V/Line Fine

For some reason, the Covid pandemic made me nostalgic for public transport, and possibly as a result of some form of delirium, I decided that a trip on a V/Line train might be a good idea. With that in mind, I found myself on a train platform at Southern Cross Station early on a Monday morning, preparing for a trip to the magical Victorian border town of Albury. 

The purpose of my visit was to photograph a motel, The Astor, which I had seen online, that reminded me of some of the ‘California’ style motels that I had seen on the Gold Coast as a kid in the 1970s and 1980s, with a view to completing a landscape painting. On a trip to the Gold Coast in the previous year, I had noticed these monuments to mid-century campness seemed to have been demolished, to make way for an increasing number of high-rise developments. On that visit, I ended up painting a picture of the Cavil Avenue police station. To me this seemed to be one of the only remaining certainties in the ever changing Surfers Paradise landscape.

I waited until the last minute to book my ticket to Albury, and found myself with an unreserved seat on the train, which meant I had to sit at the back of the ‘A’ carriage with other suitably unprepared travellers.  

The first passenger I noticed was a young lady, who, to my eyes, could have been plucked from a country town at any point in the last half century. She was possibly in her late teens or early twenties, and wore stonewashed denim jeans, with shoulder length, straw-like hair, and a nondescript t-shirt. The only thing that anchored her in the now was a vape pen sticking out of her back pocket.

I smiled weakly at her when entering the train, as she averted my gaze and barely acknowledged me. I have noticed this dismissive reaction increasing since I turned fifty… but I comforted myself on this trip in the knowledge that I had also chosen to wear my fake fur hat with flaps, which I initially bought as part of a halloween costume, and now had ended up as part of my regular wardrobe. In my mind it was the hat of a high-ranking Soviet-era political leader, but in reality, it gave off more of the impression of Cousin Eddie dumping raw sewerage into Clarke Griswald’s sewer in the Christmas Vacation movie. Surely it was the hat’s fault?

The girl seemed very agitated as the train pulled away from the station, and accosted the attendant almost instantly as he pulled open the blind in the small food service area. 

‘Give me three Red Bulls’, she yelled at the man.

He looked bemused, but went to get them, before the girl, unprompted, felt like she needed to explain herself.

‘It’s alright, I’ve got ADHD, I need them to help me sleep’, she said, before necking one almost instantly, opening another and returning to her seat.

She was seated near another seemingly unremarkable man, possibly in his mid 60s, who dressed like a farmer in a flannel shirt and jeans, but wore the shoes of a 15 year old skater boy. He seemed to be on the phone to a friend or relative discussing some church group he was involved with, and despite his Christian tendencies, was gleefully dishing the dirt on the other group members. 

The man (Let’s call him Barry) spoke in a bellowing tone of voice, which seemed to denote gravitas, even though he really didn’t seem to have anything important to say. Like the girl (let’s call her Tina), he also seemed to be fixated on the food service area and attendant, who wore a stoic, yet increasingly weary look on his face as the journey progressed.

Barry didn’t ask questions, he just regaled the food service attendant with ‘facts’ such as ‘nobody buys the hot food on that menu’, ‘people don’t pay with cards any more these days - it’s all cash’ and ‘that brand of coffee machine wasn’t designed for train use - that’s why it isn’t working.’  

 

Barry and Tina eventually started chatting to each other. They were like two moons caught in each other’s gravity, drawn by their own unique peculiarities. Barry told Tina that he had been travelling around Australia for the last six years - to me this sounded like he was possibly homeless - but he seemed relatively cashed-up and well presented.

Tina started discussing her home life and admitted that she once was addicted to meth amphetamines, but once she kicked that habit, realised she had ADHD and was prescribed Ritalin… resulting in a net-zero gain. Following this revelation, Tina decided to sleep on the luggage racks and moved everybody’s bags onto the floor before curling up and drifting off into a fitful Red Bull-induced slumber.

It was then that some commotion started at the front of the carriage with a woman yelling, and another woman trying to placate her. Barry couldn’t wait to get involved and see what was happening. He discovered from the conductor that a woman at the front of the carriage was being kicked in the shins by another woman, who didn’t want anyone sitting near her. Barry saved the day by getting the woman being attacked to sit in the back of the carriage with us. 

The poor woman (who was neatly presented and dignified-looking) went from being kicked in the shins, to being sat next to a country bumpkin who wouldn’t shut up, a girl asleep in the luggage racks, and a middle aged weirdo wearing a fake fur hat. Barry and the woman (let’s call her Angela)  proceeded to engage in awkward, stilted conversation for the next half an hour before Angela got off the train in Wangaratta. 

Almost as quickly as Angela left her seat, the vacuum was filled by another presence. I looked up from my book and did a double take, as a sense of foreboding entered the room - it was the Shin Kicker from earlier. My initial assessment was she didn’t appear that strange… possibly in her early 70s, with long, straggly unkempt hair, round owl-like glasses, a jumper and jeans. Certainly not someone I would deem a ‘threat’… but just to be sure - I returned to my book and didn’t make any eye contact.

Some time later the Shin Kicker piped up.

‘Hey fucker - you’ve been secretly filming me for the last half an hour!’ she seemingly yelled at random. I then realised it was me she was addressing.

I had taken my camera along to take photos of the motel in Albury, which had been sitting in my lap since the journey began. Technically, it had been facing the Shin Kicker the whole time, but the lens cap was on, and the camera wasn’t even turned on. I thought briefly about explaining this to her, but thought better of it, and simply turned the camera away and rolled my eyes.

‘That’s something even a four year old knows, dickhead’, she yelled again at me, before mumbling under her breath to herself with various threats for the next 20 minutes.

I don’t know if it’s just me - but these sort of encounters, no matter how ridiculous, just seem to strip away the years and leave me feeling like an embarrassed little school boy, who had just answered a question incorrectly and was being mocked by his classmates. Her comment about camera etiquette being something ‘a four year old knows’ also made me feel bad as a parent, because I had never taught my child anything about how to use a camera at that age… So thanks, Shin Kicker, for making me feel bad on two separate levels!

Thankfully, the train soon terminated at Albury and I quickly alighted, racing ahead of my carriage-mates so as not to inadvertently cause another ‘scene.’

The day I had chosen to visit Albury was unfortunately gloomy and overcast. Shadows are usually something I look for in a painting subject, and this is hard to achieve without daylight. 

The Astor Motel was just down the road from the train station, so I hurried there and started taking some photos. Initially I was not too impressed… the motel had been recently renovated, so the soft pastel colours didn’t feel as authentic as the sun-bleached Gold Coast colours I remembered from my youth. Perhaps the contrast of these vibrant colours against the gloomy Albury sky could be something I could work with as a compromise?

Anyway, my mission was over within an hour, which was lucky, because that’s all the time I had before having to catch the last train back to Melbourne. The return journey would be easier because I had an allocated seat this time. Surely this would be a more dignified way to travel?

Before the train had even left the station, an overweight woman was travelling down the aisle talking to the passengers, who seemed to be dismissing her. She got to me, held out a box of chocolate ice creams and asked if I wanted one. I told her ‘no’, and she explained there was nothing wrong with them, but she couldn’t eat more than four. She tried to convince me to take one for longer than felt comfortable before leaving in a huff.

After she left, the train conductor walked down the aisle checking tickets. He looked more like a prison guard than a train conductor, with heavily tattooed arms, thick horn-rimmed glasses and a shaved head. He seemed to be in a very bad mood.

A man in his mid-forties had his feet on the seat in front of him, which the train conductor remarked upon, asking him to please remove them. The man angrily objected, before getting into a heated argument. I dunno, this seems like a weird hill to die upon to me. ‘Being allowed to place your feet on a train seat’ is not a cause I can see mentioned in a eulogy as a noble cause of death, as mourners wipe away anguished tears.

I only had to endure one more trial for the rest of this journey home… The man behind me was playing a game on his phone, whilst loudly chewing gum for three hours straight, and intermittently kicking the back of my seat. I had some ear-buds which had run out of charge that I used as makeshift ear-plugs, but these had little effect. To put the journey into perspective, I think he might have been the least annoying passenger I encountered on my journey.

Eventually I alighted from the V/Line train at Broadmeadows station. I sat waiting for a metro train for another half an hour. Black, track-suited figures farted and belched into the cold night air as they downed their fast-food Subway and McDonalds dinners. They were weirdos, but at least they were local weirdos.

As I walked back from the train station to my house, I felt slightly disappointed that I had gone to all that trouble to photograph the motel at Albury, which ended up not being quite what I expected… but then again… like the passengers on this train journey, maybe under the surface it’s nothing like you would expect. 

The Pen of Destiny

I like to think of myself as a rational human being - I don't believe in ghosts, I don't think celestial bodies have any bearing on personality types and I don't buy into conspiracy theories. I also consider myself to be an atheist - although a rather reluctant one - as there are a few people I wouldn't mind seeing smote.

In spite of all this rationality, however, I seem to have an inexplicable belief in fate. Like all kids, I had little rituals I followed when I was growing up - most notably an aversion to stepping on cracks in the pavement. In my mind, I would rationalise this thought by saying something like 'It will be a good day at school today, if I don't step on any of the cracks between here and the end of the street.' There's no logic to this way of thinking, but somehow it was comforting to me. Perhaps it was an early sign of an obsessive-compulsive disorder, but I think ultimately I was too lazy to go through with a full-blown condition.

I guess I've always had a love of stories, so I always expected life to be like a story. This probably turned me into more of an observer than a participant and instead of rationally driving the narrative of my life myself, I always looked for 'signs' that would move my story forward.

An example of this is when I was trying to decide on what subject to major-in for my senior high school art class. I had some success in my junior years doing sculptures, and was celebrated for my 'deconstructed tea set', which I carefully made out of clay before dropping from a ladder and 'distorting' the cups and saucers until they were unusable. I think even at this point in my life I enjoyed displaying my nihilistic streak.

I also made a clay figure that was a homage to the 'teacher' from the Pink Floyd film 'The Wall.' This excellent piece of art still exists to this day and now has pride of place as a door stop in my parent's house.

You'd think this early success would have led me towards doing sculpture as a major - but no! - something happened that changed my mind. In the final semester at the end of my junior year, we were asked to stand in one of three groups - sculpture, photography or painting, to signify what our major was to be. Just as I was walking towards the sculpture group, another boy stole my pen. I went to chase him to get it back and accidentally ended up in the 'photography' group. I considered this a 'sign' that I was meant to do photography, even though I had shown barely any interest in this subject in the previous years of art class.

I had visions in my head of recounting this story many years later while accepting a Pulitzer Prize for photography. I'd recount how this chance decision led to a vast and impressive body of work and a long and celebrated career.

But that was not to be the case. I hated photography! It was still the pre-digital age when I was at high school and I struggled to get photos developed in the dark room, didn't feel inspired by any of the assignments and most importantly, had no real affection for photography as an art and certainly no real 'heroes' in the field that I looked up to.

Half way through the semester I begged to return to sculpture, which I eventually did, much to the chagrin of my art teachers.

Looking back now, I wonder why I had stuck with photography for as long as I did, when I knew I hated it. Why had I done photography in the first place?

I've had a lot of time to think about it in the intervening years and have come to the conclusion that I find it hard to accept when I've made a wrong decision - even when I obviously have - but also, I find it hard to accept change. There's a real part of me that thinks when I've chosen a path that it then must be the one I follow for all eternity - and no outside forces will affect this in any way. I have learnt the hard way that this is never the case.

When I left school I joined a band that was relatively successful locally and it was the first time I felt like I really 'belonged' to a social group who were on the same wavelength as me. I remember thinking at the time that we would probably always play music together and end up like The Rolling Stones - looking a little worse for wear, but ultimately celebrated and much loved.

We probably played together as a group for like two years. It was not quite the illustrious career I was imagining, but at least I'm still friends with these guys today. I went on to play with many other groups after that, but it always felt like a desperate need to connect with that original 'high.' Even now I still persist when all our previous fans have moved on with their lives and barely go out any more.

Of course, to a certain extent, I moved on as well. I got married, had a child and got a Communications degree at university and for a long time everything went as it was expected to go. It actually seemed like I had succeeded in tenaciously maintaining the status quo! - But then, of course, everything changed.

Usually when people get married, there is a section of the vows that says something along the lines of 'until death us do part' - my contribution to our wedding vows was an excerpt of dialogue from an episode of Star Trek and I'm sure it didn't say anything about this. Perhaps I had jinxed myself yet again, but our marriage ended after ten years.

During those years of marriage, I always had the same job - working for a media company that had hours that fit in with my parenting routine. I guess I considered looking after our daughter to be my 'job' during this time and my real job to be something of a hobby. The media job ended after being outsourced overseas.

I was a bit upset by the sudden lack of employment,  because I did feel some level of loyalty to the company after such a long time. Eventually, I realised that 'business is business' and you could not expect some corporate entity to have feelings one way or another about an employee.

My marriage was a different story, however, as there were feelings involved on my part and (presumably) feelings involved on my spouses part as well. I guess I hadn't expected that narrative to end so soon, but at least we still have the narrative of our daughter.

My daughter has probably helped me the most in getting better at accepting change, as I see her change on a daily basis. Now that she is almost ten, I can accept that she has her own thoughts and feelings and is not the little girl she once was. It is a little bit sad, but also something of a relief, even if she can sense how lame I actually am and doesn't like the new coat I ordered off E-Bay!

I guess all this sudden change has helped me to learn something that I should have known years ago. It's important to start something and follow a path, but it is also important to know when it is time to give up and start something new.

In future, I think I'll make my own road based on rational decisions and drive down it with purpose, always trying to read the signs in order to be a bit more aware of any off-ramps and cul-de-sacs. When I finally reach my destination, I'm going to park my car, take a confident and satisfied breath of fresh air and stride purposefully up the garden path to the front door of my home. Of course, I'll still be careful not to step on any of the cracks!

Come Said The Boy

'Come Said The Boy' was a chart-topping song released by the Australian band Mondo Rock in the year 1983. It is the creepiest song ever written!

It tells the exploits of a teenage couple during a 'party night at the end of school' where at least one of the protagonists has a sexual encounter for 'the first time.' There is nothing wrong with this as subject matter per-se, but the voyeuristic nature of the song, combined with the fact that Mondo Rock's lead singer Ross Wilson was 36 at the time, makes me a little uncomfortable.

When I hear the song, I can't help but think of the phenomenon known as Toolies - adult males who prowl Schoolies' Week on The Gold Coast every year, preying on drunk and naive young women.

I am not accusing Ross and his band mates of this, but I do have a mental picture of Mondo Rock spying on the beach from a nearby high-rise through a pair of binoculars, making notes on teenage mating rituals so they can mine some material and write a classic teen anthem.

A lot about the song doesn't ring true to me - although, I must admit - I have no personal recollection of 'party nights at the end of school.' This is because most of these parties for me involved drinking two VBs and passing out on my friend's driveway. 

I suppose in hindsight 'the first time' might seem like a life-altering event for most, but it was probably nowhere near as eventful as the chorus-dripping guitar, arpeggiated synths and dramatic minor chords in this song would have us believe. Adults would probably like to think this song might be the soundtrack to their 'first time', but I would suggest something more like 'The Benny Hill Theme' as an appropriate analogy.

Also, the lyrics of the song suggest the woman 'knew some older men' and I guess it's good that they don't seem to pass judgement on her for this, but it's telling that this fact was even mentioned at all.

Because of the beach setting, the boy in the song is presumed to be some fit, muscular surfer dude, but when the lyrics come to the part where the girl asks him to 'come on be a man for me', I can't help thinking of a wheezing, asthmatic nerd, whose pasty white skin can barely conceal his racing heart jumping out of his chest with anxiety. Surely, the pressure from this sort of request would be a deal breaker for him and he would excuse himself, adjust his classes, take a puff on his inhaler and go off to finish his cryptic crossword in silence?

Maybe I'm simply not the key demographic for this song, but I was 12 when it was released and that should be an ideal age. I find it interesting that the song has been so widely accepted and even covered by such divergent talents as John Farnham and Tex Perkins. A quick look on Spotify also reveals a jazz-influenced acoustic version which conjurs up images of an even older voyeur spying on young teenagers - and more disturbingly - it makes me consider old people reminiscing about their own exploits... Maybe they're still at it!

Perhaps the original isn't so bad after all - I'll let you decide:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gujdbZ1csng

How far can too Fargo?

For such a tiny place, a lot of big things seem to happen in the town of Fargo.

After the successful Coen Brothers movie, audiences could be forgiven for thinking the story of a bungled kidnapping, orchestrated by hapless car salesman Jerry Lundegaard, would have been the end of trouble for the town. Surely, the shocked residents could now breathe a sigh of relief and return to their unremarkable lives?

Unfortunately for them – No!

Luckily for us, author and TV writer Noah Hawley (Bones, Legion) saw further menace lurking under the surface and has so far devised three successful series about other sinister goings-on in the town.

The Coen Brothers’ shoes are big ones to fill, so Hawley kept fans on side in the first series by cleverly keeping to the formula that made the movie work, focusing on a domestic issue between a man and his wife, which then careens madly out of control. In the subsequent two series, however, Hawley really managed to pull out all stops and put his own stamp on the show.

The major difference in the second series is that it’s a period piece set in the 1970s, with immaculate sets, costuming and a sepia-toned look that really brings the era to life.

The plot involves another story of domestic turmoil, but this time painted on a bigger canvas and most notably featuring other story elements such as faux documentary footage and an unexpected extra-terrestrial visitor.

The events in season two revolve around Kirsten Dunst’s character Peggy Blumquist accidentally running over local bad guy Rye Gearhardt, who is momentarily distracted by what appears to be a UFO. The UFO could just have easily been a cat, a faulty traffic light, or ice on the road, but making the distraction an extra terrestrial simply emphasizes how absurd and unpredictable life can be – and there is plenty of absurdity in Fargo.

Viewers were a little frustrated that this UFO element was never explained, but perhaps it represented a theme that has so far featured in all the Fargo interpretations: the random element of chance.

Sci-fi is again featured in season three. A case of mistaken identity leads to the death of grumpy Octogenarian Ennis Stussy. When his step-daughter goes through the old man’s belongings, she discovers that he was once a pulp science fiction writer who used the pseudonym Thaddeus Mobley and wrote a trashy science fiction novel ‘The Planet of WYH’

A fair chunk of an episode is dedicated to animating ‘The Planet WYH’ which is about a robot trapped on earth for millennia. The sequence ends up being a fairly effective rumination on loneliness and a great piece of exposition on a character, which we also learn was cheated by a crooked Hollywood producer.

The way in which Hawley uses science fiction reminds me of American post-war novelist Kurt Vonnegut, who used science fiction elements to great effect to emote the trauma and absurdity of war in his famous novel Slaughterhouse Five.

The credits for Fargo always open with the announcement that ‘This is a True Story’, but only the most gullible viewers would believe this claim.

Maybe Hawley is implying that one can’t exist without the other. All stories are inherently fiction, but also that fiction can be used to explain a greater truth?

I have no idea if Hawley is a science fiction afficionado, but the fact he was the creator of the Marvel series Legion suggests he might be. I think that ultimately, like all good writers, Hawley simply likes pulling threads and seeing where they lead.

I personally would follow any thread that leads to Fargo. There’s always something unexpected happening there – and that’s the truth!

Arrested Development

I went down to the Coburg RSL recently on the premise of seeing some local bands. Secretly, I think I just didn't want to watch the Federal election coverage on my own and needed beer and a big-screen TV for company.

During the course of the evening, I bought a two-dollar raffle ticket and was surprised and delighted to hear my number called out over the PA when the raffle was drawn. I never win anything!

What would the prize be? 

A meat tray? Free beer? An overseas holiday?

I gleefully raced to the stage to receive my prize for the evening, which was presented by local celebrity and pensioner-transvestite Barb Wire.

I tried to hide my initial disappointment, when I realised that the prize I had won was actually a couple of Mr Men books.

Always being the optimist, however, I consoled myself with the thought that I could give the books to my daughter.

Except I couldn't - my daughter was now eight and way too old to read such simplistic fare as 'Mr Men.'

It occurred to me that she wouldn't be able to appreciate these books again until she was about 17.

There was a period just after I left school where a lot of people I know (including myself) seemed to revert to a child-like state. With the benefit of hindsight, I can now see this for what it was: teenagers desperately clinging on to the last vestiges of childhood before having to confront the realities of the adult world.

We would all get about town at night wearing our Mr Men t-shirts, silly hair colours and brightly coloured converse, while either studying at uni during the day, or, in my case, working some menial office jobs to save up enough money for the next weekend. I was more juvenile than most - I had a pair of Thomas the Tank Engine slacks at one point!

Maybe we should have been saving money for a deposit on a house as part of a portfolio that we could negative gear in our later years, but it seemed important at the time to just blow off some steam. Perhaps some of the people who were really responsible in those early years are the ones that are going through a mid life crisis now?

Eventually the fascination with childhood waned somewhat and I went the other way instead by ironically dressing like an old man in slacks and a cardigan. It's a look I've kept to this day, but it becomes less ironic as the years go on.

Fashions come and go, of course, but it always strikes me as strange when I look at old photos now from the early days of photography and everybody seems to dress so uniformly and look so serious. I think it had to do with the expense of taking pictures before they became a much more disposable commodity. Hence, taking a photograph was a 'serious' business.

Or perhaps life was just harder?

The paradigm certainly seemed to shift after World War II when youth became something to be celebrated. It even became something to aspire to from the 1950s onwards. It seems that generations before that were eager to 'grow up' and be like their parents. Perhaps the sour expressions in some of those early photos were actually a result of crushing responsibilities at what we would now consider these days to be a very young age.

Behind the stage at the Coburg RSL there are some sombre silhouettes of soldiers which, on the evening that I attended, were contrasted rather sharply with the ramshackle indie bands playing.

I wondered what these diggers would have thought about the generations that proceeded them? Undoubtedly some would not approve of a seeming lack of responsibility and a focus on the individual, but I think ultimately what they were fighting for was a freedom of expression and with that, there also comes a need to accept points of view that differ from your own.

* * *

After the gig I went home and sat down to read my Mr Men books with a glass of wine. 

When I opened them, I was surprised (and a little bit disappointed) to find they were not story books after all, but Mr Men notebooks.

This was something I could use!

In the weeks after winning the books, I have put them to use making 'To Do' lists of my daily responsibilities. Finally I have found a happy medium between the adult world and the childish.

My daughter likes to draw in the books as well!

Beetlejuice

It's amazing how standards can slip over time. I once said I'd never participate in the American tradition of Halloween, but I eventually succumbed along with the rest of the population when it became too mainstream to ignore. I freely admit that I now enjoy Halloween, but it's come at a price. Halloween has dissolved my last vestige of dignity and turned me into something I swore I'd never be - a face painter!

During previous Halloweens, I've made a token effort to join in and have worn my old velvet smoking jacket, sheepishly telling any confused onlookers that I was Gomez Addams from The Addams family.

Nobody was convinced.

This year I decided that I wanted to impress my daughter Clementine and go to some actual effort and maybe even manage to scare her. She always seems to watch passively as people are torn limb from limb on television, but is strangely scared of such mundane things as ants and cuddly yellow labradors in real life.

I wanted her to be scared of something fantastical for a change!

I decided that Tim Burton's character Beetlejuice would be the perfect balance between not being frightened at all and being emotionally scarred for life, so I set about devising the perfect costume.

As something of method actor, I researched the character thoroughly. I watched the movie Beetlejuice, studied the character' mannerisms and even bought a copy of 'Harry Belafonte's Greatest Hits' which is featured in the movie.

The costume seemed easy enough to make, I'd simply buy an old black suit and paint white stripes on  it. This took a lot longer than I thought and was fairly labour intensive.

For the wig, I reluctantly had to buy an official Beetlejuice wig from a costume shop. I modified it somewhat by cutting the hair shorter to match the character in the movie and cutting out the 'fake' receding hair line. Nature seemed to have covered that base for me already.

The only other thing I needed was make-up, which I also bought from the local costume shop.

When Halloween came around we were both ready to go 'trick-or-treating.' I was dressed as Beetlejuice and Clementine was incongruously dressed as a dinosaur.

We gathered at the local park with other families to terrorise the neighbourhood in hordes. I wasn't prepared for the reaction I received when I turned up.

Maybe I'd done too good a job, but people seemed genuinely pleased to see me and were alarmingly keen to interact with 'Beetlejuice.'

This is when I realised I was not truly committed to the character.

Children and adults alike came up to me and excitedly yelled 'Hey Beetlejuice, how are you?'

It stopped me in my tracks as I searched for a response.

In the movie, Beetlejuice would have replied in a gravely tone, danced around maniacally, groped a nearby woman and greedily devoured some live insects.

I prepared my response with this in mind.

'Pretty good, I guess', I replied laconically, with my arms dangling uselessly by my side.

My admirers smiled weakly and walked away looking somewhat disappointed.

I thought back to the only two acting roles I had done in short films - 'slow-witted council worker' and 'momma's boy'. Were these the roles that would define me forever? Was this limited emotional expression all that I could conjure up?

I dejectedly walked around the streets of my suburb, Pascoe Vale, with the other parents and our children in tow. We were all concerned by the mixed message we were sending about not talking to strangers and taking lollies off them. Apparently on this one day it's okay!

On the way home I stopped for a bottle of wine at the local bottle shop. The man behind the counter still recognised me as Beetlejuice even though I wasn't wearing the wig anymore. It seems my own hair would have sufficed the whole time!

When I got back in the car I noticed that people were pointing at me excitedly as I drove off. They were happy to see Beetlejuice! I did a victory lap of the car park smiling maniacally safe in the cocoon of my own vehicle. I felt a sense of elation. I now understand why people like to be Santa Claus. It's great to make make people feel happy and take them out of the mundane.

Clementine and I went home and watched 'Hotel Transylvania' before I sent her off to bed.

I walked into the bathroom. When I turned the light on a stranger appeared before me and made me jump backwards.

I'd forgotten I was still wearing the Beetlejuice makeup!

Ironically, Clementine remained unmoved by my costume, but I had managed to scare myself.

I studied my face in the mirror. The sweat from the evening had made my make-up run and achieved the 'sinister' effect I was looking for hours earlier. It actually took a few seconds of careful study to identify myself under my disguise, but I was relieved when I finally did.

I dropped Clementine back to her mother's place the next day and started cleaning up after our Halloween extravaganza.

I considered what to do with my 'Beetlejuice' suit. It would have been easy enough to drop it off at St Vinnie's, but instead I thought I'd hang it up in the wardrobe in case I needed to concur up his powers again.

I spent the evening casually watching TV when suddenly a spider appeared in the corner of the room.

I contemplated him for a while.

'You look delicious,' I thought to myself, before cackling maniacally.

Goodbye Cody

One of my earliest memories of our dog Cody was watching him sliding across the polished wooden floors of our house in Lutwyche. He was about three months old and wasn't properly house trained.

He was weeing in the house.

I'd never owned a dog, so I panicked and slid him across the floor, thinking it'd be the fastest way to get him outside. Perhaps I'd overestimated my strength, or hadn't anticipated the lubricating factor of his urine, but he ended up tumbling down the front steps.

I felt incredibly guilty.

He was fine.

I've always had a strange sense that my timing is off with people in the world. This feeling is no different when applied to Cody. When driving to pick him up for the first time from the pet shop, my ancient Kingswood chose that trip to dislodge the axle from the engine mount. I sheepishly asked friends to pick my dog up instead.

Despite our shaky beginnings, my girlfriend Edwina and I both came to love Cody. I can't speak for her, but I loved him in a way that I didn't know I needed. Cody was a kelpie-cattle dog cross requiring lots of attention and exercise. I was a fairly self-involved, under-employed, lazy, dreamer that lived in my own headspace. Cody helped me learn how to get out in the real world, and I can thank him in part for making me a relatively healthy individual these days. People that know me now may think I haven't changed much, but just imagine how much worse-off I'd be without Cody!

Eventually, Edwina and I got married and Cody was the 'best man' at our wedding. This may seem a bit indulgent, but it did save us from having to choose a human to play the part, and spared us
from any hurt feelings that may have been felt from people being 'passed-over' in our selection process. Once again Cody had come to our rescue!

It was only about a year after our marriage that we decided to move to Melbourne, and of course we took Cody with us. I felt a bit sorry for him because he didn't have as much room to roam in his new surroundings. He was, however, getting older and slowing down.

Our daughter Clementine was born about a year after we moved.

Being a new father, working part-time and being a carer for a baby girl left me feeling completely lost, but luckily Cody managed to help me out once again. He was still active enough
to enjoy visits to the park, so we'd spend many hours, on a daily basis, just frequenting the parks in our neighbourhood. Without Cody, we'd have been stuck at home all day.

Sure, Cody could've been a liability around children, but he had such a gentle nature that nobody seemed to mind (most of the time). Clementine and Cody had a love-hate relationship, but she also owes a debt to Cody, because she would often proudly introduce Cody to other children as 'her dog' to break the ice.

Everybody needs an 'in.'

As Clementine grew older, Cody became less of a focus for Edwina and I. Clementine took up an increasing amount of our attention. Unfortunately, it was around this time that my relationship with Edwina was coming apart, for reasons that were both beyond our control and due to both of us being too stubborn to express how we really feel.

This distance between Edwina and I made me feel jealous of Cody.

I'd often feel like I couldn't do anything right and have to walk on egg-shells, while Edwina wouldn't say anything and let Cody get away with crimes like licking the dishes in the dish washer. Why wasn't I allowed to lick those dishes clean? Oh, how I envied Cody's freedom of expression.

Cody was diagnosed with cancer during the last few years of his life and it makes me feel bad to say it, but I did not appreciate the expense of his treatment and the hour-long trips out to Box Hill to visit the dog oncologist on a tri-monthly basis. This was exacerbated by the fact that Cody considered Edwina to be the pack master. I know this is true because if the family was walking together and I wandered off by myself, Cody would only briefly hesitate. If Edwina wandered off he would staunchly refuse to budge. I was second-in-command at best!

The one thing that Cody and I really connected over was the fact that he knew how I was feeling more than anybody in the house.

Edwina and I eventually decided to go our separate ways, but before we did we had to sell the house we owned together. I was devastated on the day of auction, but Edwina and Clementine seemed completely calm and in control. I sat and brooded while the auction was in process, when suddenly Cody jumped up, licked my face and eventually fell asleep on my feet.

It made me feel infinitely better.

I had decided before the house settled to take a trip to Brisbane. Before sunrise on the day of my flight, Cody had a seizure. We rushed him to the emergency vet at Tullamarine. He was in such a state that Edwina and I knew he wouldn't survive the weekend, but we couldn't bring ourselves to admit it to each other. She dropped me off a few hours early at the airport, where I had too much time to think about what had just happened.

I called Edwina just before the flight and offered to stay in Melbourne for Cody's final hours. It seemed incredibly cruel to me and bizarre that we could once again not be 'there for each other' and it reminded me of when we first picked up Cody and my car broke down. My timing was never right!

Edwina eventually said that it was okay to go and to try and think of the good times.

Nothing came to mind.

The only image I could think of was Cody sliding down those front steps all those years ago. Then I realised why I couldn't think of the good times.

"There's just too many," I said to Edwina, before hanging up and tearfully joining the line for the flight.

Luckily, flight attendants at airports are used to seeing people cry. The woman who took my boarding pass offered the usual sympathetic smile, which was followed by a shifting gaze. It seemed to say, "Please sir, there is a long line to get through, can you please hurry along?"

I'm not a superstitious man, or a man of faith, but there's part of me that can't help but feel the timing of Cody's death signified that he couldn't make the choice between Edwina and I, as we went our separate ways.

People are wired to see a face when they look at the moon, or try and look for a narrative to a story when there isn't one. Rationally, I know that it was simply Cody's time to die.

I like to think it was serendipitous, however, that the last thing I said to him was simply this:

"Cody, you're a good boy"