RIP Ellie Greenwich

I read that Brooklyn-born Ellie Greenwich died last week, aged 68.

You may not know her name but her songs will be familiar. She co-wrote such classics as Da Doo Ron Ron, Then he kissed me, Be my baby, Baby I love you, Leader of the pack, I can hear music and River Deep - Mountain High.

These wonderful odes to romance proclaim the power of love.

Sadly, Ellie's relationship with her writing partner and husband Jeff Barry ended and she suffered a breakdown in the mid-1960s.

Just thought her passing was worth a mention.

'Have I ever told you

How good it feels to hold you

It isn't easy to explain

And though I really keep trying

I think I may start crying

My heart can't wait another day

When you kiss me I just got to say

Baby I love you

Baby I love you

Baby I love only you

I can't live without you

I love everything about you

I can't help it if I feel this way

Though I'm so glad I found you

I want my arms around you

I love to hear you call my name

Oh tell me that you feel the same.'

(Baby I love you)

Whatever happened to the rock chick?

Downloaded onto my brand new purple iPod by brother-in-law Davo are an eclectic selection of songs that hark back to the '70s.

I'm having a great time getting all nostalgic. You know how it goes... "Those were the days, weren't the '80s great, etc..." In fact, the '80s really sucked for me.

Now I know how old people get to be so annoying: "In my day we respected our parents and teachers..." or "When I was a kid, we were allowed to run free in the bush (causing devastation in our wake), burn leaves with a magnifying glass (thereby sparking off numerous wildfires) and spend all day in the sun and surf (which is why all my generation now has skin cancer)."

But my point, or rather question is this: whatever happened to the rock chick?

I've been listening to Joan Jett, Deborah Harry from Blondie and the incredible Chrissie Hynde from the Pretenders. The songs are so cool, meaningful, hard-nosed, flirtatious and sung with real commitment. There's none of this yodling Beyonce fat-bottomed jiggling pussy-in-your-face garbage.

And who is this Lady Ga Ga? Scary stuff. And chicks like Rihanna who send out the message that it's OK if your boyfriend bashes the crap out of you - just go back to him and pretend nothing happened (footballers girlfriends here in Australia do that - so sad). Give me a break.

I want real women singing real songs - playing their own instruments. Bring back Debbie and Chrissie and dare I say it (though she only had one good song) Joan! Bring back Suzi Quatro, Chrissie Amphlett (Divinyls) and those women of rock with real heart and soul.

Shivers, does anyone remember Slade? Mama, we're all crazy now is playing on my iPod as I write! Whoo-hoo!

Thanks for popping in: thoughts on birds

Before this latest rant, I'd like to say a big hello (sorry, can't bring myself to say "g'day") to everyone in the USA, UK, Canada, India, Hong Kong, Russia (is that you Fiona?) Malaysia and the Netherlands who persevere with my eccentric ramblings.

It's been quiet on the romance writing and swimming fronts so tonight I've resorted to alcohol. It sort of fits in with the whole Aussie image - laid-back and alcoholic (and obnoxious and overbearing when we're pissed).

On birds: I was standing at a bus stop in the middle of the city this afternoon when I heard a piercing squawk.

Looking up, I saw a sulphur-crested cockatoo perched on the roof of a three storey building. He was agitated because his mate was nowhere in sight. Eventually, he flew away through the heart of the city.

It surprised me that I seemed to be the only person to show any interest in this rare sight amongst the concrete and glass skyscrapers. Maybe that's what city life does to people - desensitises them to the odd, beautiful and unusual.

Back home, a 15 minute drive from town on a good day, another thrill awaited. A kookaburra decided to hang out on the back verandah railing (the dog was inside). For several minutes, Miss Hissy, Spanner and I observed this amazing creature. It was a boy kooka - his wing feathers had a deep blue sheen. His mate was around - she landed in a tree beside our house and cackled a little - not a full-throttled laugh - before they both left.

The great Louis Armstrong was so right - what a wonderful world.

The pic is of the girl kookaburra - she wasn't as good looking as her hubby but she had attitude!

A new season between winter and spring

It's hard a hard slog at this time of the year - work is frantic, so there's no time to write (except the bloody blog!) and the ocean swimming season is yet to start (unless you can afford the time and money to jet off to swims in Fiji and Vanuatu).

So, let's talk about the weather. I heard about a movement in Australia to introduce a new season between winter and summer. August is the perfect place for it. Although it is still technically a winter month, the weather can be highly unseasonal.

For example, yesterday was distinctly balmy. The breeze blowing off the river was as warm as a Latin lover's caress (can't help the cliched romance writer in me).

This unexpected change in the weather catches Sydneysiders offguard. Suddenly we're sweltering under the weight of woollen jackets and scarves.

I nominate August as the transition month from winter to spring. Some smarty pants wants to call it 'sprinter', while another suggests 'snot' - it 'snot summer and it 'snot winter.

"God, it's hot, it must be 'snot!"