THE DECLINE OF WESTERN CIVILISATION

A malaise, a lack of spititual direction, a certain ennui has crept into Western culture. It is nothing less than an existential crisis. I first realised this when i saw a man wearing a T-shirt that read:
"What if the hokey-pokey really IS what it's all about?"
Alas. We are lost.

PERVERSE PERSEVERENCE

It's not easy being the Art Director. Let's face it. There are always those who would disagree, challenge my direction - always arguments and breakups over "artistic differences." But Safari Bob is a rock. And Mayhem rocks. So i persevere regardless. Someone has to grab the wheel and steer a path through all this rocky creative madness. I am a great believer in the philosophy of Dogtown skater Bob Biniak. Biniak said, "You draw your line and you stick to it." I read this gem in a skate magazine circa 1978, and it has been with me ever since. Biniak was talking specifically about pool riding, but i believe it has a much deeper meaning and is generally applicable to a far wider ambit than the empty motel pool. My current philosophy?

• stick to your guns
• give a wham, give a bam, but don't give a damn
• draw your line and stick to it
• use bullets wherever possible

This philosophy has gotten me far in life. I mean, here i am, staring at Knobby Head. The truck is a little worse for wear and Safari Bob and i are still yet to catch our bucket of fish, but, despite suffering Ukelele Exhaustion Syndrome at the salt lakes, we have persevered. We will make it to the Gascoyne River delta, come hell's bells or bongwater.
At Knobby head we find some free unauthorised accomodation. A 1960s fisherman's caravan with 1990s paint. Renovator's delight. Coastal location and breathtaking views, if you are a fan of melaleuca. But neither Safari Bob nor i feel comfortable about sleeping the night in a place called Knobby Head. We suddenly realise Knobby Head is full of seamen. We inch our way carefully out of this remote fishing village, our backs to the wall. Next stop, Kalbarri.
I have a good feeling about Kalbarri.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, or Hotel D'Pravity as it is affectionately known, Mayhem has her hands full dealing with a lone ranger. "I got the council ranger trying to catch me because of the New Year's party," Mayhem says. "The Town of Vincent is empowered to impound any unlicensed party animals that leave themselves or other rubbish lying on the verge." The massive outdoor event at D'Pravity, combined with the tendency of her neighbours to drop assorted household wreckage on her verge, have somehow conspired to inspire the ire of the ranger.
But while one hand slaps, the other beckons. While the Town of Vincent is busily chasing Mayhem around North Perth even as we speak, it is also busily putting on a series of Summer Concerts in the Park, featuring Mayhem as the co-star in a movie and a special guest at precisely one of these concerts! You'd think they would put two and two together, and send the man with the net down to the park to catch her but no - bureaucracies will never ever be that smart.
The Maestro, a short film by Melinda Tupling and Mark Roy, premieres at Banks Reserve, Joel Terrace, Mount Lawley. The multimedia spectacular kicks off at 6pm, Sunday January 21. Cool band Huxley will pepper your peperoni before the film project screens, and Australian classic The Dish (obviously named in honour of Mayhem) screens shortly thereafter. As you are no doubt well aware, our short documentary is about a Sicilian mechanic, and i understand Mayhem will be arriving with the full red carpet treatment. Keep a look out for her. "I'll be the chick rocking up in a white cadillac with the mafia and enough champagne to relieve the droughts of Africa," Mayhem says.
So, god damn it, grab a picnic, a flute, and and head on down! What's a movie without a picnic? It's simply Un Australian!

IN THE WILD WITH THE ART DIRECTOR

OK, so i ain't no oil painting. Photography by Safari Bob.

UKELELE EXHAUSTION SYNDROME

"On on," says Safari Bob as we break camp. We drive four hundred metres, then stop for a break. Bob strums the ukelele while i walk away into the bush to check on the zamias. They look a bit like a palm, but they're not a palm. They're a cycad. The trunk is more like a grass tree. The seed pods hang down underneath the leaves, large and heavy.

C, G, Gminor, C. Bob strums away on his Tiny Tim instrument. I tiptoe through the zamias. The soil is white and sandy. Grass trees, banksias, other strange unknown flora. I read somewhere that some of these peculiar native seeds will need a bushfire to get them to sprout. Very interesting, i think. I piss on a zamia and return to the truck.

"In the Wild with the Art Director," says Safari Bob.

"We should make a TV show," i say. "I could get a leather hat and, like, some Steve Irwin khaki shorts. We could travel all over the countryside, find strange and unusual flora and fauna, and then piss on it."

On on. We barely make it to the salt lakes before the homemade whisky kicks in.

THE Z-FILTERS OF BINDI BINDI

You can't help but warm to a bloke who begins a good proportion of his sentences with, "And when they took me to court over it, I told the judge ..."

John of Bindi Bindi is a man who likes to do things his way. "She's a one-off," he says of his homemade six-wheeled Nissan. "Got everything that opens and shuts. A slide-out double bed, a couple of custom-made fridges with a compartment on top for your food - they unclip like this, there you go - aircons, a kitchen, the boat goes up top, and take a look at this remote control light." He pulls out a lantern, a remote magnetically attached to its top. "Once me and the missus are safely inside the truck, and the bugs outside are still whizzing round the light, you know, we just go click," he thumbs the remote, "and it's goodnight Irene. Ironing board!" John slides out a rusty old ironing board from somewhere within the labyrinthe Nissan. He has obviously picked it up from the tip. Setting it up at the side of the vehicle, he puts the gas cooker on it to make a cup of tea. "Yep, she's got everything." He pats down the pockets of his shorts and looks around. "Either of you blokes got a box of matches?"

His other car is a Mercedes. Well, car ... it's a former MTT bus. Modified, of course. "I used to tow the Nissan behind it on an A-frame," John says. Of course you did, i say. We sit by the lake, Safari Bob and i sipping our rediculously mudlike percolated coffee whilst John stirs his tea. "But it was three inches too long. I had to put those ugly OVERLENGTH signs all over it. So I chopped the frame down by three inches and welded it back together." He looks out across the lake. "And when they took me to court over it, I told the judge it was done by an engineer - I forgot to tell him the engineer was me - to improve the turning circle and reduce wind resistance." He sips his tea. "I don't tow it on the A-frame anymore," he says. Oh? Why not? "I got this caravan. One of those old four wheelers with a full chassis. I cut the back out of it," but of course you did, i'm thinking, "and my Suzuki Sierra runs up these ramps and sits inside the caravan, the wheels directly over the chassis. Now I just have to cut holes through the cupboards." Oh? What for? "Home brew kit. And the whisky still. Z-filters, you know. You blokes drink Scotch?"

I look at Safari Bob. A worrying gleam has appeared in his eyes. Well, young Bob's been known to take a sip or two, i say. I must confess i'm a bit partial myself. John goes to his truck and returns with what looks like a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label. "This isn't Johnny Walker Red Label," says John. Of course it's not, i say. "It's Black Label. Only with a few minor modifications of my own." He three-quarter fills an empty Mount Franklin water bottle. "I've used my Z-filters to check for bodies," says John. "Ran some 8-year-olds through them, the Red Label, the Black Douglas, Teachers, and they all turned up crap in the Z-filters." I nod, slowly and thoughtfully, as though i know just what the fuck he is on about. "Bodies. Mine comes out clean as a whistle." He hands the bottle to Bob. It's nine-thirty in the morning. Bob unscrews the cap, takes a sniff, and then pulls a couple of shots straight from the bottle. He passes it to me. I do the same. It is very, very good.

John screws the cap back on his bottle of homemade Black Label. "Been making Scotch since 1963," he says, a note of pride and satisfaction in his voice. "And when they took me to court over it, I told the judge ... "

OUT OF THE COMFORT ZONE

I am not used to being a passenger. The fact that i am peeling flakes of sunburned skin off my left arm is testament to that. What am i doing on this side of a vehicle? Being a passenger makes me kind of nervous. Especially when the road trip is a thousand k's. I don't know what to do with my hands. There should be a dummy steering wheel for passengers like me. A pacifier. Instead of this stupid glovebox. Who wears gloves when they're riding in a truck anyway?

The only sensible use for a glovebox is to store the porno mints. These mints are so hardcore they have a XXX rating. Bob always has some in the cab of his truck, and since i always eat most of them, i stock up with a few packs before we clear town. We have been on the road for about an hour. You sure you're not tired? i ask. I will ask him this same question roughly once an hour for the next three days. But always the same grin, and always "No I'm fine." I suck another mint pacifier.

For the past few days, whenever anyone has asked Safari Bob what he is up to, he has jerked his thumb at me and said, "Getting this bloke sorted out and up to the Tropics." And so far he's done a good job of it. We drive through an ancient landscape populated by zamias and Carnaby's cockatoos. I've always thought the landscape round here was pretty special. I've driven along Cockleshell Gully road a few times, and the flat rolling green hills always looked strange and miraculous to me. As it turns out, the Kwongan Heath region around Badgingarra contains more diodiversity than a rainforest! Untouched by glaciers, it sat above sea level for 200 million years without any of those annoying mountains popping up to interfere with the relict terrestrial species. Like Prickly Moses (acacia pulchella). I see the ancient cycads standing on the hill as we race by Coomooloo. A two-metre zamia takes two thousand years to grow. Those things were around when Jesus was a lad, i say to Safari Bob. Jesus, says Safari Bob. You tired? I ask. He looks at me and grins. Nah, I'm fine.

We pull into the mining town of Eneabba to look for gas for the camping stove. There are two old women at the servo shop, who fall silent as i enter. One holds a cup of tea in an enamelled mug. The blue jiggly bit of the teabag hangs over the side of the mug by its thread. The other has no tea, but is sporting a pursed mouth that looks very much like an anus, its thin deep lines drawn in tightly to a puckered centre. They simply stand and stare at me. Am i still wearing the Andy Warhol wig, i wonder? I check. No; i'm not. Hello, i say. The women continue to stare. The puckered mouth of the woman behind the till makes her appear slightly mollified and disapproving. Can you fill a Primus bottle? i ask.

They stare. Finally the woman behind the till barks, "You've got to go to Leeman for that. You would have been better coming up on the Leeman road. They've got gas at Leeman. You should have come up that road." Oh, right-o, i say. I think we can make back it down to Leeman. What time do they shut? "Eight!" anus-face shouts. I thank them very much and turn to leave.

"That's what i say to them," anus-face is saying to the tea lady as i go out the screen door. "I say, you should have come up the Leeman road. We don't have gas here ... "

Lake Indoon is on the Leeman road, so we pull in to check the gas bottles, and look out across the freshwater lake. Miraculously, one of the gas bottles actually contains gas. It's blowing a gale, so we tie tarps up around the gazebo like an Arabian tent, break out the Heineken, and crank up the free gas BBQ. We throw our swags down right down in the gazebo, hang the gas lantern from its roof, and make ourselves at home. We cook up a feed and Safari Bob produces, from nowhere, a ukelele. New Year's Eve is tomorrow and the road trip has begun in a salubrious fashion.

But we will spend New Year on the road. Literally. Midnight on the eve of 007 will find Safari Bob and i lying in the middle of the still-warm North West Coastal Highway under the nearly full moon drinking Glenmorangie Scotch Whisky handcrafted by the sixteen men of Tain and home-made scotch whiskey handcrafted by the famous John of Bindi Bindi. We will sleep it off on the banks of the Murchison River, and i will attempt to wash away a year of sin with an early morning swim.


Safari Bob will further enhance his growing reputation as an Artist with photographs like these, and of the devastating rollover at the top of this post. You really must visit his photo page. But in the meantime, we will suffer the extremes of ukelele exhaustion in the heat of the salt lakes, the indignities of getting bogged and being forced to dig the truck out of a sand trap in Kalbarri using planks of wood and about twenty metres of heavy chain while all around us thousands of teenagers go crazy on alcohol and drugs, run the gauntlet of the traffic police, and endure the perils of Knobby Head.