THE KEVIN BORICH AND STEVE TRIPP COLLABORATION.

Down By The Seaside.

I got a good three weeks free accommodation out of the Russel street house before I again found myself talking to young, rookie police about finding a new address. If my shows at the Ramsgate Plaza were going to continue I had to get cracking and find a more permanent place which was less at risk of being reported by neighbors, property owners, real estate representatives or anyone else. A house that quickly caught my attention was a beachfront cottage at the very end of Sandringham Street.  The roof and front porch area could barely be seen behind tall, dense pines and it was nestled between grandiose mansions on either side.  On easy entry I found the power was still connected so the first thing I did was unpack my bathroom stuff and take a lovely warm shower. From the bay windows in the front room of the building the view is commanding to say the least.  Directly in front of me a large, tall pine forest extends halfway to the Ramsgate shops and out across Botany Bay the Sydney skyline twinkles in the distance. In the foreground of the towering cityscape planes depart from the runways of the airport and on bright nights boats can be seen chopping through the water. Fuck me gently.  At last my prayers have been answered.  The best possible, powered campsite in the world has finally manifested and it’s smack dab in the middle of Millionaires row.  The driveway of the Art Decco style estate next door is right in view of a metal car gate I enter the front yard through, but I can always see if the neighbors are around from the bike track along the beach.  The very modern building on the other side looks like it was designed more for security than good looks and I only ever see it’s occupants from a side window near my kitchen.   After two months or so of occupying the new squat I decided ample time had passed for the neighbors to dob me in to the cops.  No property owners or the like had surfaced in that time and I was quietly confident that my home was off the public attention radar system.  A most wonderful thing happened in about the third month of my stay which will be remembered as the best stroke of luck I have ever had squatting.  I returned from a fishing excursion with Hus and as I was pushing the bike towards the back yard I spotted an official looking note in the fly screen of the front door.  It was from the power company informing ‘The Occupant’ that the electricity had been disconnected.  Energy Australia stickers had been placed over the fuse terminals and it looked like an end to months of free power. With hours to go till sundown it was straight out with the solar panels in the back yard and a return to dreaded battery runs in rain, hail or shine. The following morning after falling asleep to my battery powered TV I thought “wouldn’t it be nice to take a shower”.  The second thought that crossed my mind was there might still be hot water in the system, so I decided to give it a try.  On testing the hot water tap I was amazed and delighted so I jumped straight in just in case it went cold halfway through my wash.  The water was still piping hot after I had stepped out and I was hit by the tantalizing thought that the power might still be on.  Double Bingo and Yee! Fucking Ha!  The charger on my mobile phone lit up when I plugged it into a wall socket and everything was as it had been before the power company arrived.  Dumbfuck drones as I call them and other such service attendants were suddenly catapulted from the lowly opinion I held of them to the status of my best friends in the whole friggin world.  Some Energy Australia field operator must have made a mistake when he attempted to shut off the power and went away thinking his work was done.  What a great bloke.  While clearing out junk mail from the letterbox I found a final power bill notice addressed to ‘The Occupant’ and it was dated three days earlier.  The bill was for about four hundred bucks and I weighed up the value of paying it to see what happened.  I decided it would be an expensive punt if the power suddenly went out so I spent the money on other things.  The following week another bill arrived with a more current date and it was only worth the amount I would have used since the so called disconnection took place. 

Afer drying the rain soaked bill out I scooted straight down to the local post office and got them to run it through their bar code zipper.  I have kept the bill as the first official evidence of my stay at the house in case it ever turns into a civil claim for ownership of the property.  In my travels I have heard it said that an unclaimed house which is lived in by a squatter for more than seven years is legally his.  Wouldn’t that be something.  It would have to be the absolutely unbeatable, pinnacle of larrikinism to squat in the last known residence of some long dead and family less loner who forgot to write a will.  Then to hold out on the property for the appropriate number of years and then finally add it to your list of belongings with the blessings of the court. Well that’s what I’m dreaming up anyway.  Speaking of which. How’s this.  On the weekend before last I beat my New Years Eve record by thirty bucks if you include the hot roast chicken a kind lady gave me and a packet of dog food for Hus.  That was the weekend before the Easter long weekend and on the Saturday of the holiday break I scooped an unbelievable three hundred and one dollars and forty cents.  I flattened two batteries in the process but fuck it was exciting.  The most astounding aspect of the shows was the fact I had consciously imagined what three hundred bucks might feel like as I counted the money from the first show. Maybe this ‘imagineering’ thing is more tangible than I first thought.   On the Saturday night after I cracked three ton busking there was nothing worth watching on the telly so I threw my best jeans and cowboy boots on and jumped in the first cab I saw.  It cost me twenty bucks to get to the Cooks river but it was worth it to find Brad in the boat club watching the footy and sucking on a beer.  There was a Rockabilly band playing old favorites on the stage and expert dancers were throwing each other around the room.  I had a couple of beers with Brad then I wandered up to the Harp Hotel to see who was playing there.  It was just another mediocre garage band but I met a guy called Jeff who said he could score some coke. The coco never eventuated but we had a good time raving as I shouted him and his girlfriend some very expensive drinks.  The cash was spilling out of my wallet so fast I gave up counting and with the next days estimate I calculated two hundred bucks had been flitted away on taxi fares and booze.  What economic downturn? I haven’t been out socializing since that night but it’s not because I can’t afford it. It’s just that I feel like a toothless old fart in nightclub settings and I will until the new plates arrive. I’m hoping with the new dentures I get hit with a sudden wave of sexual confidence so powerful it lands me in the bed of the first beautiful woman I see.  Maybe not that extreme but I’m going to make an effort to play the mating game even if it’s line dancing lessons at the boat club.  Apart from any aches or pains I may feel, a bulging guts, bunions or false teeth, I feel as capable as ever of satisfying a woman, so babe hunting is going to be my new hobby.  I think as the final fitting draws closer the confidence thing may already have started to stir.  At last Sunday’s show a chick of about thirty five, dressed like an outback Jillaroo and good looking in all the right places was making a big fuss of Husky.  We engaged in a serious exchange of small talk while maintaining constant eye contact then out of the blue she leaned over my easy chair and plonked a big, sexy smooch on my cheek.  It was the second to last thing that happened before she jumped in a Land rover and drove off.  Her final gesture was a blown kiss from the window of the car.  Wow!  Now I’ve got a mystery woman to wonder about who vanished as quickly as she appeared and left me waiting for the moment of her return.  When and if she does I am going to be right up front and ask her why she did it.  I’ll make sure I let her know I admire her courage and I’ll try to find out if my theory for the reason is correct.  The most plausible explanation in my view is the possibility she recognized the personal courage I display as I sing a toothless serenade into the world.  Her outback, horse riding appearance seemed authentic so it may be the case that she is a wandering cowgirl in the big city and I am her wandering cowboy with a frisky rattlesnake lurking in my pants.

With only two dental appointments to go until I get my new teeth it’s the most exciting event currently happening in my life.  At the last fitting I stood before a mirror and got the first glimpse of what it will look like when I’m sporting new choppers. Very becoming indeed.  In case you were wondering reader the book has taken a flying leap into the present tense.  You see I am still in the house on Sandringham street after so long I have forgotten, but I know it’s not seven years yet.  From here on the stories develop a true ‘Captains Log’ flavor as I am completely up to date with my chapters and the present moment is all I have to describe.  Now I am ‘living in the book’ as I like to describe it and each step I take into the future is another page in the adventures I am yet to have.  Every person I meet is a potential player in the unfolding story and the greater our shared experience the more they will feature in the tale.  What a thought.  That makes it a bit like real life journalism with hints of pagan wizardry thrown in for good measure.  You can’t get anymore ‘In the Now’ than that surely.  In the absence of an eviction notice and the power bill all paid up my moods have stabilized to a daily average reading of very fucking good.  Since first I came out of retirement as a busker until the present day I have allowed each show to serve as an anger management workshop and I think it might be working.  It seems quite logical if emotional problems are born of artistic frustration they can gradually be deleted by getting the creativity out there in the world. I can’t remember the last time I exploded and I find myself being so downright jovial that Husky can hardly keep up with me.  He might be sitting around snoring as I have just put a passion filled full stop to a winning line.  All I have to do is start having a private conversation using happy, doggy talk  tones and he’s up and at em ready for more fun and games.  In the property next door there’s a competition sized tennis court and our back yard is littered with lost balls.  Hus digs them out from under tall lantana bushes and every single one is his favorite. He’s had a couple of close encounters with possums in the yard but as yet he hasn’t managed to bring one in. The only hint of intrusion I’ve had was a group of young guys who wandered over from the beach car park to take a piss in the yard.  One of them tugged violently at my chain and padlock on the high side gate but it held fast and they went away.  I observed them closely from the bay windows drinking out of bottles and discharging testosterone spiced bullshit into the onshore breeze.  I was glad to see them jump in their late model car and skid off towards the highway.  The muscular arm I viewed through my curtained bedroom window was trying as hard as it could to break the lock and to this day it serves as a reminder not to become complacent about security. As well as a lockable side gate and bedroom door I chain the two larger trolleys together with the studio electrics suitcase sitting in between. A few days ago ‘The Spook’ as I have named him had one of his psychological turns and started mis-behaving in public.  I could see it coming a mile off even though I was laying flat on the pavement looking up at the electrics on the busking trolley. The no good piece of toilet paper was standing over me muttering something then I felt his foot connect with my outstretched thigh.  Instantly I was up in a fight posture eye balling the drunk and reminding him not to come any where near my show.  He copped a moderate shove in the chest which put him flat on his arse beside the bin he eats out of.  I turned to go back to work and no sooner had I sat down he was skipping off up the street with my money bag attached to Husky’s lead.  Hus must have thought it was a game and trotted along after him.  When I caught up with the spook I gave him a man sized smack in the gob which put him on the ground for the second time.  Jesus it felt good and it was delivered to echo’s of the Ramsgate boys saying “He shows his dick to the kids”.The retrieval of my dog and the money bag did not go un noticed by yet another enemy in waiting, who would do me harm should I ever turn my back for a moment.  An older trolley Attendant named Sam saw me drop the wino and I watched him report the incident to the Supermarket Manager.  

Bret the guy I spoke to at my first Ramsgate show has in time become a buddy and he was highly amused.  He said he’d often wished he could do it himself and now he calls me ‘Rocky’ and ‘Mohamed Ali.  The piece of shit, Israeli trolley boy failed in his efforts to tattle tale because he had no idea Bret and I had become so close.  The reason I call him an enemy is because he crossed the line once too often with an insult to my singing.  I had been scoring halves and quarters of Sam’s hydroponic weed until one day he just freaked out and said he wasn’t dealing anymore.  A couple of days later he’s back trying to peddle twenty dollar deals when he knows I only ever spend two hundred bucks at a time.  One sunny afternoon as I was chatting with a couple of paying customers Sam the trolley boy plonked himself down on the park bench near the phone.  I observed him making weird faces that corresponded to any light hearted gestures I made then he swaggered over towards me when the other people had gone.  He stood over me and in a sneering, vitriolic tone and inquired why I don’t perform different songs because ”These ones are very monotonous”.  I knew Sam’s limited English had denied him access to the word repetitive but I gave him a microphone assisted mouthful anyway. Confused about how he could have possibly insulted me Sam wondered off to push his trolleys and be a talentless, waste of time, dickhead. A week or so later I was doing a show when Dean checked in to say hi.  As we were talking the Israeli butted in like he’d been invited into the conversation.  I was quick to say ”So you want to have a little chat or are you here to put shit on my music?”.  Dean sensed the tension between myself and the trolley attendant to which he smiled and sang “Walk on city lights”.  Sam must have detected the two way “Fuck off buddy” vibe and he fired up with threats to have me removed from my busking spot.  Dean and I chuckled as I informed him he had no authority and I invited him to go and speak with Brett.  At this he must have suddenly remembered I was an ex customer and he retreated to his work with egg all over his face.  The reason I place so much importance on Sam is because it was an issue directly related to my art.  That’s when my spines go up and it gets really personal.  The ghost of my long abandoned, jealous brother Dudley rises to haunt me whenever I have a conflict of this kind.  I haven’t spoken a word to the trolley boy since it happened and I hope I don’t ever have to again.   

In hindsight the similarity between the actions of the spook and Sam were remarkable because both waited until I was in a vulnerable position before they launched their attacks.  With the spook it was a time when I was laying on the pavement and with Sam in relaxed moments where I was either singing or in conversation.  It’s classic predatory behavior manifesting in the petty street politics of everyday life.  How lucky am I to be a part of this experience and where will it all end if the financial meltdown turns us all into street urchins?  If I’m still kicking around in the years of the fall I’ll probably do ok. People will always want to hear a happy tune and if they don’t have money I’ll take a loaf of bread.  Hold onto your hats folks I’m waxing apocalyptic and I haven’t even got started yet. All jokes aside how the fuck is this generation going to cope with a global depression bigger than the one they had back in the twenty’s?  I can only imagine mayhem on a grand scale but maybe we’ll all be surprised when the future reveals itself. With two of my main opponents on the street now silenced the path seems clear for some real busking fun.  I have started including Husky more than ever in the shows with pine cones we pick up on the way into town. It’s not too much trouble when I’m singing to throw the ‘bouncy coconut’ as I call it and Hus catches it perfectly every single time.  Little kids shout out “That’s not a coconut” then a conversation ensues as they inform me “it’s a pinecone”.  All I have to say is “Isn’t he a good catch” and the kids are away telling me about their pets or some other such wonderful thing.  The contributions after a scene of this nature are the mainstay of my busking business and a good indicator of the public trust I receive.  Maybe I should go into politics like our current Federal Environment Minister who started life as a bald, dance crazy rock star and ended up in the halls of power, changing the way we live. Just joking Pete.  The adorable toddlers I get to inter-react with are an even greater reward than the money or peoples friendly smiles.  I have no idea if my daughters are going to turn me into a grandfather anytime soon so the youngsters that surround me might be the closest I ever get.  As the spring was turning into summer the fishing improved around Botany Bay to become almost as bountiful as the angling I did in Port Stephens.  It was still very sparse going in the bay proper but at the entrance to the Georges river things really started to look up.  After a successful weekend of busking I have a routine where Husky and I ride up to the bank on Rocky Point Road and exchange the coins for notes.  I normally pick up some hire DVD’s then we head back down the slope and follow the bike track along the beach.  My favorite fishing spot is the longest weekly run Hus has to do and he’s always tired when we get home. At a floating restaurant close to a highway overpass there’s a palm tree lined beach where I can sit and fish pretending I am anywhere in the world.  Just off the rocky beach a sudden two meter drop sits under large charter boats and that’s where the big bream are hiding.  In the earliest days of summer my catches improved in size until I was hauling in big female bream equal to any I’ve known.  I caught a large octopus on our last trip there but he went free as I wouldn’t be able to chew the cooked flesh no matter how I attempted to tenderize it.  The fishing spot is free bait city simply by lifting the lids on the park wheelie bins.  People throw countless, unopened packets of bait away and it wouldn’t occur to them to give it to the fish. All the better for me I suppose.   Some of my most dominant thought processes of late involve attempts to define and rationalise the concept of death.  Thus far I have made the observation that morbid thoughts are totally counter productive as they have no relevance to a person who is not dying. Imagination can lead us into an endless maze of possible scenarios including attempted visualizations of the great hereafter. The moment I consciously started boycotting morbid thoughts was when I found myself imagining what it would be like to be a ghost.  Maybe wandering around in the dark and empty rooms of this old house played a part in the vision of myself as a hovering spirit, observing my own lifeless corpse.  I snapped out of the pointless, waste of time daydream and consciously deleted the vision from my mind.  Now if ever blurred imaginings of departure from this world try to clutter up my thoughts I am ready for them with my imaginary mouse.  They get clicked out of existence the moment they are spotted and my mind remains clear to think of more productive things.  The events of this day are exactly the type of thing I was hoping to chronicle in my log. I have just returned from a Sunday performance which was fraught with street level dramas involving the local drunks,myself and the staff at the Coles Supermarket. The details are being entered into my journal within hours of their occurrence so this book is now the official diary for the most significant details that arise in my life.  I may yet decide to scrap the idea of separate chapters altogether and go for a more stream of consciousness approach.  Thomas the cage fighter has a friend in the Ramsgate area called Malcolm. The guy is about thirty or so and he’s a bad drunk, alcoholic lined up with all the other hard core drinkers every morning waiting for the bottle shop to open. Because he’s a friend of Thomas I have allowed him closer in than most but today it all came to a head and the police were called in.  All day, every day Malcolm sits at a picnic table in the pine forest between my squat and the shops, sloshing them down and turning into a blithering mess.  The spot where he sits lubricating his tortured soul just happens to be the place I let Hus off to take a crap and select his pinecone for the days performance.  At first I would sit down for a ciggie or a joint and let Malcolm pollute my consciousness with his in coherent babble but my need for a quality existence soon put an end to that.  I started pulling up at a different spot on our way to the gigs and it didn’t go un noticed by the piss tank in question.  Through the din of the screaming demons in Malcolm’s brain he must have twigged that I was snubbing him and all hell broke loose as I was trying to deliver sincere happy Mothers Days to all of my paying customers. 

I had observed him walking back and forth with six packs on three occasions before he finally slumped down on a bench near the phone booth and directed his blurred focus towards me.  Being the professional I am I continued to direct my attention to the eyes of potential contributors, well aware of the mounting rage of my opponent.  When he eventually staggered over to where I was performing a display not unlike a territorial gorilla was forthcoming with not one word being distinguishable. I just kept singing throughout his performance, a little edgy but content in the knowledge my fist held microphone was at the ready to break his nose.  The mike cable would then be wrapped at high speed around his torso and arms and if he wanted any more impact therapy then it would be time for the old bikie boots.  Peace love and brown rice eh? Luckily it didn’t come to that because he stumbled off towards the bottl’o muttering.  Two young cops arrived on the scene after complaints were made to the Coles staff and I gave them the best description I could of who they were after.  On hearing my request for a stronger police presence in the area they drove off towards the forest to bust Malcolm for the hundredth fucking time. At the start of this tale I mentioned the local drunks who would feature in the story and it’s by divine coincidence that the second was none other than Dennis the banjo player I referred to as a fellow busker earlier on.  Dennis was apparently playing in my busking spot for fourteen years prior to my arrival.  In the time since I first came on the scene I was subject to numerous declarations of steadfast sobriety until they were replaced by explanations of why he was sitting on a bench sucking on long necks. The new theme of his ramblings was the fact he had been evicted from the very spot I was performing by Brett the Supermarket Manager.  He had no inclination it had happened in the time since he took up the bottle and I could not be bothered explaining it to him.  The crescendo of our shared experience unfolded this afternoon when he walked over to Husky’s water bucket and oozed a slimy ball of spit down into it.  My dog is twice the man that booze pickled scum bag is and my audience knew it was time for action when the MP3 player was turned off mid song.  Dennis returned to his bench and he was opening another longneck as my fingers were being wrapped around the handle of the water bucket.  It was easy to recruit the support of those who had seen him spitting in the bucket and a couple of elderly ethnic women declared in full gusto they didn’t want to look at all the horrible drunkards in the area.  At this I said “Here’s you spit” and splashed the bucket of may chilled water right in the face of the offending party to the passionate cheering approval of the crowd. Being a Sunday Brett was on his day off so I found myself in discussion with his first lieutenant about what had taken place.  His name is Matt a likable young guy who requested I inform him of any future trouble with the drunks.  Bingo!  There’s my security locked in.  In the old days on the cross I always had a gang of bikers to help me out but the world has changed since then.  These days it seems the humble street performer has to get in sweet with the system and that’s the only way he can perform unhindered on  the street.  The most remarkable aspect of the days events was the fact that both Malcolm and Dennis decided to go mad dog crazy within an hour of each other with me as their prime focus.  It may have something to do with the fact they had perceived the power I can wield in public and it placed me outside the realms of what they can comprehend. Watch those cunts. It was of critical importance I made at least a hundred bucks today because I had a bit of a financial set back last weekend. I attended my final denture fitting last Friday and to celebrate Miranda and I went out to dinner in Bondi.  It was lots of fun and after she went back to her flat I still felt full of beans. With a brand new set of choppers in my head the need to remember what kissing feels like forced me to get off the train at Kings Cross. My sole intention was to empty my bulging wallet on the best that dirty old street has to offer and I ended up getting the worst. I should have kept walking when Mary attempted to hustle me but I wanted to score some coco and she could always make it happen in a couple of relatively easy moves. 

Mary was one of the nightclub groupies from the early days at the Manzil who started cracking it when the clubs were closed down.  We were in a tidy but none the less sleazy room where some guy kept banging on the door demanding another twenty bucks.  The coke was ok but the sensation of getting your dick sucked through a condom is about as satisfying as an ashtray omelette.  Mug Alex here coughed up two hundred bucks for the sex time and cocaine and I loaned her an extra hundred and forty for her dose of smack in the morning. The last I saw of her was a sneaky retreat into a heavily guarded strip club so I kissed the money goodbye. All I wanted was a kiss girlie. In spite of all the dramas today’s money count was one hundred and thirteen dollars, just enough to score a quarter of pot and keep me going in supplies till next weekends gigs.  I win.  That rotten little, rip off bitch is a gutter rat and I am a ‘Cosmic Starlord’ on the path to wisdom and all that is good in the world. These plastic fangs have instilled a new brand of confidence and self perception that is snapping me out of old routines and might just turn me into a more mainstream friendly identity.  That’s exactly where I need to be if my ‘Environmental Art’ is ever going to be acceptable to Mr. and Missus Normal. The good news is if I ever decide to go into politics I won’t have to be living in dread of some squeaky clean image being disintegrated by the media. What I am is in the books and it’s a realistic portrayal of someone I would prefer to trust.  The culture of denial has joined forces with rampant apathy and the whole thing is cleverly glossed over by pledges to reduce the impact of human activity. Get fucking real. Where’s the backup survival strategy for the human species stupid?  We should have been developing community food gardens on a grand scale three decades ago with renewable energy as the centerpiece for a new civilization. Forget the ‘Credit Crunch’ it’s child’s play compared to the crunch that will befall humanity when we arrive at the point of absolute ‘Environmental Overload’.  With all our science and technology we have no idea what natural mechanisms are in place to deal with the global infection our species represents.  In the early days of ‘The Planet Savers Organisation’ when I was a roving, young  environmental reporter I attended a gathering called ‘The Festival of Our Future’.  A guest speaker and renowned Scientist described how the sum total of the earth’s groundwater is enough to flood the planet so that Mount Everest would become an island.  The means by which this vast volume of water could reach the surface is through deep sea vents or ‘Black Smokers’ as they are known.  How would human civilization cope if our life support system decided it was time flush out the plumbing and get rid of an irritating rash caused by the world we have created? Almost four decades ago a forum of the worlds leading scientists predicted we had less than twenty years to end fossil fuel dependence and here we are still stuck in the same old rut.  Mr. Eternal Optimist is hereby throwing in the towel on ‘The Age of Love and Understanding’ and letting the inner nihilist have free reign. I can’t even scream “women and children first” because there’s nowhere to run to.  Oh! I here you say let’s fly into outer space and find a new planet where we can start again and build a brave new world. How are you going to get there stupid you used up all of the earth’s resources making triple wrapped obesity burgers and everything else it takes to stem your insatiable desire.