Skip to main content

South Perth Reverie


Zeitgeisters,

For those of you who have been with me from the start, you know I’m all about Perth, and even more I’m all about South Perth. If you’re sitting in Shanghai or New York or Salzburg or Rio or somewhere, reading this and thinking, Man, that Perth, Western Australia sounds like the place to be, then you’d be right.

The artwork above attempts to give you some idea of the vista you will have in store for you when you arrive. The photo is mid-1990s but basically it only omits the awesome Belltower and the even more awesome Perth Convention Exhibition Centre.

My bit, South Perth, is very middle-class and lovely. I’m a short walk from the Swan River (see picture) and can have a coffee whilst watching porpoises frolic at the Mend Street Jetty if I please. Okay, I only saw the porpoises once, but that’s pretty good.

Last Sunday I encountered the well-heeled urchins of our area, twice.

The first time was at the crack of dawn on Sunday morning or as some would describe it, 9.30am. I could hear the door bell buzzers being rung in our building. Then my buzzer rang. Then more buzzing. Usually this means a religious representative, a person-of-faith, is searching for someone to proselytise. I’m never rude to them, I merely say “No thank you.”

I can see the front gate from my flat. I grumpily got out of bed and cracked open my front door. Five well-dressed, non-Oliver Twist-like urchins of approximately fourteen years of age stood there radiating good-health. They laughed lightly to each other as they moronically pressed on the various buzzers. “Hey,” I said in a scratchy voice that made them turn as one, “PISS OFF!!” They stopped immediately turned and walked off. One politely threw back a “Sorry!” as he departed.

Later on in the day whilst on the Angelo Street strip, (Actually, it’s not a strip yet, but if we Angeloni* talk it up, then who knows?) I spotted more, or perhaps the same, urchins picking mandarins from a street tree. They were on each others shoulders to reach the higher up fruit. It reminded me of the sort of thing that author Tom Hungerford might have penned about his days in South Perth when it was semi-rural and there were market gardens along Mill Point Road.

Speaking of T.A.G.(Tom) Hungerford, I struggled to find a good on-line bio of the author. The Perth Theatre Company one is fine, but the fact I didn’t have, say, seven or eight to choose from in the first two pages of a Google search, says something about how we in Perth regard our home-grown talent. Interesting.

Elevate The Insignificant

Mr Trivia

*Note: Please note my coining of the neologism Angeloni to refer to the people living in the Angelo Street Precinct of South Perth. Obviously I based this construction on the more famous Angeleno to describe a denizen of Los Angeles. Feel free to share this new word with your friends and family. And yeah, I guess Angelono would be the singular form but it sounds naff. Lingo buffs please rush to commend/condemn.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

What's with George Eads' Hair?

DailyCeleb.com & David Edwards


Hey Zeitgeisters,

Bet you thought this blog would never top “What’s with Bradley Whitford’s Hair?” For those of you who weren’t part of that historical blog entry, it was the glittering moment where I wondered what’s with West Wing star Bradley Whitford’s hair. Good times.

However, tonight, while watching the current series (in Australia) of CSI :Original Recipe, I was forced to witness the unpleasantness of George Eads’ new(ish) 'do and I felt compelled to blog on’t.

George plays the part of Nick Stokes and has spent some 5 or 6 seasons with a haircut “you could set your watch to,” as Grandpa Simpson might say. It was always short; it always had that US Marine Corps vibe; it was always as dependable as the ebbing and flowing of the tides.

Now in something of an El Nino effect, I note that someone in Jerry Bruckheimer’s organization has decided to mess with the length of George’s crowning glory.

Although I chiefly watch CSI waiting for Grissom…

What’s with Bradley Whitford’s Hair?

Okay, Zeitgeisters, that’s as shallow an attention-grabbing start as one could ever want, but I really want to know. And sure, I’m really talking about Josh Lyman’s hair. (I’m like one of those people who insist on calling an actor by their character’s name – only in reverse. e.g. “Go Knight Boat!”)

Whitford plays Deputy Chief of Staff, Josh Lyman, in the Aaron Sorkin-created, NBC television series The West Wing. He plays this part to a tee and now he’s set to do great things in the new Sorkin drama, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. I know this last bit because the Angriest Ex-Video Store Clerk in the world told me.

Oh, and Whitford’s married to the awesome Jane Kaczmarek who plays mom, Lois, in the series Malcolm in the Middle. So Mr Whitford’s your regular pop-cultural icon and yardstick for excellence. We’re here in this, frankly, puzzling cultural landscape, because I’ve just finished watching season four of The West Wing on DVD. And Josh Lyman’s hair has bothered me throughout. It’s…

Institutional Memory

Note: If you’re here, you were connected with Perth’s Film and Television Institute at some point. The FTI in the form that we know it, is being wound up and some of its functions are being taken over by ScreenWest. This is my idiosyncratic tribute to the FTI as it was formerly.
I’m not someone who plans things. Depending on how well you know me, you might be saying “Amen to that” right about now. There was no plan to have anything to do with filmmaking when my friends and I entered our first efforts in the WA Film and Video Festival almost 35 years ago (forerunner of the WASAs). We made experimental films on Super 8 movie film; in-camera editing, falling down sand dunes, raw meat and tomato sauce representing the terrible effects of our filmic violence. Super-8 was the cheapest type of movie film. 8 millimetres in width. You could shoot two-and a-half to three-and-a-half minutes depending on your frames-per-second. We had no money, so shot “longer” at 18 fps. Our tiny epics, like “Mea…