I know we shouldn’t feed the pied currawongs, but they actually came looking for food today. There wasn’t any. But when I put some out, this chap returned a few minutes later — scoffing a few while keeping a wary eye for the cats dozing only a few metres away, then taking a few spare nuggets back for the juveniles in their tree.

A family of pied currawongs lives next door. Beautiful, smart birds. Recently we’ve been leaving food out for them, and they’re happy to steal a few bites while keeping a wary eye for the cats.

Today one of the parents brought two of the juveniles with it. While I didn’t get the camera in time to snap the family portrait, I did sneak this picture of one of the juveniles on the neighbour’s fence.

I’ve always thought that my essays are my best work, even if I say so myself. I’ve done observationals before, like Saturday Night at The Duke and Burnt out sofa, burnt out life. But this one’s different.

As I walked home through Newtown last Saturday evening, I started sending little observational comments to my Twitter stream:

Actually still on Darlington Rd, a long-haired woman plays melancholy guitar on the terrace-house balcony as a currawong flops past.

As I moved into King Street, I kept going. As I went to Kelly’s On King for a beer, I kept going. I discovered that a rapt audience was watching my comments — although not everyone liked the volume of material. I suggested they use Twittersnooze to unfollow me for a while.

The 140-character limit imposes a certain staccato style which I quite like. I was chuffed to be compared with Oscar Wilde and George Bernard Shaw and (especially) Hunter S Thompson!

Here, then, is my first attempt at Live Gonzo Twittering, across about 90 minutes last Saturday night. the only changes I’ve made have been to fix some typos. Is this the best way to present it after the fact? Enjoy!

Saturday Evening in Newtown

The sun has set. Opposite corner of Church St two guys play the blues, set up with portable amps under the hardware store verandah.

Outside the bank opposite, a woman in fishnets and a black top hat plays gypsy accordion. Welcome to Newtown.

Outside Better Read Than Dead bookshop, a 16yo artfag in hornrim glasses enthuses at his friends about his visit to Louis Voitton & Versace.

Another bank verandah, this one with guitar and fiddle players churning out playful Irish folk tunes.

It is, indeed, a normal Saturday night on King St. I bought dinner from Taste, but have stopped at Kelly’s for a pint of people-watching.

(I’m sure that @ApostrophePong is too deep in his editing to want dinner yet, what with a late lunch n’all.)

As dusk falls, a cool breeze drifts in thru the pub windows as the video jukebox plays Promises’ “Baby It’s You”. http://is.gd/4ixh

6’4″ of young gothboi with sleek black hair and perfectly-formed flowing black trench coat strides out into the street, purposefully.

Dear fat red-haired man on passing bus, your combination of straggly beard, slightly-too-tight shorts & Led Zeppelin singlet does not work.

Two middle-aged women stroll by looking well-educated and stylish in their Little Black Dresses. One carries a small gift, wears a red boa.

Two rough-voiced cropped-hair dykes walk the other way in jeans and singlets. One carries a bottle of wine, poorly wrapped in brown paper.

The stylish gothboi returns, accompanied by a curly-haired friend who looks like an off-duty car radio salesman in a cheap striped shirt.

Two chubby middle-aged lesbians stroll slowly, holding hands, smiling, chatting about passers-by. I’m guessing mid-ranking govt staffers.

More immaculate gothlings arrive and are carded at the door. Red plastic spikey wristband. The Maori/Islander bouncer smiles, waves them in.

The third in the group, a young women, is slightly older, but only slightly. Hair tightly tied back, she’s either a librarian or a spook.

A wogboi in baseball cap revs his spoiler-equipped electric blue BMW. No-one is impressed. He moves 2m forward in the traffic jam.

Shaved head, muscles, “celtic knotwork” barbed wire tattoos, baggy jeans, black singlet: Sydney gay cliché. Alone. Pauses, crosses road.

Two young Chinese student girls, sharing the carrying of their brand new rice cooker. Sentimental Jap-kitch t-shirts.

A Greek couple, him in white shirt and dress jeans, her in dark skirt & blouse, her hand down the back pocket of his jeans.

Gangly curly-haired politics student in khaki shorts and battered shirt, carrying his Thai takeaway, striding awkwardly.

Old man shuffles, long white hair, long white beard, black-rimmed glasses, green-chequed flannelette shirt. He looks very, very tired.

Woman strides into the pub, bright red dress, bright red lipstick, henna’d hair, whistling. Moves with all the grace of a farmer.

@NickHodge Yes, the old guy looks like one of the local old Communists. I think he’s remembering the good old days, but only dimly.

His t-shirt reads “sotally tober”. She has seven stars tattooed just above her left breast. Her blouse is… skimpy. They’ve been drinking.

Skateboarder. Tall, skinny, black-clad but for white baseball cap. He almost drops his drink in its bright pink disposable cup, straw.

Mostly couples in the street now, pointing to potential eating-places. Also men, either alone or in rowdy pairs.

Family. Tired mother shepherds three children, each carrying bookshop purchases. Father looks into pub window disapprovingly. I glare back.

I suspect the people strolling slowly have already eaten dinner, those walking faster are still looking.

The man talking to the bouncer is trying to maintain eye contact, so he keeps missing when trying to put his lighter into his pocket.

A man with a mid-life crisis and a racing-green convertible has his son in the passenger seat, wide-eyed with delight at King St’s wonders.

A young couple looking very pleased that the bouncer is taking a toilet break. I don’t think they’d have passed carding. Upstairs, fast!

Young man in sports car passenger seat! It’s an hour after sunset. You do not need sunglasses on your head. Arm inside the vehicle, please!

Bleached-blonde woman on phone outside pub, carrying a plastic toy golfclub. More pretend-golfers inside. She’s loud, tanned, gold-bangled.

On the video jukebox, Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta have been replaced by a popular but simplistic dance track.

@JonoH I’m drinking one pint of James Squire’s Amber Ale, maybe one more before I deliver the chicken and salad home. Watching my village.

Bleachy-pseudo-golfer is STILL on the phone, tapping the toy club against her leg like a riding crop. Bright purple, with a blue handle.

That is the shortest short brightest bright purple dress I have ever seen! Just a flash as she almost runs past, handbag flapping.

The mob of 10 pseudo-golfers emerge, shouting at their bleachy friend to get off the phone girl. All have the toy clubs.

They’re blocking the street as they decide their next move. The men chat quietly, the girls scream & giggle & shout. 2 separate circles.

“Hi Alex! Let’s go!” One of the girls pretends to fellate her golf club as a camera-phone picture is taken. Flash. The group turns, is gone.

Man walks in carrying guitar case and a box. The next man carries a Marshall amp.

Gothboi and his car radio salesman friend leave, followed by all the other gothlings. I think they saw the band arriving. Good call.

Grey-haired man t-shirt “I got Bourbon-faced on Shit Street”, 7yo daughter in floral-print She’s fat, bored, skin like too many burgers.

Lights changes, masses cross, a jumble of alt and punks and respectables and then the change again and the bus roars into action.

“Where’s your friend?” a boring regular shouts. I pretend not to hear. But he shouts his question again. I shrug “dunno”, return to kbd.

It’s not a floral print dress it’s a dark blue beach dress with orange crabs and yellow fish and a red button holding it closed at the back.

She is still too fat. She and the grey-haired man are waiting for the women to finish using the pub toilet before moving on.

Drummer arrives, and drummer’s girlfriend.

Fat girl has an older sister, maybe 19 or 20, fat in her zebra-print blouse and jeans which yes your arse does look big in them. Drab hair.

Dammit I will stay for another beer, which I have now. Fat Family has negotiated their way up to the terrace for a family dinner.

Visitors. @katska and @matthewlandauer arrive. The old man admonishes me for being antisocial. I go offline to drink beer with friends.

The karaoke kicks off with a bunch of drunken drag kings singing “(Can’t Get No) Satisfaction”. Kill me now.

Correction. It’s not karaoke. It’s just that the cover band has been totally pwn3d by drag kings. Well, the whole pub, really.

Hah! Both Jebusfone users have flat batteries! Losers!

’Pong was booked for a photo shoot on William Street for stock agency Gekko Images. Apparently it’s the first time ever that the illuminated Coca-Cola sign in Kings Cross is being turned off. “Magnanimous gesture for humanity,” I think the headline should read. ‘World’s largest caffeine pusher ceases visually polluting one tiny bit of the planet for 3600 seconds.” Their share price plummets as we speak. The moment must be recorded for posterity.

So at sunset I find myself on a train, city-bound…

Before we plunge into the tunnel leading to Town Hall, I’m pleased to see most government offices darkened already. Why does an office need every surface illuminated as if brain surgery is being conducted behind the filing cabinets? When I move into a house I replace the light bulbs immediately, halving their wattage. Does a metre-square toilet really need 75W? I know we all look at our poo and deny it, but that doesn’t require lighting that’ll fry the tapeworms on exit. Real estate agents must have shares in coal.

I’m pleased to see that the few offices still attended have mostly set up a desk lamp just for the person who needs it, rather than floodlighting the entire floor for a phantom army of filing clerks.

But I’m disappointed to notice how much light is still wasted. Railway workshops are brightly lit, though the workers won’t return until Monday. Every convenience store lit up as a beacon for passing aliens. If, as we’re told, 20% of urban electricity is for lighting, two-thirds of that is used by 7-Eleven.

I arrive at the corner of Hyde Park before ’Pong, and watch a vortex of fruitbats preparing for their nightly foraging sortie. A lone currawong flops its way past at a lower altitude, its distinctive call almost drowned out by the buses. A posse of Japanese skateboarders makes its way into the park, to practice their tricks in front of a memorial to the men who killed their grandfathers. Sitting on the footpath with my back against the still-sunwarm sandstone, I’m sure my battered black sweater and jeans makes me look like a vagrant. I secretly relish the idea of the police asking me to move on, of telling them to fuck off.

I remember all the electrical items I forgot to turn off before I left home. The microwave oven, advertising its blue-LED time to an empty room. The telephone charger under the bed.

And ’Pong arrives. He soon realises, as I did minutes before, that the traditional photographs down William Street must’ve been taken from the middle of Park Street, right where a queue of taxis turns right into College Street. So he scouts ahead down the hill, and finds another spot — on the median strip at Riley Street. He shoots the Coke-lit “before” shot, and we wait.

Already Sydney Tower is almost invisible with its external lighting gone. It’s just a candle-lit pod of a restaurant floating a couple hundred metres up in the darkness, the aircraft warning beacon higher again — reassuringly still on. Westfield’s offices and the Boulevard Hotel are hidden in gloom.

But others have ignored the Earth Hour challenge. Real estate agents keep empty office space brightly lit. J C Decaux dare not turn off their illuminated advertising on public telephones and bus shelters. Stores selling fitness equipment and European sports cars glare into the night.

Suddenly the moment comes. Earth Hour has begun!

And William Street is almost exactly the same as before.

And that’s because William Street is a major traffic artery. Street lights and vehicle headlights dominate, and none of that changes. Cars have lights so bright to stand out from the other cars whose lights are so bright. The streetlights are so bright because, with everyone’s night vision destroyed by the cars, there must be enough light for loud, stupid, drunken backpackers to see where they’re walking lest they sue the council for failing to have an enormous sign saying “Beware! The surface of the Earth may not be completely smooth.”

Somewhere up to the east, a tiny rectangle which was once bright red is now dark like the building behind it. History is made, and recorded.

“Where have all the hookers gone? I suddenly wonder. “There should be hookers on William Street.” A smell of garlic wafts from a nearby restaurant. It’s time for us to eat. Earth Hour is over. Readers of the Sydney Morning Herald are smugly satisfied that They Have Done Their Part, and turn the TV back on.

[UPDATE 2 April 2007: I haven't just bitched about this, I've also posted some green computing tips on my business website -- as well as following them. Stand by.]

Today’s morning chorus also included 30-odd long-billed corellas, a scattering of rainbow lorikeets, a low-flying pied currawong (I love the way they fly well under the main canopy, staying hidden) and assorted pigeons and miners.

Rainbow lorikeets (noisy and obvious, but still pretty), Australian magpies (confident and my favourite), Australian ravens (with their languid calls), noisy miners (yes, they’re noisy!) and pigeons.

OK, the skyrat pigeons can go. But the rest are just wonderful — even the aggressive miners. And add to that the family of pied currawongs that live nearby and several other species and you have a wonderful community in which to live.