweaty as a day old blowfish on hot bitumen. “Me own theatre. Is this it? Is this what it takes? Are we there yet? But the drab grey fibreboard is silent, unresponsive, reflecting his own false modesty back at him like so much sea spray – limpid and obtuse. Outside, the muffled clatter of heavy doors and he’s transported back to them melancholic mid September mornings down the Metricup wrackline, toeing at the rugose heaps of perished kelp, as overhead those great grey storm cells roll in like stupefied dugongs in the Nhulumbuy swell. How things have changed! How he’d suffered, back then, how he’s laboured and struggled, every word, every contraction, every bloody pithy turn of phrase a victory to rival that salty, sun kissed, single moment when he’d finally copped a squizzy at Becky’s perfect, pert little lamingtons – and now, of course, at the arse end of his own career it all flows out like…



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Exit the Dragon

When you’ve passed life purpose training, then there’s no real reason to keep the tapes is there? Although you’d probably want to keep the Saddle Club on VHS right? What other purpose is there? By Orbea. Welshpool. dragon

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Chiaking because Gnarly

By Orbea. Now I don’t know how big the biggest wave I ever surfed was, but as I wiped out, the skittish flatties were…well, you know what they were up to. And it was as gnarly as Jacko’s old man’s…well you know how gnarly it was. They’re really opening themselves up with that what do you like to do on weekends question. How much chiaking, roistering, Chicos, Chikos and Doctors have they budgeted for?gnarly

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Full clips

You know it. Rokeby Road, Subiaco.


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Boulder Bugs

But what if the bugs get the dog?  By Misspent Yoof. On the Boulder block. 

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World Cup Vibrancy

i can’t tell if this is soooo previbrant that it actually goes beyond Post Vibrancy. 

Posted in PoVi (Post Vibrancy), worst garden | Tagged , | 12 Comments

Bathers Beach Pottymouth

Went to Freo’s version of Sculpture by The Sea. It was much better. The whole thing had a nicer more friendly scale. Like this piece. I can’t remember the artist’s name, but, you know, fuck youse all. Jeez dude it’s not our fault you didn’t get an invite to Cottesloe! Or Bondi. 

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