All Temp
Peabody at the Union Hotel, Newtown, NSW (Friday, August 12th, 2016)
As the life motto (embroided pillow) goes: you can do anything.
Aim large. Go big. Nothing is impossible.
That is all, of course, entirely untrue. As proven by the impossible task of trying to wipe the satisfied smirk off the face of that suited-up middle manager, exiting the Lilyfield IGA (plus Liquor!) with a devine $12.89 bottle of 2016 shiraz.
He's just going for that moment. Not the one just one sip in. Not during the verticalised last-drop tilt. Before all that. That single moment when the warm red is snuggly wrapped-up in its brown paper doona. Under his arm. All his. All ready.
Similarly, exploring for soon-expiring moments of satisfaction, is me, you and everyone middle-aged or feeling middle-aged who are currently enjoying Peabody's 12th comeback tour. It's like they've never left and despite Sydney going through several decades of transformation (in far less time) since their inception — the time feels more right than ever.
Because right now there's pubs again. Sure, they've got some Exciting Gastronomical Solutions in the back kitchen now. Hard-pressed to get an Australia-shaped parma or even the non-sauced variety amongst the various Texas-sized burger and deep-fried lamingtons and the like. But at least there's pubs like the Vic, Botany View, Union et al., with little P.A systems all set up. And floorplan arrangements that disqualify any chance of a door charge. And minds open enough to book bands without a steady stream of Triple J Unearthed four-star reviews and/or 20,000-plus bought Social Media Fans. And there's bar-spend splits. Footy games instead of too-early band slots. A set from one of Sydney's best is suited for such surrounds. Such simple, beautifully easy — no pre-organised, no ticket purchase — plans.
Amidst which, there's "Wrecking Ball". More specifically, there's that initial little palm-on-guitar grind that says "hey, your drunken mind knows this one, and it's the best". Long before that guy in front pauses from yelling out unrealistic requests and unrequired heckles to swing himself around violently for full-body throws. Long before Reg gives me a nudge during the second chorus and asks who ended up winning the game earlier because he missed the final moments, engaged out front for second-hand jazz-smoke or a few pastizzis from that gold mine place up the way.
Long before all that. Just that split-second between the intoxicated mind identification and the comforting, opening riff. All that.
Little Bay Walking Track, Arakoon, NSW (Sunday, August 14th, 2016)
Days later, two to be precise, and we're atop a cliff somewhere north of Port Macquarie and south of Coffs Harbour, just outside a seaside town that swells to seventeen times its current size in the higher seasons, engulfed by endorphins and there are some similar seconds worth savouring. No pause for conscious reflection neither, nor that of "lucky country" cliches — those that belong on lower-back tattoos featuring Ned Kelly presenting royal flush wins. Just a coastal breeze scraping-up eucaplyti odours on-route to full-inflated lungs.
Unlike Sydney Bushwalking Paths — only ever momentarily secreted before being publicly outed by some click-baiting article on the 10 Best Secret Picnic Spots in Sydney, 14 Sexiest Public Sex Spots in Sydney or 28 Best Places to 'Get Lost in Love' This Valentines Day (in Sydney) — the path here is public knowledge, yet hardly publicly over-run. A lone trekker, concerned of our provisions and compass knowledge, and a pint-sized 4WD (or maybe AWD) are all we share the path with the entire day, aside from those at the pair of public ends — Smoky Cape Lighthouse with the picnicking Monster Energy Drink cap-wearing dads and their delinquent offspring, and the deadpan-faced roos with their "mind your car for a dollar" offers at the Little Bay Picnic Area.
Walking solitude that's welcomed. As lost in unpopulated isolation (with Lover) high up here is a requirement. Down there, we're shoulder-to-shoulder like sardines with all the like-minded comrades. Both intricate assets of such highs. Highs that last mere seconds, milli-seconds at times, but worth all throbbing heads and calves that follow day-after.