Month: Dec 2016

Retro Tuesday: George Michael And The Last Christmas

BACK IN JANUARY — just 19 days into what has evolved into a wretched year for celebrity deaths — this segment pondered whether 2016 would be the year celebrity died; at that time, the names lost to the entertainment world and its audiences included David Bowie, Glenn Frey and Alan Rickman: now, dozens of deaths later and still with four days left in 2016, we add 1980s pop superstar and creative genius George Michael to a horribly burgeoning list.

If there is one thing I am thankful for, at least, in being so time-challenged as to prevent me posting in this column for most of 2016, it is that with the benefit of hindsight, I have been spared the need to turn Retro Tuesday into a perennial virtual obituary page; so many entertainment identities loved by millions have been lost this year, and here we are — again — lamenting the loss of another in the aftermath of Christmas.

News yesterday (Melbourne time; late Christmas Day elsewhere) that 1980s pop sensation, creative genius and troubled enigma George Michael had succumbed to heart failure in his sleep aged 53 came as a shock; his passing continues a long, long list of celebrity passings this year — most of them from the Baby Boomer generation born between 1946 and 1964 — that reads like a kind of macabre Who’s Who of the music, box office and wider entertainment industries: and at the risk of being grotesque, it seems appropriate to note that 2016 still has four days left to run.

With Star Wars icon Carrie Fisher critically ill, and rumours swirling about just how ill Queen Elizabeth II really is, it goes without saying that nobody wants to add any more names to the sinister roll call of global icons 2016 has presented to date.

But as one of the millions who spent the bulk of their teenage years in the 1980s, I must note that George Michael’s music made a big contribution to the soundtrack of my generation; and just like some of the giants who have preceded his passing this year — David Bowie, Prince, Leonard Cohen, among others — Michael’s presence in our lives was more permanent than just the 1980s, and evolved with us beyond the bubble-gum tunes he pumped out with Wham! as we grew with him, and he grew with us.

It is fair to say, of Generation X, that a lot of us grew up with George Michael.

For some reason, the first track that popped into my mind yesterday (when I realised the retro set for today’s column could only come from one place) was the ultra-commercial, über-chic dance track from the early 1990s, Too Funky: it brought back not-unpleasant memories of well-misspent nights in riverside clubs in Brisbane like Friday’s and City Rowers, that in the latter case at least no longer exist: and, ridiculously, I have one very specific memory of bopping away at City Rowers, close to the 5am closing time one December Sunday morning, with that track blaring as the sun began rising over the Brisbane River and bathing the “night” club in unwelcome natural light.

But the track that first brought George Michael to our collective conscience was the early smash hit he scored with Andrew Ridgeley back in the Wham! days.

It was fun, its was infectious, and — being about 12 or 13 when it was released — it was early evidence to this body at least that music could really make you move: not that I could (or can) dance, mind; any attempt by Yours Truly to do such a thing is a hideous mishmash of left feet and that awful pedestrian, half-marching, awkward shifting shuffle whose practitioners are (rightly) pilloried and laughed at for their ineptitude. My excuse was that, just like John Lennon’s story in Helter Skelter, I “might be a singer but I ain’t no dancer.”

Happily these days, that is another story.

But Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go was one of those songs that etched itself in your brain and stayed there; and Wham! itself provided so many of those mental snapshots for a generation that spring readily to mind many years after the duo’s dissolution: cruising around in the jeep and chilling out by the pool in Club Tropicana. The tale of adolescent rebellion that was Bad Boys. The melancholy, wistful reflections of Careless Whisper. Even before Michael parted company with Ridgeley, it seemed he had it all.

George Michael was, of course, a complicated, enigmatic and to some extent tortured character; never far away from trouble with the constabulary, he led a double life of denial for decades where the question of his homosexuality was concerned, eventually “coming out” after being busted doing something “lewd” in a public toilet block late one night in London.

Busted at one point for possession of drugs, what had been an open secret for years in the form of a marijuana habit took on more sinister — and worrying — overtones when Michael was arrested with a quantity of crack cocaine on his person, raising questions of a more serious problem with drug use that threatened to spiral out of control.

It was, regrettably, an all-too-familiar storyline where entertainers of his generation were concerned. Amy Winehouse’s name comes to mind. Robert Palmer’s, too. Again, the list is as endless as it is tragic.

And Michael had a well-publicised brush with death a few years back, narrowly surviving a bout of pneumonia that might have seen his papers stamped far sooner; 2017 was slated, according to reports, as the year he was set to roar back onto the global stage with a new album and a tour — perhaps remaking himself, and his music, as he had done multiple times already.

For all the catchy, glitzy, showy pop tunes Wham! yielded, it’s hard to argue with the idea that Michael’s music matured — and came into its own — when he set forth as a solo artist: a journey that was marked with the arrival of his Faith album in 1987.

In an age when having music videos banned by the BBC was almost a rite of passage for the pop artists of the day, Michael obliged with the release of the video for I Want Your Sex, and came close to scoring a trifecta on that dubious measure with Father Figure: it was a time when the censorious Beeb, and its sanctimonious, don’t-say-shit-for-a-shilling morality crusades, seem as ludicrous and as laughable now than they did even at the time; other victims of this silly charade included Samantha Fox (Touch Me!) and even our own Wa Wa Nee (So Good), and it seems a badge of honour in hindsight that these relatively innocuous film clips were treated with such a heavy hand.

But Michael’s solo career proved, more than anything, that there was so much more to him than mere schmaltzy popcorn and infectious jingles; his was a talent that stood on its own merits as serious entertainment, and it is another track from Faith! that brings up the double shot in our Retro Tuesday set today: a showcase of the vocal purity and musical genius that proved that when it came to the finest entertainers of his generation, George Michael stood head and shoulders with the best.

There are lots of bonus links today; this piece in no way attempts to serve as an obituary — plenty of those have appeared, and will appear, in other places — but as a celebration of one of those entities that I, and so many around me, grew up with.

None of us were bothered (or surprised) when Michael came out as gay; just like the Pet Shop Boys and others, he was simply a vessel through which great and enduring music filled our lives and frankly, what he did in his own time was nobody’s business.

But this troubled and complex character, like so many of his contemporaries, met with an untimely end on Christmas Day, dying peacefully in his sleep from heart failure, according to official releases from his inner sanctum: a reminder, perhaps, that the rumoured drug use with which he had struggled for decades came at a terrible eventual cost.

Next week, hopefully, we can return this segment to a simple celebration of great music that simply intersects with some aspect of daily life — free from headlines of untimely deaths and the outpouring of grief that accompanies them.

But in closing today, I leave readers with a bonus video, even beyond all the extra links and the clips I have embedded here: and in furtherance of the connection I had with Michael’s music over the years, I should note that about 15 years ago — before screaming at football matches wrecked my voice — I won a hefty prize at Crown Casino in Melbourne singing this song at one of its ubiquitous karaoke pageants.

I include it now not to be jingoistic about the fact Michael’s passing came on Christmas day, but simply to include yet another of his timeless classics in today’s trip down music’s Memory Lane.

After all, there are literally dozens of others we could have included here, but haven’t: and for that, I point people to YouTube if their CD collections, unlike mine, are devoid of George Michael’s excellent releases over the years.

 

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“What Shall We Do With The Surplus Turkey?”

ONCE AGAIN, a surfeit of turkey carcasses is jamming up refrigerators across the world this morning; as festive celebrations peter out and the coming year begins to refocus people on a return to normality in a jarringly short space of time, that expensive bird — so commonly the showpiece of indulgent Christmas largesse — risks becoming expensive landfill, and today, we get in quickly with the way to get an extra mile (and festive treat) out of what’s left.

I trust readers had a great time of it yesterday; there is something refreshingly authentic about spending time with family during the ultimate “down time” of the year, as Christmas reminds us of what really matters and what doesn’t: in my own case, still recovering from a minor albeit painful bout of surgery ten days ago, the cooking effort (combined with about a pint and a half of ale) saw me asleep before the sun went down, and awake again in the middle stages of the wee small hours.

Today’s post is as much about getting in a lot earlier than I did last year, as it is about a reprise of a post I published a couple of days later than this last December; there were some who contacted me privately after last year’s missive to say that what I had shared on this site would have been just great — except for the fact that the posting date, of 28 December, meant they had already thrown out the remnants of their Christmas turkey out of cluelessness as to what to do with it (a couple of turkey and avocado sandwiches on Boxing Day notwithstanding).

turkey-2

GOLDEN GOODNESS…it’s a shame to waste a festive turkey just because this bird can be so intimidating for those not accustomed to extracting every opportunity to use it in its entirety.

Pictured (above) is the 5.7kg (12lb 7oz) turkey I cooked yesterday; with my parents unable to make the trip from Tasmania this year, and the Jewish friends we often host on Christmas Day unfortunately preoccupied with a family member in dire health, there’s more of the precious bird left over this year than ever: and as has become customary, a good whack of it will be used tonight in a Turkey and Leek Pie, which I thoroughly recommend to readers as the ticket to extracting a second brilliant feast out of the carcass taking up space in their refrigerators this morning.

So let’s get started: you can access last year’s post, with step-by-step instructions on how to transform your leftover bird into a wonderful second act, here.

Being Boxing Day, the supermarkets will be open again today; selected greengrocers and markets, too, so between those there shouldn’t be any trouble obtaining the extra ingredients you might need to turn your turkey into a sensational second billing that makes the wonder of Christmas live on for at least another day.

Just remember — please! — no plonk; treat this with just as much reverence as you would the Christmas feast itself, and buy some decent booze to accompany it rather than some ghastly bottle of goon; be it a red, a dry white or something bubbly, your bird will repay the attention if you perform this transformation upon it, so do it the courtesy and return the favour, and you won’t regret it!

This morning’s post was only meant to be brief, so we will leave it at that: tomorrow is Tuesday and, as ever — for at least as long as I have the additional time to post regularly here — I will be back with a couple of songs (and probably a couple of bonus links too) that reflect some aspect of what’s happening around the place as we speak.

In the meantime, enjoy. Buon Appetit!

 

Retro Tuesday: On Dreams You Can Depend

THERE ARE TIMES when music captures the mood and the spirit far better — and more spontaneously — than idle banter or spirited conversation ever could; in the great soundtrack to our lives, this week sees a perfect match between events and…well, we can hardly call it melody. But like anything worth doing, it’s worth doing well: and like any good music, this week’s picks are worth playing very loudly indeed.

Ever since I got back from Canberra on Thursday night, there is a CD that has been played, on high rotation and at top volume, in my car.

There are those people who look at cars driving around, with music blasting out of every open window, and either laugh or shake their heads; I feel very sorry for those people, because whilst the imposition on them is a temporary one, they have no idea or appreciation for what the person (or people) inside a personalised wall of sound is feeling or thinking, or the head space — good or bad — in which they find themselves.

I must confess, of course, that I have been guilty of this too; an anecdote springs vividly to mind of the hot pink 1970 Torana that followed me through the drive-thru at Hungry Jack’s in Taringa in Brisbane one Saturday night, 25 years ago, as a mate and I decided to get a late-night feed after an onerous night’s work at the Sizzler restaurant up the road in Toowong. What made that encounter so ridiculous was that the song blaring from the Torana was the theme from Ghostbusters — by Ray Parker Jr — and the ridiculous atmospheric was heightened even further by the fact the bloke driving, and his girlfriend, were both wearing leopard print toga-type outfits of the Fred Flintstone/Barney Rubble variety.

It must have been a full moon in Brisbane that night…

But I have been spending an inordinate (and increasing) amount of time this year on aeroplanes, in airports, talking to airline staff, and going places by air travel; it isn’t just my weekly FIFO day trips to Brisbane 22-24 weeks of the year, but an increasing degree of business travel that has taken me to Sydney and Canberra twice each in the past eight weeks alone.

That volume of air travel will only increase next year, and it seems that Canberra — with its ghastly circular roads and indecipherable street system — will be a place I see a great deal more of as some of the projects I’m working on at the moment gather pace.

Sydney too, regrettably, although that’s another story.

But I flew out of Canberra on Thursday evening in tremendous spirits (despite the ugly date with the surgeon that awaited the following morning): the trip had been successful, and the final meeting I had on Thursday afternoon especially had put me, so to speak, on cloud nine.

This, of course, demanded loud music for the 45km drive home, and I had just the thing.

My car is equipped with its very own CD library — in truth, as many old CDs as I can cram into the glovebox, with many more at home that might someday get rotated into the mix — and on Thursday night as I left the long-term car park at Melbourne Airport, the Greatest Hits collection from Van Halen was all cued up.

I love Van Halen, much to the surprise of some who know me; but despite the harder edge than a lot of what I grew up with, that band (like Bad English, or Whitesnake, or so many others we could name) were emblematic of the trashy, flashy 1980s some of my teenage years coincided with: the big hair, the contrived extroversion, the overperformances, the big-statement “production” music videos…you get the idea.

I always thought Van Halen was better in its second incarnation, after David Lee Roth left; if anything, his replacement on lead vocals by Sammy Hagar gave the band a harder sound than the flashy, trashy David Lee Roth, although some of the latter’s solo efforts — Just A Gigolo and Just Like Paradise — count among my favourite 1980s tracks too (and yes, I have Dave’s Greatest Hits CD in my car somewhere as well).

The first of my Van Halen double shot tracks today, aptly enough, is Dreams; there are a number of “official” videos that go with this track, although the original series — featuring the US Navy’s Blue Angels squadron is still the best, as the aircraft cross each other’s paths, fly in formation, and fly in sync with one another.

Check this out.

For those who know Melbourne, the range of locations to listen to this stuff — at cracking volumes — is terrific; in my own case, heads turned at the traffic lights on the way out of Tullamarine Airport. I was rockin’ heading around the Western Ring Road, and climbing higher! higher! as I went up and over the West Gate Bridge. At the Kingsway exit, with its mandatory wait to get onto Kings Way (and again at the endless stops at intersections along that thoroughfare and on St Kilda Road), it was patently clear that the blast of Van Halen I was broadcasting on my way through Melbourne’s inner south was making me a figure of some ridicule, but I didn’t care.

After all, who would recognise me? Even if they did, what could they possibly say that could bother me? Let them gawp. Let them gape. I didn’t know about them, but I was having a mighty fine time — thank you very much!

And this brings up the second take in today’s double shot — which also just happens to be the very next track on the CD — and speaking of big, flashy, epic 1980s music videos, this one holds its place with the best of them.

I’m going back to Canberra next month, and I have to say that I am looking forward to it; the good burghers at Qantas will likely see a fair bit of me on that route in coming months, and I am finding — despite myself — that the place is beginning to grow on me, although I certainly wouldn’t ever want to live there.

Short of a political life, which I doubt I will ever have, Melbourne will do me just fine.

But as they say, “when you’re on, you’re on,” and I found myself exhilarated this week as a trip somewhere I wasn’t really keen on going turned out to hold great promise, and those readers in Melbourne who encounter a car heading toward the airport on the Tullamarine Freeway one morning at 7am, Van Halen blaring at top volume, can probably hazard a guess who it is driving it — and where I might be off to.

Enjoy today’s double shot and the bonus tracks I have linked in as well; I will see you again later in the week.

 

The Surgical Emasculation Of A Minor Problem

IF A SLEDGEHAMMER is sometimes the best way to crack a nut, then today I know what a nut must feel like; a minor problem has seen me spend a little over 24 hours in hospital, and whilst I’m all fixed up, the cure is more painful than the problem it sought to correct. None of this is unexpected or a surprise, but the experience shows that hospitals — and the afflictions that lead us to them — are places best avoided at all costs.

First things first: before I poke fun at it — and myself — I must in all seriousness minute my sincere thanks and warmest regards to the staff at Melbourne’s Alfred Hospital; I have only rarely seen the inside of a hospital as a patient since I was a small child, and with the exception of the stroke-that-wasn’t-a-stroke-at-all which caused a flight diversion and a one night stay in Sydney last year, 100% of the times I have been near a hospital over the past 20 years have involved the Alfred: and if there is a better facility in Australia, or one staffed by a better and/or more dedicated team of professionals, then I’m damned if I know where it is.

These guys rock, and I am most grateful to them today; as I suggested on Tuesday, the result of having an overly generous three-year-old this year who brought an unending stream of respiratory infections home from his daycare chums has been a lot of coughing, and the accidental consequence of that was a hernia fixed up yesterday after months of procrastination, denial, and outright wilful avoidance techniques.

I’ve been busy. Truly, I have  🙂  There is not a skerrick of exaggeration in that statement.

But even if I hadn’t been so busy this year, then from April at any rate — when a cough was accompanied by a painless, innocuous “pop” — then I would have become very “busy” indeed, and very damned quickly to boot.

This game of cat and mouse reached its inevitable zenith (or nadir, depending on your perspective) at the unsociable hour of 7am yesterday, when I handed myself — belatedly — over to the custody of the good burghers of the Alfred; for an event that instinct had motivated avoidance of on relatively flimsy pretexts for months, the end came not with a bang, nor a whimper, as much as a kind of meek acquiescence to the inevitable finality.

Mind you, I had given it a fair old shake since first going to my GP a month or so after I realised something wasn’t quite right; told it would be 18 months to two years on a public hospital waiting list, I was thrown right off kilter a few weeks later when the notice requiring me to attend an initial consultation a fortnight hence arrived in the post.

That consultation was delayed twice: they love Tuesday morning surgeries at the Alfred, and during this half of the year, my weekly day in Brisbane was a Tuesday.

Next came the pre-surgery consultation, a day filled with tests, consultations, more tests, more consultations, and a CT scan. No food. No coffee. That was rescheduled a couple of times too, this time on the equally valid pretext of unavoidable work commitments.

But where the Alfred started to get — well, shitty, to be frank — with me was when the initial date for my surgery (about three weeks ago) also elicited a telephone call from me to delay that as well; I had gone to Canberra and Sydney for a few days for work the day after receiving the letter with yet another minor ague from daycare, and experience told me it would be at least a fortnight before I was virus-free and up to an anaesthetic.

Needless to say, the registrar wasn’t impressed.

Did I actually have a problem? Did I, in fact, want to have it fixed? This was very minor, straightforward surgery, she said. If I was given another date and rescheduled yet again, I would be kicked off the waiting list altogether and sent to the bottom of the pile: with no guarantee of such a speedy effort to get me “the treatment” if that occurred.

If I wanted to be fixed up before Christmas, they were running out of opportunities to do it, she said.

And so, when summoned once more by letter to appear at 7am yesterday — poetically, the day after returning from yet another Canberra run — I knew I had been outsmarted, outfoxed and outplayed: after all, the natural instinct to avoid the discomfort of a surgical discombobulation was no match for the immutable need to submit, sooner or later, to precisely that unappealing experience.

Once again, no food, no coffee, no cigarettes this time either, and not much sleep, and I turned up only a few minutes beyond the decreed time, which didn’t matter for once: dozens of others were arriving at 7am too.

The anaethetist told me the first thing he was giving me was to make me “relaxed and chilled” as most people “panic at this point:” what he gave me neither relaxed me nor chilled me out, and I told him so a few minutes later when he returned to see if his administrations had worked.

“I’ll just give you a bit more then,” he said.

And that was that: the next thing I knew I was awake in recovery, feeling rather sore in the lower left-hand side of my abdomen, and a few hours later I was up and fully dressed: just like the soothing voices during the process had all solemnly assured me I would be.

Within another hour, the drip in my arm was removed, and I was able to walk around, go outside, eat, drink, smoke, talk on the phone: pretty much anything I wanted.

The food was surprisingly good; the “roast lamb” last night actually resembled roast lamb, although the vegetables with it left a bit to be desired (cabbage?); the tandoori chicken lunch they gave me before they sent me home actually resembled (you guessed it) tandoori chicken. But “breakfast,” with its rock-hard, ice-cold toast, margarine instead of butter, and tea instead of coffee, was bloody awful.

I haven’t even had all that much by way of painkillers; some ibuprofen and some paracetamol, yes, but I waved away half the oxycodone I was offered last night, and refused it altogether this morning.

And so, at time of publication, I am feeling a little sore and sorry for myself: like a nut that has been smashed by a sledgehammer, indeed.

Some will protest I should have accepted the oxycodone I was offered; I would counter that having done so during the bout of pancreatitis I alluded to on Tuesday, and having had flashbacks from childhood that were so vivid and lifelike I was on the phone constantly to family and friends asking all manner of dumb questions at all times of the night as a consequence, the “oxy” was the last thing I wanted.

In a few days, everything will settle down; I haven’t been cut up and reassembled, but simply patched up a bit.

The staff all told me I was a “model” patient, which made me feel about two feet tall as I slunk out to catch a taxi home, given the grief I had inadvertently (but nevertheless satisfactorily) caused them in getting me there to begin with.

And in an enduring continuation of an old story, there are lots of people (not least some of those stuck in the Alfred) with far worse things to deal with than I have: some of them might not see Christmas at all, let alone get to go home in time for it.

But in a few days, I will be back to post on something else altogether, be it again on Tuesday or beforehand.

And as the resident chef at my house, the next game of cat and mouse beckons: barred from heavy lifting or over-exertion for a month, I am going to have to direct much of the Christmas turkey preparation from an armchair, rather than doing it myself — as is my wont and my preference.

When it comes to resolving minor problems with a sledgehammer, that will be a delicate business…

 

Retro Tuesday: Looking Back To Look Forward

NEAR THE END of my busiest year in decades I find myself contemplating, again, the question I posed a year ago when I started this column: “Why begin a new blog?” After nine months of silence here (and sparse content appearing in my “legacy” column over the same period) I’m having another go at maintaining a forum looking at what makes our lives tick, and hitting “restart” today with the segment that was gaining traction before…well, before life intervened.

At first blush, the selections I’ve made for a “double shot” of video clips might seem unduly sombre, and we’ll get to those shortly; but rather than some introspective moment of insanity that’s seen me hit the keys for the first time in this column since March, let me assure readers that whilst Retro Tuesday is an ideal segment with which to launch back into this project, it is merely a moment to reflect that I am taking.

And then we will move on.

I sometimes think I must be a complete glutton for punishment, you know; my CV as it stands today boasts a full-time job, a part-time study load, a media production business I’ve occasionally picked at (despite having officially called a hiatus to), and two online opinion columns that have suffered great neglect. One, the political one we don’t talk about here, has had about a quarter of the attention it usually receives, whilst this one has had none at all in months.

But these early to middling years of my 40s are a time of change; like so many of my generation — sandwiched between our baby boomer parents to whom the world literally gave everything they ever wanted, and more, and the upstart Gen Y types some bitterly resent for their direction, drive and resolve — I turned 40 in 2012, not so much with an epiphany as with a wake-up call: if I didn’t fix things I might not just never achieve anything I wanted to achieve, but I might be dead before the penny dropped.

A stint in hospital with pancreatitis at 39, probably caused by a stone in my bile duct (visible on the first scan, but not the second) was nevertheless a clarion call to the fact I drank a bit more than I should, and that unless I reined that in, a second attack could be fatal: in the five and a half years since, I haven’t had enough “alcohol days” to even fill six months on a calendar. But even if you’re drinking below “problem” levels but still in excess of “safe” levels, and you stop, you suddenly find there’s an awful lot of things you can pack into the time you forgot existed every day — and that all of a sudden, your directions in life are that little bit divergent from the objectives you had thitherto been pursuing.

I was galvanised into action. Even if I have since packed a bit more into all that extra time than was ever realistically going to fit.

Either way, I have come a long way since the small child who, in 1980, listened to Paul McCartney’s childlike exhortations not to go jumping waterfalls: I have been doing a lot of looking backwards lately, just taking stock; that bonus track I’ve linked today is one that leapt out like a gleeful scrap of childhood when I went to find the McCartney track I actually wanted to feature, and it stopped me for a moment. It was a fleeting reminder of a time much simpler, less complicated, and more pure than the burdens we take on in adulthood will ever allow.

Is this a bad thing? I don’t think so. I loved my childhood, but I love my adult life more. And as time-poor and compromised as we all get with the rigours of life, there’s only one thing more important than today — and that’s tomorrow.

Just in case anyone thinks I’m being too heavy on this subject, I should point out that I relish the workload I have taken on these past few years; they are my ticket to somewhere different — toward career paths that should have been pursued 20 years ago, but weren’t; toward the free indulgence of particular talents and passions that were stifled, when they shouldn’t have been. Despite being the most capable person I know (and I mean that objectively) I am also one of the least successful among that cohort, and the reason for the huge workload is to redirect myself along the paths I should always have walked, but until recently didn’t: for where ability and passion lie, so does success.

Even so, nobody tells a story in song like McCartney, and in turn, a flicker of childhood reminiscence over the Waterfalls song has elicited one from me.

But in looking back, it was the masterful work he released in 1987 that I really wanted to kick today’s retro set off with.

Why begin a new blog? The easiest answer — then as now — was the instinct to just write; it’s the one thing I have always been good at, and as 2017 largely replicates 2016 in terms of the volume and breadth of workload that has hobbled my online columns this year, it will surprise few to learn that by this time next year, I’ll be a qualified journalist and PR. I may not work as a journalist (although working as a public relations practitioner might be a different story), but the undergraduate degree I started in 1990 and stomped out of in 1992 with a little over half of it complete…to avoid being railroaded into a desperately unwanted career as a journalist or English teacher…will finally, belatedly, be mine.

And then we will see.

I’m only taking a week and a half off over Christmas; even to get that far, there’s some fun to navigate: tomorrow and Thursday in Canberra, two days in hospital on Friday and Saturday (nothing major — coughing too much from the bugs kids bring home from daycare causes hernias, you know), and then what might be an interesting week in my office recovering from it.

It’s embarrassing that readers won’t need to scroll too far back to hit the pieces I posted at and around Christmas last year: and any that choose to do so should go straight to the turkey recipe article and get ready for Boxing Day… 🙂

But what I am going to try to do — both over the festive season, and through the new year — is to not only maintain this column, but to set some balance between this and my political comment page, where I used to average six articles per week, week in, week out, attracting 100,000 visits per year in its peak years.

How long is a piece of string? If we can maintain Retro Tuesday, and perhaps an article or two per week beyond that, then hopefully this forum will grow into something that can really engage with and build audiences. Funnily enough, readership by the time I had to stop posting here had already built a head of steam, and took months to peter out even from the dozen or so articles I’d posted.

Let’s hope I can do a little better than that from here…and that brings up the second track in this week’s retro set.

If we’re having any kind of discussion involving looking back, reminiscing, or otherwise taking stock of years past, there’s a certain timeless track that simply must be included. Refreshingly, it hasn’t been as overplayed and/or abused as so many anthemic pieces of its kind. (It is also a sad reflection on the drug-fucked artist whose life and career spiralled out of control in later years beneath a chemically induced stupor, although that’s another story).

Anyhow, this is the first piece here in some time, and the flakes of rust are probably evident. I will be back, but if my little field trip to the Alfred Hospital knocks the wind out of my sails more than I expect (or am prepared to allow), it may be Retro Tuesday before I next have something to say.

In the meantime — enjoy. And remember…