exciting news to share, amigos!
i love lamp is spreading its vintage and secondhand love all over darwin at the new happy yess monthly sunday markets! that's right; darwin will finally have a locally-focused, creative outlet at which to share wholesome crafty things, trash and treasure, and amateur arts and crafts. the sunday market (held 2-6pm on the last sunday of every month, rain or shine) will be a great place for everyone to get their skills on.
yours truly is gearing up to sell vintage and pre-loved clothes, accessories, homewares and giftables sourced from across the globe (from costa rica to washington, d.c. to sydney to darwin and beyond.) be among the first to indulge in what is sure to be a cruisey, lazy afternoon of fun and games at the only dedicated original music joint in town. click here for details and directions to the historic brownsmart theatre.
first market 31 october. tell your friends. get on it.
15.10.10
13.10.10
and now, a word from our sponsors
here's a nod to darwin's mainstream evening markets. love 'em or leave 'em, mindil beach sunset markets are a ubiquitous darwin experience: part touristy, part tacky, part hidden treasure, part delicious, part deep-fried and overpriced, part friendly, and part west coast perfect sunsets. its a place to converge and celebrate the onset of a weekend, or the start of a new week.
all handmade with love locally in darwin, these delightfully breezy, colourful cotton dresses and tanks really step up to the plate against darwin's ongoing battle-of-the-elements; the dresses are perfectly lightweight in the sweltering, wet humidity, and are also the epitome of appropriate for a sunny sunday session at the pub or on the beach. pair with some balinese beads and strappy sandals, or just toss over your togs and grab your sunblock, and you're ready to go.
enjoy the wide selection of colours (including tie-dye), lengths and necklines (some tie on the shoulder, some are roll necks, and all are unique.)most people find that feeling unique and stylish is more challenging in 36 degree humidity than in the more layer-friendly wintery regions. second skin offers the best of both worlds--wearable, lightweight cotton, and the opportunity to layer, mix-and-match, and play with colour. these babies are quite sheer and must be layered, unless being worn over your swimmers or as a nightie.
dresses set you back one for $15 or two for $25, tanks are $10 and all stripes are $15."cheeeeeeeaaaappppp"
mindil runs every thursday (5-10 pm) and sunday (4-9 pm) of the dry season. the markets finish this month, though--thursday 28 october--so snap yours up quickly.
12.10.10
the best thing about getting shot in the buttocks is the ice cream
when boston and I decided to carve out a space in the blogosphere and highlight the cool culture and craft darwin has to offer, we did so to connect with our fellow darwinians and to combat the all-too common assumption that darwin is lacking in the ‘fun beyond the pub’ department. nothing against pubs—we love ‘em. we're pub-mongrols. a lot of my income is spent at the pub. try to run into boston next time you’re at the pub—she’s likely to invite you to stay at her house or to let you keep her dog.
the point is, we love darwin, its pubs and beyond. it may seem odd, then, that one of my first posts is about leaving darwin. that’s right, my partner has just purchased us tickets to our first holiday getaway in such a long time that i want to climb to the top of the evolution tower and shout to the harbour:
I’M GOING TO VIETNAM, SUCKERS!!!!!
ten days in march. it's not heaps of time and it's ages away. nevertheless i am so damn excited it's all I can talk about. just the two of us and minimal luggage, stupidly cheap airfare (thanks jetstar!), my mother-in-law's lonely planet guidebook, limited itinerary commitments, hungry tummies, empty camera memory cards and nothin but time to wander, relax and enjoy.
if you're aussie and you're reading this thinking my excitement for visiting an overdone tourist hole is OTT, it's because i come to you with a funny accent and a penchant for hot dogs and salted pretzels. yes, i originate from the americas, and asia is our exotic road-less-traveled, our far far away. just like how latin america is yours--evidenced through the overpriced mexican food popping up in trendy suburbs all across the country. (tacos should cost ten cents not ten dollars, ps.)
correct me if i'm wrong, familia, but i'm the first coen to visit 'nam not in an official wartime capacity. i am a fortunate one.
so for the next five months, i'd love your suggestions for vietnam's must-sees, must-eats, must-buys, must-drinks.
i am so looking forward to my first stint in asia, the first of many i hope. after all, one of the most amazing things about darwin is our absurd proximity and affordable access to asian getaways.
forrest says that in vietnam it rains sideways and upside down, with big old fat rain, itty bitty rain...
11.10.10
bitchin'
hey deuteronomy,
(I figured I'd punctuate my first lamp post [har! har!] with lame biblical references no one will get).
if bostonian is making literary love to her bike i think i should do the same. in the form of a proper bitch--not about the beloved bike itself but about the parking situation at work. because bitching on a blog is fun.
Ruby Belle Coen has only been a Coen for one week and already I've had an 'incident.' and no, I'm not referring to my numerous crashes/fall-overs/near-hits/stuff-ups--which I openly advertise with pride (as a novice rider). I'm bitching about the individual who found my vulnerable, new treasure in the carpark, tampered with my lock and broke it, presumably to steal the brand-new, retro-reproduction, [new] oldtimer easy rider.
who could blame them? Ruby Belle is a burgundy beaut, with tan leather handles and white-rimmed wheels. And a wire basket on the front that holds a smaller wicker basket that will get stolen if I ever actually try to use it. And a clamp-style storage space on the back that the bike shop shopkeeper assured me would surely crush my veggies on the way home from the saturday markets.
In short, my adorable Ruby Belle (came with that name) is a golden-flecked (made-in-china) vehicle of perfection that get's me from A to B, is fun to ride, looks cool and makes me happy.
it's all perfect except for two issues. (1) I thought that with the onset of the humid wet it would be more comfortable to ride around and feel a breeze rather than walk, like how a dog sticks his head out the car window to let the wind run through his hair, except that i was wrong; this town's wet season is hot no matter how you get around. And (2) whoever tried to steal Ruby from the exposed, makeshift bike rack in the car park at work busted the lock-combination-mechanism and left me no choice but to cut it free. the lock is broken but luckily bike is intact. so really i shouldn't complain. but like i said, complaining is fun.
next stop is u-lock city, and no-more-complaining town. since I've still got this fantastic new ride that makes me super happy. bottom line is
(I figured I'd punctuate my first lamp post [har! har!] with lame biblical references no one will get).
if bostonian is making literary love to her bike i think i should do the same. in the form of a proper bitch--not about the beloved bike itself but about the parking situation at work. because bitching on a blog is fun.
Ruby Belle Coen has only been a Coen for one week and already I've had an 'incident.' and no, I'm not referring to my numerous crashes/fall-overs/near-hits/stuff-ups--which I openly advertise with pride (as a novice rider). I'm bitching about the individual who found my vulnerable, new treasure in the carpark, tampered with my lock and broke it, presumably to steal the brand-new, retro-reproduction, [new] oldtimer easy rider.
who could blame them? Ruby Belle is a burgundy beaut, with tan leather handles and white-rimmed wheels. And a wire basket on the front that holds a smaller wicker basket that will get stolen if I ever actually try to use it. And a clamp-style storage space on the back that the bike shop shopkeeper assured me would surely crush my veggies on the way home from the saturday markets.
In short, my adorable Ruby Belle (came with that name) is a golden-flecked (made-in-china) vehicle of perfection that get's me from A to B, is fun to ride, looks cool and makes me happy.
it's all perfect except for two issues. (1) I thought that with the onset of the humid wet it would be more comfortable to ride around and feel a breeze rather than walk, like how a dog sticks his head out the car window to let the wind run through his hair, except that i was wrong; this town's wet season is hot no matter how you get around. And (2) whoever tried to steal Ruby from the exposed, makeshift bike rack in the car park at work busted the lock-combination-mechanism and left me no choice but to cut it free. the lock is broken but luckily bike is intact. so really i shouldn't complain. but like i said, complaining is fun.
next stop is u-lock city, and no-more-complaining town. since I've still got this fantastic new ride that makes me super happy. bottom line isBIIIIICYCLE, BIIIIICYLE! i want to ride my bicycle, i want to ride my biiiiiikkeee!
(and god said let there be bikes. and there were bikes. and he saw that they were good.)
10.10.10
a new way to fly
The biking revolution is finally here! I have only been riding around for over a quarter of century waiting, watching, biding my time. 26 years of pushing a bike, two wheelin, perfecting my roll. The wind in my hair, the scenery swishing past. The feeling of freedom is not unsurpassed on a bike. Push bikes to me are like an old friend that turns up in every city I have ever lived in and offers me a ride.
It was the summer of 1984 when my sister grew out of her BMX and it was begrudgingly passed down to me. A beat up black beast with fluro quicksilver stickers, reflector pedals and spokey dokeys on the wheels. I had just mastered the training wheel and was ready to take the next step. I was, at the time, more impressed with the bike she’d just inherited from our elder sister. An ocean blue cruiser with a sparkling blue/silver banana seat with a tall back rest, long flashy handlebar streamers and white wall tires.
I was used to the concept of ‘hand-me-down’ by this stage of my life – toys, clothes, doona covers, unwanted pets, old tennis balls. I was also quite familiar with the ‘hand-me-up’, which involved something in my possession an older sibling desired and then promptly taking it from me.
Resistance was futile. Even if I rallied the parents, who obligingly insisted the return of my prized possession, victory was only short lived. The scorn and exclusion of my siblings was much more painful than initial disappointment of losing my last Easter egg, bag of marbles or the best seat on the couch. Pecking order, or as I remember it – punching order. The only thing I could do was try to negotiate – ‘You can have it and this one if you take me roller-skating with your friends on Saturday. Please. Please. Please. I promise I won’t talk to you’.
Some items didn’t make it all the way down the chain, especially after contact with my direct predecessor. She was leaps and bounds ahead of me in the bike stakes. She pelted the streets with a crew of biking kids jumpin curves, skidding up the church lawns, fanging down the lane with her hands in the air screeching like a banchee! She was a bruiser. Coming off a BMX onto a cruiser is a big transition. The cruiser won’t take the tight corners, jump the curves or skid out like a BMX will. You are supposed to sit back, take it easy, roll with it. It was a graceful machine built more for appearance than speed, style than performance. Seeing my sister bash round the side of the house on that beautiful blue bike broke my heart.
She once tried to teach me to ride with no hands. “It’s just like skiing with no poles” she teased knowing full well how that lesson went – I still have a scar. Her lesson involved riding around me in circles with no hands on the bars saying “do it like this, like this, see its easy”. I never got it. I wanted desperately to get it. I promised myself that one day I would succeed. I would ride around with no hands for all to see. Hopefully I would also have a walkman and Rebok pumps, then I’d show her.
As predicted by the time I acquired the once premium piece of equipment it was a little worse for wear. She had completely knocked off the streamers off one of the handlebars and the other side was like a mangey dog’s fur – thin, uneven and scruffy. The seat had strange punctures in it which not only ruined the sleek shiny gleam from the sun, was also rather uncomfortable to sit on. I decided then and there that one day, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow I would buy my own bike, a new bike, the best bike.
Throughout the rest of my childhood and my travels I still had never bought a ‘new bike’. It usually wasn’t a budget constraint holding me back, it was more of a long engrained notion that bikes were a second hand purchase. New bikes got stolen, they were tinny and flashy, they had no character, no-one had pre-loved them.
Moving to Darwin changed all that and I found my new best friend. A single speed Trek Soho S series, matt black lustrous finish with puncture-proof racing tires. It was designed for couriers in New York and (perhaps by accident) communication professionals in Darwin – just a few peddles on this puppy and you’re hauling! Everywhere in Darwin is too far too walk, to quick to drive and just perfect to ride. Work, supermarkets, pubs, ukulele practices are all excuses for me to ride my bike. AND everyone’s doin it ma, everyone!
Not long after I arrived I was peddling home after a few cheeky sunset beers with an old mate. He rode ahead, threw his arms in the air and said ‘Look no hands’. This was it! This was my chance, the conditions were perfect. A few beers for Dutch courage, empty suburban streets, a new bike – I got nuthin to lose. I controlled my speed and rolled into the middle of the road. I leant back a little into the saddle and straightened up. I took one hand off, then the next and stuck them straight out the sides for balance. I wasn’t only riding with no hands – I was flying.
Bikes are the new black and my bike is black so that makes me pretty hot shit. But regardless of colour, age, shape, size, new, old, found or stolen embracing the biking revolution is hugging life. So get on it.
I present my friend – ‘Alchemist’
Ding ding!
It was the summer of 1984 when my sister grew out of her BMX and it was begrudgingly passed down to me. A beat up black beast with fluro quicksilver stickers, reflector pedals and spokey dokeys on the wheels. I had just mastered the training wheel and was ready to take the next step. I was, at the time, more impressed with the bike she’d just inherited from our elder sister. An ocean blue cruiser with a sparkling blue/silver banana seat with a tall back rest, long flashy handlebar streamers and white wall tires.
I was used to the concept of ‘hand-me-down’ by this stage of my life – toys, clothes, doona covers, unwanted pets, old tennis balls. I was also quite familiar with the ‘hand-me-up’, which involved something in my possession an older sibling desired and then promptly taking it from me.
Resistance was futile. Even if I rallied the parents, who obligingly insisted the return of my prized possession, victory was only short lived. The scorn and exclusion of my siblings was much more painful than initial disappointment of losing my last Easter egg, bag of marbles or the best seat on the couch. Pecking order, or as I remember it – punching order. The only thing I could do was try to negotiate – ‘You can have it and this one if you take me roller-skating with your friends on Saturday. Please. Please. Please. I promise I won’t talk to you’.
Some items didn’t make it all the way down the chain, especially after contact with my direct predecessor. She was leaps and bounds ahead of me in the bike stakes. She pelted the streets with a crew of biking kids jumpin curves, skidding up the church lawns, fanging down the lane with her hands in the air screeching like a banchee! She was a bruiser. Coming off a BMX onto a cruiser is a big transition. The cruiser won’t take the tight corners, jump the curves or skid out like a BMX will. You are supposed to sit back, take it easy, roll with it. It was a graceful machine built more for appearance than speed, style than performance. Seeing my sister bash round the side of the house on that beautiful blue bike broke my heart.
She once tried to teach me to ride with no hands. “It’s just like skiing with no poles” she teased knowing full well how that lesson went – I still have a scar. Her lesson involved riding around me in circles with no hands on the bars saying “do it like this, like this, see its easy”. I never got it. I wanted desperately to get it. I promised myself that one day I would succeed. I would ride around with no hands for all to see. Hopefully I would also have a walkman and Rebok pumps, then I’d show her.
As predicted by the time I acquired the once premium piece of equipment it was a little worse for wear. She had completely knocked off the streamers off one of the handlebars and the other side was like a mangey dog’s fur – thin, uneven and scruffy. The seat had strange punctures in it which not only ruined the sleek shiny gleam from the sun, was also rather uncomfortable to sit on. I decided then and there that one day, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow I would buy my own bike, a new bike, the best bike.
Throughout the rest of my childhood and my travels I still had never bought a ‘new bike’. It usually wasn’t a budget constraint holding me back, it was more of a long engrained notion that bikes were a second hand purchase. New bikes got stolen, they were tinny and flashy, they had no character, no-one had pre-loved them.
Moving to Darwin changed all that and I found my new best friend. A single speed Trek Soho S series, matt black lustrous finish with puncture-proof racing tires. It was designed for couriers in New York and (perhaps by accident) communication professionals in Darwin – just a few peddles on this puppy and you’re hauling! Everywhere in Darwin is too far too walk, to quick to drive and just perfect to ride. Work, supermarkets, pubs, ukulele practices are all excuses for me to ride my bike. AND everyone’s doin it ma, everyone!
Not long after I arrived I was peddling home after a few cheeky sunset beers with an old mate. He rode ahead, threw his arms in the air and said ‘Look no hands’. This was it! This was my chance, the conditions were perfect. A few beers for Dutch courage, empty suburban streets, a new bike – I got nuthin to lose. I controlled my speed and rolled into the middle of the road. I leant back a little into the saddle and straightened up. I took one hand off, then the next and stuck them straight out the sides for balance. I wasn’t only riding with no hands – I was flying.
Bikes are the new black and my bike is black so that makes me pretty hot shit. But regardless of colour, age, shape, size, new, old, found or stolen embracing the biking revolution is hugging life. So get on it.I present my friend – ‘Alchemist’
Ding ding!
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