The Hobart Chronicles XXI: Action From The Back Section

"Let me get some action
From the back section,
We need body rockin’
Not perfection."
- Beastie Boys, Body Movin', 1998

"When I think of home it sparkles
And so brightly shines."
- Paul Kelly, All Downhill From Here, 1991

How can you not like the Beastie Boys? Even when Sabotage is performed by a 4-piece classical string quartet, it’s gooood. (I just heard it with my own ears on Spicks & Specks).

Speaking of what’s not to like, I went to Melbourne over the weekend, and amongst other things did some shopping. An amount of this occurred near my ancestral home in the outer south-eastern suburb of Springvale (known by some locals as ‘Chingvale’ – mostly those on the dole who were sore about the migrants taking the cleaning jobs said locals wouldn’t do in the first place). Springvale Road is a shopping nirvana for anyone seeking fresh fish, lean pork, exotic green vegetables and cheap plastic thingumys imported from south east Asia.

While convincing my Dad he really wanted to buy me a granite mortar and pestle, not to mention roast duck for dinner, I noticed a marvellous fashion accessory for sale.

Now I am resigned to my genetic inheritance as much as the next person – we are all inexorably getting stouter, balder, requiring glasses, growing multiple chins, and otherwise turning into our parents.

In my case, just one of the multiple blessings I am looking forward to without pleasure is my bum becoming square and flat. Mmmm. You may laugh, but next time you see a short Eurasian woman over 40 from behind, you’ll know what I mean.

Well, I no longer have to dread reaching that day without help. There at a little stall, displayed in a kaleidoscopic range of colours and sizes, were stacks of girdle-like undies fitted with curved bottom-shaped inserts. This product may not be news to you, but it was to me. Thankfully, they were tagged with a helpful sign, hand-written, declaring them to be “Padded Bums”. Come my 40th, I’ll be there with wallet open and bells on. My bum will indeed look big in one of these.

The reason to wait a few years before stocking up on Padded Bums is that I may well have to revise the size I’ll be buying, if the weekend’s food and alcohol consumption is any indication.

In honour of the brief return of WMD (Warning: Mad Damian) to cover the Melbourne Air Show for the pre-eminent international warmongering magazine he writes for, the hard core of the RMIT Journalism class of nineteen-ninety-something got together at alumnus Nat’s place for a barbecue.

While not resulting in the debauchery such an occasion would have led to a decade and a half ago, it was nevertheless a fine event. A variety of spouses, no less than eight rug-rats and one eighth-month pregnancy (the host’s) did not stop the event from running to nine hours’ duration, during which time several slabs of beer and an indeterminate quantity of wine were consumed (soaked up by an array of quality food the like of which we could not have envisioned back in the sharehousing days). The conversation flowed as freely and enjoyably as the beverages.

Approaching 40 (or indeed, having passed it in a few cases) was no hindrance to the good time had by all. I am not sure if this is a celebration of life, or merely a disgrace. Suffice to say, when the last guests left it was after witnessing the remaining rug-rat swigging from a VB stubbie (helpfully filled with water by her doting father) and dancing to TISM’s Defecate On My Face (she's going to turn out just like her mother). WMDamian, J'Dubya and I were the last three stayers (or more correctly, hangers-on), and each being unencumbered by spouse or child we demonstrated our commitment to the indolent, responsibility-retarded ways of Gen X by being driven to our respective temporary domiciles by my long-suffering Dad.

This is not to say the weekend comprised so much drinking and shopping that it was devoid of culture. I invited WMDamian to the National Gallery of Victoria (after lunch at the Clyde with Kirb), because I wanted to see the exhibition of Egyptian antiquities. Alas, the exhibition turned out to be at the National Gallery of Australia in Canberra - it seems I got my NGV and NGA mixed up.

However, in the foyer of the NGV, behind the water wall, was about half a tonne of white Leggo. Some crazy installation, to which passers by were invited to add. Gallery staff periodically reduce structures back to their elemental pieces, and the process goes on. Perhaps it's a metaphor for creation, or evolution, or simply the passage of time. Certainly it made contributors appear to have regressed to infancy (or progressed to Rain Man ability - not sure which).

No metaphors necessary in WMDamian's contribution - as you can see, he was determined to take no prisoners and make the tallest structure possible. "Size does matter", he asserted, and I could but take him at his word. WMDamian also added a King Kong, though I'm not sure what that signified; he didn't attempt a Vivien Leigh. I made a more modest tower resembling a block of Swiss Cheese.

The NGV staffer sneered at Damian's ambitions and escalating construction, and as we left it became apparant why - some earlier builder had erected a colossus more than 3 metres tall. So I suppose WMD lost that round.

Then again, it could be argued that we, the temporary artists, were all winners - it is a remarkably zen activity to be given a tool and no boundaries, and the brief to simply create. Participants rose from their labours appearing refreshed and joyous as children.

Regrettably, my return to work today also meant a return to neat and tidy work attire. There has been a definite tightening across the seat of my usually generous pants, indicating the weekend had indeed produced some action in my back section.

No need for the Padded Bum just yet.