11 February 1973 / Sydney, Australia

It’s long been known that Mick and I don’t often agree. Among other issues, our differing opinions on strut-theory have been well documented. Even after those legendary long nights of private debate and public strut-offs, we have never been able to reconcile our thoughts into one unified strut-construct.

Despite this, though, there’s always been a mutual respect for each other’s mind (and even more admiration for each other’s body). But this high regard is again being tested and it’s distracting me from my purpose here.

Earlier today, I was fully devoted to my mission and having more success than I had anticipated. I remember when I first heard rumors of a koala bear slave trade I scoffed at the absurdity of the idea. But like a koala clings to a tree, the idea clung to my brain--I couldn’t shake the terrible notion that the idea was so dumb, it had to be true.

And now, there is indeed no doubt. It took me little over a day to find a potential whistle blower, who I plan to meet tomorrow at one of the abandoned generic vegemite factories where many of the koala slaves are put to work. Apparently these factories are fly-by-night operations, always one step ahead of the vigilante-style law in this country.

So I should be concentrating on tomorrow, but instead my mind is on Mick.

After dinner, I heard Mick being interviewed on some New Zealand radio talk show. Most of the questions had to do with his celebrated “fuck you” face (their term, not mine). After making some incomprehensible English tongue affectations, I heard him claim that he was simply born with his face saying fuck you.

Blasted, Mick! You know that’s not true! When we met back in 1959 or whenever it was, you were nothing more than a mealy-mouthed urchanic ectomorph who liked nothing more than to please his elders. When you were at that pub and started dancing the knee-knock moves from the Charleston while asking patrons for a pint I was the one who punched you in the back and snapped you out of that nonsense.

But I bought you that pint… because I appreciated your hustle, if not your direction. And over the course of the night, and many more pints, we honed that face of yours together. And not long after, things started to click for you.

I won’t go so far as to say I’m totally responsible for Mick’s success, but I have no problem writing it in my journal tonight. Anyway, why should I care? I’m not looking for credit and I’ve got so many other important things to think about.

Maybe I’m just looking for a diversion, away from the horrors I’m investigating. Or maybe there was some unfinished business after our last strut-off and this is just adding fuel to my fire. In fact, I might just practice tonight. Might it be fate that brought me to a hotel room that’s completely mirrored on all sides, even the floor? Ideal for strut practice?

On a side note, I’ve gotten so used to mirrors everywhere that it took me until now to realize the oddity of this room. This is a pretty weird decade.