Hello friends, family, lovers, ex-lovers, enemies, travel buddies, pen pals, homos, straighties, in-betweenies, colleagues, comrades and people I met in a bar just once but we hit it off really well and exchanged email addresses and then never stayed in touch (until now),

I’m going to be living below the poverty line. Yep I’ll be surviving on $2 a day, eating just rice and beetles – Bear Grylls style! And no beer!!

You may know that I’m studying my Masters in Social Development. My main interest is sanitation and trying to change the fact that 1 billion people currently can’t take a crap without contaminating their water supply. Not. Cool.

You can help educate young people about the effects of extreme poverty. Just sponsor little old me! Any little bit helps – $5 is awesome, $20 is awesomer, anything more is totally the awesomest.

http://www.everydayhero.com.au/lividlili

For everyone for whom I’ve ever cooked, kicked out of my kitchen, presided over the bbq, brought a plate; for all those people I’ve shared a meal with, or those who have generously shared their food with me… please support this program and wish me luck and lots of carbs!


I felt the hair of the woman near me brush against my arm. I looked down to see why and I thought, oh she’s fallen asleep. How odd, because only a minute before she’d been doing her make up. Well I suppose you get your sleep whenever you can when commuting. Just squeeze in a minute’s nap between stations after your lippy’s done.

But then I saw she was actually leaning over her phone, apparently watching a movie or something. Well, I suppose you watch snippets of film whenever you can. A minute of film here and there and you might get through a season of Lost in a couple of months.

But then I realized she was taking a photo of my shoes. She was using her hair, her well-coiffed hair, to hide what she was doing. The movement of the train meant she had to take a few shots before she got them in frame. I stayed as still as I could, trying to help her. Well, I suppose you find the bizarre whenever you can.


A woman in my building is wearing sensible but sexy white undies and a matching white bra. I know this because I can see them through her see-through white dress.

Sometimes I wonder if ‘smart casual‘ means ‘if you saw it in a magazine, it’s okay – even if it was in the beach wear section‘.

I’m not the highest standard of dresser in the universe. Both my jobs are fairly casual and I usually wear jeans. But personally, I always wear sleeves in work. This is for a few reasons.

One, guys have to wear sleeves, so I don’t think I should prance around with my bare shoulders.

Two, I have a tattoo on my arm, and whilst no one would ever really object to seeing it, to me it just doesn’t feel right. It’s not something I share with my work colleagues unless we’re also sharing a beer.

Three, I have hairy armpits. This freaks people the fuck out. What can you do? It’s a funny old world.

Still, no matter what your personal preferences are, I’m pretty sure that if everyone in the building can see your underwear you’ve gone wrong somewhere.


Being a classy bird, I walked home in the morning of the first day of the last year of the first decade of the 21st century  with my sandals in my hand. Walking barefoot from Surry Hills to Redfern with my mask in my other hand, I pondered the proliferation of glass and drug paraphernalia, but my feet were mostly unsoiled by anything except city grime.

Until I got home. And found this on my doorstep.

Glass doorThx uze guyz!

Oh yeah. I’m from Redfern.


A horrible blight is afflicting our young people. From the streets of Parramatta to the alleys of Darlinghurst, teenagers and young twenties are suffering; it is a modern scandal. We should be ashamed that they cannot afford the bare necessities.

Ashamed!

Please give generously to the Buy A Belt Foundation.

King Street Bum

King Street Bum

For the gods’ sake, our teens depend on you! Our future depends on you!


Last week, heading up the coast for Christmas, I decided to take a taxi to my parents’ place rather than hang around Gosford Station for 20 minutes waiting on a bus.

Somehow, the taxi driver started talking about climate change. Honestly, I DID NOT START IT.

“Oh, all these scare mongerers,” she said. “I mean, who cares about two degrees change or whatever. I can’t see it’ll make any difference. The temperature changes all the time.”

“Um, yeah,” I said. “But global climate temperature is different to everyday local temperature.”

“Yeah, but you know, it’s just all about taxing us, giving us another tax. And like, there isn’t any science behind it—”

“—yeah there is!”

“—there’s just no science behind it. I mean, you never hear about it on the radio, or on TV or anything. Where’s the science?”

“Look,” I said. “I read a lot of science books. The science is there. It’s robust. There’s over a hundred years of climate science.”

“But where is it?” she persisted. “It’s not in any of the newspapers.”

“You’ve got to go to a library,” I said. “Borrow a book. The fact is, those guys aren’t going to publish any of the science, you won’t see it on Today Tonight or in the Daily Telegraph or on talkback radio. You just won’t.”

“But why not?” she asked. “Why not?”

It’s a good question. Why can’t we read about actual climate science in any of the mainstream publications?


Tree sock

21Dec09

Once when I was in London, I dropped my beanie somewhere near the Houses of Parliament. I was halfway across Westminster Bridge before I noticed. I was crushed. I loved that beanie. I got it in Bulgaria. It had ugly little flaps that tie under your chin. It was the one thing that kept me from dying during the cold European winters.

Anyway, I walked slowly back towards the station, keeping a look out for it. You never know, I thought, it could just be lying on the footpath somewhere. A little trampled, maybe, but still okay.

And sure enough, just outside the Tesco Express, I found my beanie. It was neatly folded and sitting on a low wall. Someone had picked up my scungy beanie and taken care of it. I love London.

I’m not sure that if I found a sock on George Street I would pick it up and tie it around a tree, but you never know.

Tree sock


Their work is done. They pause for a wee break. Ah, says Number Nine. That was a good day. We lit up as much as we could. And now we’re done. That’s a good day.

But Number Six looks doubtful. Maybe all this work isn’t worth it. Maybe it’s not all it could have been. Maybe life could have been spent better doing something else, helping someone else, making something else tick. What the hell have I been doing? What the hell is my life?

But these thoughts don’t trouble the Town Hall light. He knows – I did my duty. I served my time. My comrades and I are…. signing out….

Town Hall globes


Drain the last of the dregs. Put down the drinks, eat one last crisp. Screw the lid on the ginger beer. Check your phone. Check your Facebook. There’s another party down the road. Tim says it’s just starting. This one is over. We can clean up tomorrow.

After the party

Can someone hit the lights?

Newtown ICA


Edward Lane

Clearly the backstreets of Redfern/Darlington support a powerful posse of Malaysian patriots and Edward Lane is their headquarters.

Can’t see the evidence of their zealotry? Look again.Malaysian zealotry at work