Posted by: Gregoryno6 | March 15, 2018

Hawking’s Conundrum.


Posted by: Gregoryno6 | March 10, 2018

Gina corrects my recollects.

Hi Greg!

You know I’ve actually never posed at The Museum Of Flying!

That pic was from the March Field Air Museum in Riverside, CA.

I was left scratching my head in great frantic confusion.

In fact it was Petersen Car Museum where Gina had posed.

Well, I knew there was one place I visited where she’d done a calendar pic.

Still think that board room would be a great setting for a pin-up. Gina rigged up like Amelia Earheart – are you with me on this?

BTW: here’s the pic from March Field that was seen in RED.

Come fly with me, let’s fly, let’s fly away…

Posted by: Gregoryno6 | March 10, 2018

Jordan Peterson has reached The Great South Land.

And like Milo, he’s finding an enthusiastic audience.

Peterson has an unusual way of speaking that carries you along. Partly it’s the accent — he is a Canadian who has spent time in the US — but it’s also the way he speaks, with his long fingers pressed against his forehead, like he’s trying to push, or maybe even pry, the thoughts out…
In essence, his point was not a new one: in a million years, who will care that you lived? You will be dust, and so will everything you ever did and everyone you ever loved. “Given that, you can decide that everything’s pointless, and yet we don’t,” he said.
Human beings tend to live like there is a point to it all.

The original article by Caroline Overington is paywalled, but Morning Mail carries the text.

And here’s some audio too.

Posted by: Gregoryno6 | March 9, 2018

True love never runs smooth.

From my very very old copy of National Lampoon’s Cartoon Book.

Posted by: Gregoryno6 | March 8, 2018

Celebrating International Womens Day with Tim Hawkins!

Make it a double, barkeep!


Posted by: Gregoryno6 | March 5, 2018

Recalling my trip to Los Angeles.

Hard to believe that five years ago I was preparing to head back from the west coast to the other west coast.

Five years! God, it makes me feel so Charles Aznavour.

I covered the adventure in several posts, grouped under the G6inLA tag. But there were a few stories that didn’t get space at the time…

Taxi Drivers of the Wild West.

Los Angeles and I got off on the wrong foot. Once I was through Customs at LAX I hailed a cab and said ‘The Ambrose, 20th Street Santa Monica, please.’ But somewhere along the way, up around 7th street as I recall, the driver just ceased to give a damn. He didn’t take me the long way round; he just pulled to the kerb and said ‘That’s it right there.’ Wherever I was, I definitely was not outside my hotel. But the cabbie was already taking my bag out of the boot – sorry, the trunk. I had enough of the map in my head to find my way, dragging my luggage behind me at 7 in the morning. Hooray for wheeled suitcases! As for the cabbie, I guess he realised he was late for an appointment with the neighbour’s wife. Or maybe that voice inside his head whispered ‘Fuck this – I’m ready for breakfast.’

Cabbie number 2 was Russian. And just my luck, he’d originally applied to migrate to Australia. ‘I WANted to go there but you reJECTed me,’ he said. But he only said that once. Most of his verbal output was ‘Urrrr, this fucking traffic… it’s going to be a fucking long drive to your hotel. Where is it? Fuck, I can’t take a fare from Santa Monica. It’s against the rules. Fuuuck…’

It was a long drive back to the hotel, all right. I had taken a day trip down to San Diego – this amounted to roughly two and a half hours in the city, sandwiched between three hours each way on the train. It was well dark by the time I walked out of Union Station and I figured on a quick ride back to the hotel. I was about to get a lesson in LA traffic. Peak hour? There ain’t no peak hour. The freeways were packed like it was 7:30 am, not pm. I stared out the window at this river of steel and asked What the fuck are you people doing here? Why aren’t you at home? Haven’t you got families and dinners and pets waiting for you?

‘Urrrr… this fucking traffic.’

Cabbie 3 was the model driver. Cheerful, polite, well groomed. He knew a little about Australia too. It was a pleasure to shake his hand and say farewell when he dropped me at LAX.

jAdis, and the fine art of making an impression before you’ve even arrived.

Los Angeles. Hollywood, right? Studio tours, right?

Me, not so much. The closest I got to the dream factory was Book Soup on Sunset Boulevard.

The Museum of Jurassic Technology was on my list of ‘unusual’ places to see.

As was jAdis.

jAdis was not too distant from The Ambrose, but it wasn’t open for visitors until my second last day in town. Gina Elise and her friend Cheryl graciously accompanied (chauffeured) me and we had an interesting hour looking around.

A few days earlier I’d sent Susan Lieberman an email to confirm the premises would be open on Sunday. And, as is my wont, I’d enquired if there were any spare limbs for sale. Asking for a friend, you know. No reply. So, there was Gina and Cheryl over in one corner while Susan and I chatted. I must have recognised a few pieces from movies. It was all going fine until I mentioned the email. Susan’s eye’s grew to the size of saucers and she took half a step back.

“Oh my God……… that was YOU!”

My lady companions whipped around. I didn’t know whether I was going to be thrown out on the street or maced. Either seemed possible.

Apparently my dark style of humour is unfamiliar to prop shop ladies in Los Angeles. Yeah – like I’d be the weirdest guy who ever walked in there. Sure. But Susan realised that I must be relatively harmless if I was travelling with female company and recovered her composure. The email had freaked her out to the point that she’d shown it fo a friend. Friend’s advice had been to not answer and hope the loony sender would go away.

Luckily, as they say in the classics, we all saw the funny side. But Susan looked quite relieved when we said our goodbyes.

The Canals and the Aeroplanes.

After we left jAdis, Gina suggested a drive down to Venice Beach. There are three things I remember about that. One, if you like tattoo parlours you’d be spoiled for choice there. Two, Venice isn’t just a name.


Gina was on my mind too when I visited the Museum of Flying. Gina posed for a calendar pic here that was used in the Bruce Willis movie RED.  Gina needs to make a return visit to the Museum, to strike a pose or two in the Douglas Aircraft Boardroom.

And with that, my ramble of memory closes. Just a final word of thanks to one who cannot be forgotten here: Mick Mock, aka many other names, my pre-Uber Uber to the Getty and LACMA and assorted points across the map, and presenter at Strange Cousin Susan.

Coming back one day, LA.


Posted by: Gregoryno6 | March 5, 2018

There are two sides to every photo opportunity.

Posted by: Gregoryno6 | February 25, 2018

You won’t find Dirty Harry riding The 15:17 To Paris.

Clint Eastwood’s career has always had an adventurous streak. Against the Harry Callahan movies and the vengeful cowboy of High Plains Drifter, there’s Jersey Boys and Any Which Way But Loose. But the 15:17 to Paris is a daring exercise all the same. Clint brought in the three young Americans who subdued the gunman in 2015 to play themselves.

Spencer Stone, Anthony Skarlatos and Anthony Sadler are not professional actors and it shows. Their self-consciousness is evident, and at times they sound as if they’re improvising their conversations from memory. A risky decision that weakens the impact of the movie? Perhaps. It depends what sort of a movie Mr Eastwood was trying to make.

Safe bet that by bringing in the real life heroes, Clint was making a clear choice to not deliver another standard thriller. Or a ‘Based On True Events’ doctoring that’s loaded to the eyeballs with fake drama.

The movie actually spends very little time on the train itself. Maybe fifteen minutes in all – I wasn’t watching the clock. Preceding that the movie concerns itself with the lives of the three as schoolboys and then as young men. Spencer and Anthony attended a Christian school, so God gets more screen time than he’s had since The Passion Of The Christ. More than enough to make modern lefty Hollywood uncomfortable, I dare say.

The 15:17 To Paris is not an adrenaline rush. If you want cinema thrills on a train, go see The Commuter or pick up Source Code at the video hire. But if you are interested in The 15:17 To Paris, I recommend you rush to the cinema. If the local situation is indicative it won’t be around for long. In Perth, after only two weeks, the movie is showing on just three screens… one session a day.


Posted by: Gregoryno6 | February 25, 2018

Marrón Dorado – as they say south of the border.

Whatever Hugh Cornwell’s been doing for the last thirty five years, it hasn’t hurt his voice.

Older Posts »