Thanks heaps to ’Pong for the video work (although I did the cutaways which allowed him to edit it). Apologies to Mark Pesce, whose to-camera piece wasn’t recorded properly — although we can see him lurking in the background in his lovely red jumper, and raising his eyebrows quizzically.

Also, I am too fat.

It’s D-1. I depart from Sydney airport in just 29.5 hours. I still have a million things to do. I am incredibly stressed. I hope to write more later today. My Twitter stream will reveal more, however.

Photographic evidence of Saturday’s Farewell Party for Project TOTO — or the going-away-and-maybe-not-coming-back-party as it was dubbed — has started to emerge at the Project TOTO Flickr Group.

Note especially one aspect of geek nature: of the five humans in the foreground, only one is not using a mobile computing device, and he’s reaching for a beer. And yet we’re all still connected with each other in the room, as well as with everyone else.

Note also the Sony Z1P HD video camera in the foreground: apparently video evidence will emerge later too.

Just for the record, from left to right that’s business analyst Jodie Miners; futurist and minor TV personality Mark Pesce; my partner ’Pong; and founders of Open Australia, katska and Matthew Landauer.

[Photo: Going away may be not coming back party by Kate Carruthers. But if she's in the photo, who took it?]

The delightful but dangerous Kate Carruthers has confirmed that the Project TOTO going-away-and-maybe-not-coming-back-party is on Saturday 20 June from 3pm at Kelly’s On King, 285 King Street, Newtown in Sydney. If you use Facebook, the electric friendship generator, then you can RSVP over on the event page. Otherwise just tell me. Or just turn up.

I’ve been taking time out across the Easter weekend to ponder my future. As part of that, I’ve started collecting other people’s impressions of me.

There’s three key issues. One, I need to simplify the massive range of media projects I’m doing or have dreamed up, and cut them back to what’s actually possible to achieve. Two, I have to find the right balance between income-generating media projects, purely playful or “public service” media projects which don’t earn money, and perhaps still a few geek-related things which do pay well. Three, how to reach this state of nirvana without pissing off clients or screwing up my cashflows.

Tricky, eh?

Anyway, more on that anon.

Thanks to that Internet thing, I’ve found a few curious descriptions of me already. Can you provide any others?

These are all much better than what it says on About Stilgherrian, “a Sydney-based consultant working at the intersection of the Internet, media and information technology”.

• “Perhaps one of Australia’s best tech writers”, Duncan Riley.
• “Known to some as the Rove [McManus] of the Streaming Web”, Matthew Hodgson.
• “The Bert Newton of Aussie social media”, @paininthenet.
• One of “Australia’s most interesting Twitter users”, a “fiercely opinionated blogger and former broadcaster”, news.com.au.
• “Always charming & erudite”, Kate Carruthers, though Peter Black disagreed, claiming “‘offensive or provocative’ is a better fit”.
• “Serial pest”, Verity Pravda.
• “God amongst men”, Laurel Papworth

I don’t consider myself a “journalist”, but have sometimes used “writer”. I’ve never liked the word “blogger”. And none of those things really describe the full gamut of what I do anyway. But then, as I say, maybe the gamut is too wide.

So, what other descriptions of me can you remember seeing? How would you explain me to your friends?

[Photo: Stilgherrian photographed at Kelly's On King by Miss Wired.]

Wow, that’s in just a few minutes! [Update 22 December: No, it was last night. But you can still see what happened in the CoveritLive tool immediately below the fold. The timestamps seem to be an hour early though.]

If you don’t see the CoveritLive thingy immediately above this sentence, you’re not using a compatible browser. That’s not my problem.

I’ll be watching Twitter for commentary, and may or may not respond to comments coming into the liveblog.

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!

Last Sunday’s Eurovision at the Pub was a fun night, but it didn’t go as planned. We couldn’t get the Uconnect free wireless Internet access extended past 8pm, and my computer died anyway. So no live audio commentary or even Twitter from me. I also shot some video which will be edited into some semblance of… something… on the weekend. The Snarky Platypus explains the concept of The Mid-Tempo Gap.

Only hours to go! Eurovision at the Pub is tonight at our local “Irish” pub, Kelly’s On King, 258 King Street, Newtown. The SBS broadcast starts at 7.30pm, but we’ll be there from 5pm or so to, um, ensure sufficient fuel for a long evening of big hair, tacky costumes and dodgy choreography.

There’s a Facebook event page, but even if you don’t use Facebook please RSVP here or to my Twitter stream or somehow. The more confirmed guests, the more free stuff the pub gives us.

I’ll be Twittering the event, as will many others, with the tag #eurovision. If I have enough bandwidth, I’ll also provide an audio commentary via Ustream.

Eurovision for Geeks! After an evolving conversation on Twitter, on Sunday 25 May we’re organizing a night at our local “Irish” pub, Kelly’s On King, Newtown, to watch the final of the Eurovision Song Contest 2008. The delayed broadcast starts 7.30pm Sydney time on SBS TV, so we’ll be avoiding spoilers. We’re probably also organising a live Internet link-up with pubs in other cities — because we can. Details to come later, but is “Eurovision for Geeks” an OK name? Geekvision?

’Pong and I are having dinner at Kelly’s on King, and voilá, there are musicians at our table. It almost makes up for the free Wi-Fi running out at 7pm and having to roll our our Internet connectivity via my phone (which also took the picture).

Yesterday’s experimental lunch at Kelly’s on King, the Irish theme pub at 285 King Street, Newtown, was a success.

Previously, Kelly’s got their food from Cafe C next door. Recent renovations added their own kitchen, so I figured it was worth a try.

“I’d better start thinking like a backpacker then,” snarked the Snarky Platypus. And yes, like most pretend-Irish pubs, late at night Kelly’s is full of loud, drunken arseholes. Avoid. But during the day it’s quiet, perfect for a cleansing ale and watching the world. A newspaper and conversation pub, if you like.

We had a perfectly adequate chicken penne (pictured) and a “Portuguese” chicken with rocket, sun-dried tomatoes and a few well-made potato wedges — the latter a not-too-fattening serving size. Great presentation.

The wine list is minimal — only four whites, for example. An Irish pub is about beer and whiskey. However with two decent sauvignon blancs that’s acceptable.

The Platypus and I have added Kelly’s on King to our regular rotation.