Dan the VespaMan

Vanilla Brogues

2012-02-06T21:45:00.002+11:00

Standing on the pavement, he looked forlornly at his left shoe and pondered its deterioration. It was made all the worse by the apparent good condition of the right. To make matters worse, a blob of his ice cream slipped from its perch atop a crispy cone and landed with a splattering upon the worn out toe. He thought, "I scream, but perhaps I should just shoe-oosh up".

Meanwhile, not very much was happening elsewhere.

Bestin & Edwina

2012-01-29T14:54:00.005+11:00

Bestin Spequrious, a man of another time, found himself in the town centre awash with contradiction. To his left, he spied a curious woman wearing a frozen quail atop her head and reciting low quality prose. He grinned in a useless attempt to veneer his contempt that she was wearing an organic quail while his was merely "free range". Anyway, the day was growing increasingly less refrigerated and so he removed the deceased bird, constructed a sturdy boat from yesterday's newspaper and placing the increasingly pungent non-feathered creature upon it, placed it into the large duck pond to set sail. As it drifted away he threw coloured streamers and waved his handkerchief. Bystanders were surprisingly accepting of the situation.

Meanwhile, in the town of Greater Normalsville, a congregation of the people was taking place. For discussion was the issue of cactus, and it's role in the arctic regions of the Zambese corridor where the penguins roam. Edwina, third empress of Lexinbridge, wearing a black lace tablecloth with attached tea set was red faced and roaring. "You fools", she cried, "do you not know that the Zambese region is the last place on earth where one can find the peppercorn people, known far and wide for there dance of the eleven toes?". A murmur flowed through the crowd as this revelation changed opinions to that of a more sure-footed aspect.

Red Riverbank House

2012-01-28T14:08:00.006+11:00

I have no idea why this fascinates me

...but it does.

Hi Ho Hi Ho, It's Off To Work I Go

2012-01-10T16:50:00.003+11:00

Question. What makes a seemingly sane chap pass up a good 9 to 5 job to commence doing shift work on the same salary? Well, actually there are a few good answers to this and as yours truly has performed exactly this type of career metamorphosis, who better to spill the beans.
Work and career has always been a fairly straightforward process for me. I've rarely concerned myself with seeking the "dream job", my calling that will allow a miraculous contribution to the universe. I never felt that was entirely necessary, instead believing that regardless of the job you have you should extract what you can from it and perform it as best you can. Do this, and you will enjoy your work.

So, when the opportunity to make a change to shift work was set before me with new tasks and experiences to investigate, I couldn't hold back. Yes indeed the times I would require to be at work are a little odd, and it would cause some disruption to social and recreational opportunities. However sleeping late, not working on Mondays, going to the beach when others are at work, avoiding traffic, and being uninvited to the most boring and pointless meetings as they do not align with my roster are ample compensations.

Just ask me again tomorrow when I start at 5AM.

Xmas is Over

2011-12-29T17:53:00.001+11:00

For another year. Hooray!

Advantage Vintage

2011-07-11T21:35:00.000+10:00

Trips away broaden one's experience and indeed for myself, broadening my anything is reason enough to flee SinCity.

Under cover of darkness, I propellered into the land of many berries last Friday. Making contact with Agent M who successfully identified herself using a clever double-bluff to throw off enemy agents (ie. looking like herself, waving at me as I entered the terminal, saying hello and administering a kiss and hug...... so obvious that they didn't look out for it!), we then mobilised into the night automobilically. Base station was ruther good so proclaimed a chap called Glen. My task for the weekend was to present a stunning display of knowledge shortcomings with regards to sophisticated fruit juice, cleverly disguised.

Tardyness is usually inexcusable, so it was with wonder that I entered the dining facility at our headquarters and was not pummeled with pies. Agent M, myself and the very patient pairing of agent J and agent L sat down (not in a coordinated way mind you, they had accomplished this task preceeding my arrival) to consume consumptables. I was introduced to a Ukrainian fowl who said very little but was butter for it. I occasionally peered up to make sure my face was not getting too close to the plate. Discussions were discussed regarding the next days discourse and we retired.

Agent M and I cohabitated the murder room, and I squeamed at the thought of ghostly visitations during the wee hours. Agent M made helpful suggestions along the lines of future murders if I continued to take discussions in paranormal directions and so I decided to simulate death for several hours.

After the following dawn (well after) and suitably breakfasted we made contact with the first of many local juice pimps. He conversed cordially with Agents M/J/L and politely veneered his detection of my ignorances the way one does with a helpless dunce. I delighted in tilting stemmed glasses into my face, usually when they contained an exalted beverage. I nodded when terms such as bouquet, nose, length, complexity, levels, notes, and vestibuliranariousness were bandied about. I later learnt that it had something to do with the stuff we were drinking. I grinned inanely and stroked the ever present cat. The process was repeated more than once as a repeated process frequently is. As I was in charge of turning the steering wheel in our automobiliousness transport I ensured all such grape juice that passed my lips was dissapointingly spat into a spitoon. Surprisingly, my shirt displayed no remnants of the exercise as I was expecting to look like a crazed butcher by the end of the day.

That evening we ensconsed at a local eatery... to eat. I ordered the calamari in a further attempt to disguise my ignorance of all things good. Presented before me on a plate the size of a viking shield were squidgy tubes filled with nutty niceness. I ate it, muffling my usual animalistic eating noises as we had company. To follow was a fist of honest red meat in the form of a fist of honest red meat and potatoes so wonderfully smoked I wondered if I was going to develop a habit that would need Nicola Roxon to legislate they only be sold in plain packages. I wanted to throw my eating utensils across the room and bury my face into the offering. Dessert was timed timidly and even someone like me with an underdeveloped sweet palate felt tooth decay was worth the experience.

The following day we continued the tour. I was an expert on cat stroking by then (but useless at wine comprehension) but nary a cat could be found. The tour ended at a chocolatarium where I drank iced coffee and an organic burger that tasted just as good as a real one. With the evening not too far away and many miles needing to be covered we bid farewell to Agents J/L who I believe were off to overthrow the bra canning industry and we began our journey home to the RBoO. Agent M proceeded to communicate with me primarily through the technique of singing along to her iphone which made the five and a half hour journey so much easier as it drowned out the noise of the trucks roaring alongside us.

Anyways, bottoms up !

Shawt

2011-06-08T14:04:00.005+10:00

"Explain", enquired he, "What is meant by procrastinationary denialism?".

"Sha'n't", responded she, "Until perhaps tommorrow".

iBuy

2011-05-18T14:03:00.004+10:00

Spotted in today's SMH, a full page advertisement by a certain tobacco giant. As a result of the federal government's decision to make it illegal for cigarette packaging to carry any sort of marketing attractiveness, understandably these companies that sell their awful product by means of hoodwinking their customers with fantasy are none to pleased. But the question is, do they have a very valid point?

Rightious attacks on cigarette companies is the easiest game in town. These organisations could not be less desirable to the vile middle class even if they were to hand their durrys out to children in school playgrounds. Politicians, always keen to make an easy score to balance out their other myriad inabilities, know a wounded prey when they smell it and have little hesitation simulating moral superiority for our viewing pleasure and hopefully some cheap votes when needed.

The art of marketing to me is utterly repulsive. A technique whereby the details and realities of a product or service are camoflaged by a shroud of falsehood and scam. Imagine how many McDonalds burgers would be sold if the only way they could promote them is by advising us of their existence and the ingredients. How many cars would Holden sell if they actually detailed the true cost and effort of owning one? Would Apple have sold millions of iPads without the annoying jingles and lineups outside their glass encrusted stores?

Branding in itself is considered a highly valuable intellectual property. It is here to stay and is considered a valid tool of commerce. The Australian government seems to be happy to allow some pretty awful products to continue their disgusting trade without interference in the use of branding and marketing. It is hypocrisy to single out the tobacco industry.

Alcoholic beverage industry, you're next!

Getting a "Bit"

2011-05-17T15:28:00.004+10:00

Very recently, Agent M and myself have had cause to prop ourselves atop my brown leatherish couch to absorb screenings of a favourite comedy duo hailing from the British Isles. Entitled, "A Bit of Fry and Laurie" and even indicated as such with a quadruplette of dancing middle and index figures by the former, it has unleashed upon us a dowry of mirth, mayhem, and very silly foolish fun.

Unless one has committed their lives to drudgery and blandness, the elegantly mischievous wit of Stephen Fry would be well known. He is rarely far from our television screens, an oasis of pure entertainment in a media sea of rotting detritus. If one has committed their lives to drudgery and blandness, Hugh Laurie would certainly have been observed playing the lead role in an American medical drama that will remain unnamed here for fear of cracking my head open with a croquet mallet to induce blessed release from a world where one more medical TV drama pushes me o'er the brink. For shame, as Laurie is the equal of Fry in every way but height.

From the opening scene, a play on awfully overpriced and over-marketed bottled smells for dedicated non-thinkers (entitled "Protention - by Fry and Laurie) to the conclusive concocting of a cocktail for guests that include such ingredients as a litre of air, and a measure of fried water all mixed by a rollicking brass medley produced by Laurie without a brass razoo and hysterical gyrations by the tall frame of Fry, the viewer is treated to something that is laughably ridiculous. One thinks that these gentlemen enjoy casting off the shackles of intellectualism and behaving in a manner unbecoming of sensible souls. Being a fool can really be so much fun, and I hope to improve my proficiency in this area along with grumpiness as I age.

Such things are worth seeking.

Ban the Beret

2011-04-13T22:16:00.007+10:00

If I had a choice of languages other than English to speak, French would be top of the list. I have a kind of affinity with France even though I have never set foot in the place. Perhaps it's the food or the wine, or our shared indifference for ignorant Americans, but it was with an overwhelming sense of disappointment to see the French government display an exhibition of such stupidity that it made the most boneheaded American tourist look like a goddammed genius.

In a triumph of arrogant conservatism over being human, the French government introduced some sort of law to ban the wearing of the burqa. It is mind boggling to think that a country capable of such good pastries can bring such foolish concepts into law. At a time when people of the Muslim faith are feeling ever more ostracized by the western world, leave it to the French to fuck it up even further.

To whit, I condemn this vile behaviour by introducing the "Ban the Beret" campaign. Until this ridiculous action is reversed no beret shall adorn my bonce. Who's with me?

B Times in B n B

2011-03-20T19:38:00.001+11:00

An escape from ones home base is a healthy thing. And indeed can further the appreciation for ones base of operations. In case it's not known (and why should it be unless you were there) I was fortunate enough to dash off on a little journey south of SinCity under the guidance of Agent M, for the purposes of battery recharging via the consumption of good food and wine and enthusiastic conversing with exceptional souls.

Let me say that the heavens did open on occasion and did the ol' cats and dogs routine. Luckily, our temporary home was bereft of discomfort and many hours of reading newspapers, foodling, winering, and generally being in a pleasing environment were the result. Games were played, and needless to say my lack of competitive spirit had me at a disadvantage. The marjong was confusing, the charades was panic stricken (but I like being panicked it's true), and the scrabblation was beyond my feeble capacities and hence my seat was resigned to those with expert grasps on wordnessness. I preferred being roped into activities closer to my dreams.

The local beach was but a stroll away and we had a enough of a break in the weather to peruse. Agent M managed to convince a small rock crab to attack me with fury but I was talented enough to squeal in an ungainly fashion and leap to safety. That rock crab had little chance against my superior cowardice and scuttled away disgusted.

More excursionary activities are definitely planned.

Aerophilia

2011-03-13T12:09:00.000+11:00

Aghast, once again struck by the ability of people to build things wonderous. Raw noise, many thousands of horsepower with not a horse in sight as this was no place for mortal creatures to exhibit. Avalon, not the beautiful song but the venue for many mechanical beasties that snub their metallic noses at gravitational concepts. I and senior familia were there for what is no less than a pilgrimage adopted every second year.

Oh yes, I indeed paid a degree of heed to such issues of carbon footprints and the perversion of drooling over machines of war, but I am satisfied in my weakness and not so naive to think that one turned head will change such matters. Along with thousand hundred others the indulgement was a festival of aerial speed, size and verbosity. We stood firmly upon the ground as the stars of the show did not. An orgy involving the conversion of avgas to action amid aerial exploits.

Will I return in another years two? Ofcourse.

Satisfaction with Factions

2010-11-06T23:14:00.011+11:00

‘Tseems I have struggled as of late keeping this here blog stocked with thought-flow. Pity, but bah phooey and who said that a blog needed constant entries anyhoo. My mind muddied with muddled thoughts perhaps a healthy evacuation of such onto this papier digitale may be of benificial brainage beautification.... hence:

I find myself in a peculiar place in life. Oh please, say they of lives more peculiar than mine, but indeed I find it peculiar all the same. First, since May my methode of employ and funding has progressed in two directions, namely slightly improved in dollars and cents wise, considerably improved, nay increased, in responsibilities and activity wise, and fucking o’er flowing in frustration.... wise. My gracious employer has never sparkled in the area of modern technology for the workplace, the bare minimum of rudimentary but reasonably workable IT tools have been furnished in the past and minor grumblings aside I always seemed to be able to press the buttons required to make things happen as required. Unfortunately, an ambitious and somewhat fuckwitted introduction of new systems has rendered my daily activities ridiculously difficult, complex, and bordering on impossible. Complaints are unwelcome to those who champion the new order and solutions will not be forthcoming while my derriere is pointing in a certain direction. Luckily, I have the incredible ability known as “Nary Giving a Fuck” and I bravely work on allowing the things that cannot be done to remain undone. Added to all this, the silly season that is the fault of celebrations related to the story of the miracle of a virgin birth is upon us and the work will soon become all that much harder.

Still in the workplace, I grow weary of the daily battle in a war not worth fighting with some of my occasional comrades. Arguing incoherently with me is like eating a lump of lard, pointless and leaves a bad taste in ones mouth. Some of our people do find themselves in a tough place at the moment, but they confuse me with somebody who has a responsibility to help them. My job is to make decisions that are rather ruthless in nature, and I am sooooo fucking good at it that it gives me energy. I dismiss dilly-dallying, sob stories, and people who think they know my job better than I do, but I wonder if secretly I actually enjoy pissing them off and observing the fits of fury. Is there some degree of masochism involved here, perhaps I subconsciously enjoy having abuse and mental degradation heaped upon me and just when they think I’m out for the count I rise up, kick them in the balls and deliver my own tirade. The workplace is indeed a terrible terrible place, but I’m thinking that I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Home life is very subdued, mostly a lack of energy from the encounters above. But alas, a slowly percolating excitement is developing as my years of single living are in their final weeks. It’s a brave new world I embark towards with a wicked grin and understandable trepidation. Having known of her existence for a little over a year now, I have gradually identified her as one of the treasures of the trove and someone I have a desire to desire utterly. Certainly it is not without hurdles to be leaped, but bound together in a three legged race even I feel we shall soar.

Fatigue now descends upon me, so I shall rest.

There's Nothing Wrong with being Anon

2010-10-04T20:23:00.009+11:00

Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth. - Oscar Wilde.

As an anonymous blogger (a lazy, inconsistent and infrequent one lately) this quote is just so true. I wonder why we feel so much more at ease with the truth when it cannot be directly connected to us by others?

A debate I heard a while ago about the blogging community was that anonymity presents the danger of the author not having to stand by what they are writing. This opens the door to all sorts of false and scandalous information that could lead the ignorant astray and damage reputations. Bah! Anyone who reads a blog (especially mine) and considers it a source of valuable information that they should base their own thoughts on has serious problems. People should understand that the written word is as corruptible as any other form of communication. Its dangers require at least two people, one to write it and one to read and believe it. Does not the reader need to accept some responsibility?

Oscar would have loved blogging. I wonder what he would have called his blog page? The Importance of being Scandalous? A Blog of no Importance?

Smile for the Camera.... Darlin'!

2010-08-15T18:49:00.007+10:00

Oh dear, it seems I have been neglecting this blog something awful. Clearly my “one pic a day” plans have come a cropper, and hence will be now be referred to as “one pic whenever I get around to it” instead.

Today I read a small article that can be found on Adelaide’s “The Advertiser” website about the most recent victim of Channel 9’s practice of “boning” its female presenters. In case anyone is unsure, Channel 9 is a television station that broadcasts copious quantities of advertising for products no sane person could ever want (at least while they are legally entitled to button their own trousers) with the odd program of dubious entertainment or informative value thrown into the mix just to keep us from trading in our television sets for things we..... well, might actually find of use instead.

Anyways, I’m not here to pour scorn on channel 9, they gush it onto themselves readily enough, I instead wish to unleash my cynical bwahahahaha’s upon the recently boned Kellie Connolly who may just qualify for the “Hypocrite? Who? Me?” award for this year. Yes indeed it appears that Mrs. Connolly has been rocked to the core after being the latest casualty and is not too pleased about it. The pearly whites and the pleasant face it appears were not enough to save her from the chopping block, probably because some other unmarried, non-pregnant, white toothed glamour has joined the ranks and taken her place on the gravy train.... oh yeah and some shit about journalistic ability too, yada yada yada.

Is there a naivety inherent in the concept that if you score a gig on “A Current Affair” or one of the plague of morning breakfast television shows that ooze, puss-like, from the screen you got the gig due to journalistic credentials? ...... wow... ACA, morning breakfast television, and journalistic credentials all in one sentence. I feel sooooo dirty.

Kellie, you didn’t complain when they put you up in the apartment overlooking SinCity Harbour, you didn’t complain when they poured fucking stupid amounts of cash into your bank account. You had a damn good run in a game more crooked than a poker table on a Mississippi steamboat. You don’t now have a right to sully the strides made by the real feminists who are battling the real issues by jumping aboard a bandwagon and saying how appalled you are that it was all about teeth and tits. If your that good a journalist, pursue a career in the free press where there is some integrity, but little chance to attend the Logies underpantless I’m afraid.

The article can be found here.

The One Step

2010-07-19T22:08:00.003+10:00

Braced in walking boots, I wrap my coat snugly about myself and elevate the zipper till it starts to pleasingly choke. The wind has a banshee roar about it and all exposed skin feels the tingle of frigid air. I can feel my nose turning red as my sinuses protest the chill.

The sun provides glare but nil warmth and the expanse of the moor soaks it in and expresses a deep yet rugged green. I walk and smile as each step produces a crunch upon the cold shale of the path. Peering to the distance I see the same as where I am, solidarity and remoteness without regret. Once again I step out of a life surrounded, uncaged and free to ramble. Directionless, wonderfully directionless and devoid of task or duty.

Energizing, revitalizing, replenishment of the zing thing. Never has it been so clear that I am in fact a battery and one that is charged by denial of the things I am supposed to be doing. These are the things that make up me, that may bother the other, but so be it.

Forward to the next village, the next stage where the show must go on. Fearless, but to be frank one must be frank. The great pleasure of diving back into the civilization and thumbing my nose at the apparent "opportunities". Some may hint at arrogance, fuck them, so how's that for arrogance?

A handful of cards, and I'm not the one who shall fold.

What's Dan Watching - Religulous

2010-07-18T19:43:00.003+10:00

When one wishes to make a point of shooting fish in a barrel, the key I feel is in the way it is done. Today's fish in my little barrel is that of the worlds religions and the gunslinger is American standup comedian Bill Maher in the documentary "Religulous".

Much in the same genre as Michael Moore, this film is structured with a foundation of outright bias, builds it's walls to a conclusion that was already made before production even started and is roofed with a contempt for the rights of people to follow the faith of their choosing. Maher's treatment of people in the film is disgraceful at best, and the old trick of creative editing to make the participants appear ridiculous and foolish is crafted exquisitely. To argue that this kind of behaviour is necessary due to religion being the primary cause of the world's troubles to me wins the longbow award (as in the drawing of) and to suggest that because the scriptures of the religions have obvious inaccuracies it should render the respective faith null and void perhaps glosses over the point of religion entirely.

However, and here it comes, I liked it. There is no doubt that Maher has the supreme ability to deliver a message. Years of standup and television work have helped him develop his patter and showmanship. He correctly points out some of the flaws in the world's faiths, and the problems they are causing to at least some of their followers. This is an intelligent man who is doing the thing that we all need to do, express our concerns.

I may not be a religious man myself, but I pray we may all be able to continue to follow our faiths or not as we see fit.

An Image per Day #4 #5 #6 #7

2010-07-10T15:35:00.002+10:00

An Image per Day #3

2010-07-06T20:02:00.002+10:00

An Image per Day #2

2010-07-05T20:25:00.001+10:00

An Image per Day

2010-07-04T20:43:00.005+10:00

I've recently been thinking about this blog. I'm starting to think that it's time to commit to a project, an enjoyable task where I can use this space to contain the results. To whit, here is the plan:

- To post one image per day.
- To use black and white photography with some colour highlighting.

The blog may not be updated every day, but I still plan to (eventually) adorn this blog with a daily image. The hope is this will entice me to carry my camera everywhere and snap away at anything that might interest me.

I'm looking forward to the results, the first of which appears in today's post.

Pulling Up One's Soccs in the Game of Football

2010-06-17T19:28:00.003+10:00

Setting sprigged foot upon the gloried turf, hark thee Socceroos, heart be fullish and unfeared. Menfolk in white ventured from the land of Deutch, and expertly sprigged moreso. Sadness well be but be will be.

But wherefore the King of K, of groined ground to grief. Closethed sight of paining, teethed gritted he will go on and on. But gasp, a kin of the Dutch proclamates nay, ye shall place thyself uponeth the slats in the dugoutethness of nothingness and set mind and life upon more winworthy chances. Little jots are cared for of the tears from greengold disciples. A ruse perhaps? Pain now pleasure thereafter?

A quad! Oh, a quad of quandary hitteth our net, and feel stabbingly surreal. The sauerkraut never tasted sweeter for them, but bittersour uponeth our palates. Miserygrief, as our TeeCee is displayed the bloodcard, an invitation to sit alongside the King of K and weep the weep of weepishness.

A glimmer? Have we faith for a glimmer?

A Desirous Date with a Crepe

2010-06-05T22:02:00.002+10:00

Irritability, it descends upon one at various moments for usually ridiculous reasons. I found myself in SinCity central today, nerd/geek levels bubbling high, in pursuit of a new toy to call my own. You may declare me sad and tragic but I along with many others was lusting after a shiny new iPad without success as it seems demand had well and truly outstripped supply. Not even if I had a face full of acne and sinus irritability would it convince the gods of gadgets that I was geek enough to be delivered salvation in the form of the sexy slate.

I plonked myself down in the Myer food court, as brunch beckoned, disgusted with myself for falling for this stupid consumerist trap. I soon made the decision "Fuck 'em, if they can't give me what I want, they can wait for my money". My stomach, bless it be, rumbled agreement and suggested an alternative desire. I agreed and after a short negotiation settled on a crepe. Happiness and pleasure was soon to replace my ill feeling.

If you have something to say against the crepe, express it now and then forever hold your peace. I settled on a filling of prosciutto, cheese, chopped tomato, Spanish onion and rocket. I wish to express the fact that every mouthful sent a wonderful shiver up my spine, in a way similar to the shiver one gets while indulging in a bit of the other. I think having an orgasm in the Myer food court from eating a crepe would be rather poor form, and luckily I can control myself when I need to. I think it may be necessary to release unto the world a small bit of information which I hope is not used against me. Not only do I like crepe's, I also like pancakes. I especially like pancakes drenched with golden syrup. I like pancakes drenched with golden syrup so much that I would happily give up my search for an iPad and eat golden syrup drenched pancakes instead.

As you can see, my mind does have its peculiarities.

Finding Identity in 'Bourne

2010-05-31T21:08:00.003+10:00

A warm blanket of cold greyness befitted the civility and class of 'bourne Friday night past. The occasional light drizzle is just extra garnish that gives the scene a sense of completeness. Weather like this entices, it encourages one to don a scarf and warm duds, seek sustenance that warms not only the belly, but raises our minds and souls to levels of ecstatic savagery that push the conservative and conventional aside.

One doesn't know where to begin when faced with such multi-layered possibilities. Debate may rage, but I say depositing oneself upon the street in good walking shoes and allowing the chill wind to blow you to a solution is best. Rowdiness and surging crowds are all well and good, but overlooking the small and calm is tom-foolery at its tom-foolerest. God was kind when she gave us sight, sound, and smell and it would be a sin to not use such senses superbly here, as they rarely lead astray.

How to comprehend all this? The originality of the local folk, dripping with a cool confidence and sophistication that should be freeze dried, vacuum packed and trucked to SinCity so I may purchase it from my local dealer. Their utter failure to exercise snobbery and conformity. The revelation that sometimes the best food can be sourced from the establishment with the grottiest seats. That a good drinking establishment must have a good story to go with it.

I cracked it my friends, I understood it. It's not complicated at all. Them down south there understand that to achieve a good result, one must know what one wants. Those wonderful 'Bournians have found their identity, and they celebrate it well.

Cockatoo Island

2010-05-16T22:49:00.002+10:00

I visited Cockatoo Island on the weekend to view the artworks of the Biennale. I plan to write about it soon, but before I do I think it is important to provide some information about this place*.

Before European colonisation, the island was known as Wa-rea-mah a title given to it by the Aboriginal people. Like much of the SinCity harbour area they lived a fairly peaceful existence and there is evidence to suggest they fished from this island. In 1839, and with European colonisation in full swing, it was decided to establish a convict settlement on the island. There are reports that a culture of extreme brutality existed, as the convicts were originally from the Norfolk island settlement and were regarded as the most vile and despicable rougues of the British Empire. With Cockatoo island being remote and difficult to access, all manner of mistreatments could be exercised without the general public being aware. Hard labour was the order of the day and there are many examples of this dotted about the island. Many convicts were worked to death and their bodies are rumoured to still be on the island, albeit never found.

Between 1870-1880, prisoners were relocated to Darlinghurst Gaol and Cockatoo Islands convict history was at an end, or so it seemed. Records have been questioned as the islands commander at the time was considered a notoriously corrupt villain. Apparently the number of convicts transferred did not tally with expectations, even though the records presented by the commander indicated all had. An investigation was initiated however before it could be completed the commander was killed when a drunk cut his throat in a bar-room brawl in Sydney's Rocks area, and the senior record keeper for the island was found drowned in the Fitzroy dock on the island. All remaining records mysteriously disappeared around this time.

With the removal of the convicts, the island became an industrial school and reformatory for girls and a ship the "Vernon" was anchored nearby to train orphaned boys. Again there are rumours of mistreatments and poor record keeping. It has not been possible to determine how many young boys and girls were sent to this place particularly as in 1888, due to overcrowded prisons, the worst offenders were returned to the island. It was in 1908 that Cockatoo Island would end its "official" role as a host for prisoners and young girls and boys without a home.

Australia became a federation in 1901, and in 1913 Cockatoo Island was to become the Commonwealth Naval Dockyard. From the outset security was high, and all workers were sworn to secrecy as to the activities on the island. Efforts to properly resolve the questions of the islands inhabitants before this time were blocked in the interests of national security. The island became a centre for heavy industry in shipbuilding and repair, with thousands of workers. In 1992 the dockyard closed and it was determined that the heavy industry had created severe contamination issues on the island and so was quarantined from any visits from the general public for the next nine years.

In 1996, a young Sydney University student, Melissa Cambridge, was sitting in the hospital room of her Grandfather, Arthur, who was dying. In a seemingly delirious moment after being administered pain relief he began to speak of some of the "people of the island", how he was warned to not converse with them, and how they were kept in the tunnels that had been built through the island. (He also spoke of a special "cargo" that was onboard a US warship docked for repairs on the island during the latter years of WWII, but his speech was at a point of nonsensical). Melissa made enquiries with her parents, but they were unaware of what Arthur was talking about and said he hardly ever discussed his time on the island. Her enquiries with the Navy and government resulted in standard form letters that gave only a brief detail of the islands history. Her requests to visit the island were rejected due to the risk from the contamination.

On the evening of 3rd April, 1997, according to police reports, Melissa Cambridge and three of her friends decided to attempt to visit the island illegally. A witness saw them leave in a small boat from Drummoyne just after dark, and this would be the last time they were ever seen again. On that night a man fishing from his dinghy on the harbour reported to police the sound of rivetting and the sight of smoke coming from the large chimney on the island. The police were unable to investigate due to the contamination quarantine, however they passed the report on to the defence department who investigated and advised nothing unusual on the island.

In 2001 the island, reportedly rehabilitated from the contamination, was handed over to the Sydney Harbour Federation Trust. In 2007 the island was opened to the public, including campers who can spend the night on the island. There have been many reports of unusual happenings by overnight visitors to the island.

*Note: Much of the information provided in this post can not be substantiated.

Biennale

2010-05-13T22:10:00.003+10:00

I intend this weekend to venture forth into the world of Biennale of SinCity. I do this for reasons multiple:

1) I wish to receive a dose of artistic radiation that may prove fatal to my philistine urges.
2) I wish to provide an energy boost to any scant creative urges I may have lurking in my own psyche.
3) I wish to at least temporarily escape the logical and uninspired world I inhabit.

If all goes well I will discover myself on the isle of the cockatoo's where I believe is housed several creations of talented folk. I shall steal their abilities and return to the Rockdalian Centre of Operations where I shall produce stunning and lucrative masterpieces which will set me up for life.

I have decided that this marks the beginning of an interest in what is termed as "Installation Art". I am intending to study this genre, and conduct a crusade to examine as many examples as possible. I want to understand, to see the point of it, love it and hate it. It is hoped that one day I may be able to indulge in transforming the Rockdalian CoO into such a space, as it is currently considered a minimalistic blank canvas. Although perhaps it is not, perhaps it speaks of bachelorisms with the brown leather couch, the uncluttered kitchen, the fucking big television, the slightly unclean bathroom, and the 12 pack of jonnies in the top drawer by the bed.... with 12 unused jonnies therein.

Forward, with eager eyes open!

What's Dan Watching - Sherlock Holmes

2010-05-10T21:27:00.001+10:00

I've been a fan of Sir Arthur CD's creation, the amateur yet clinically effective detective Holmes, for quite a while. I do believe that I have read each of the published adventures several times and live in hope that I have missed one or two that I may discover. When it comes to fictional characters, I prefer those that have already accomplished the task of understanding themselves and are now setting about the activity of understanding their environment. The dramatization of the Sherlock Holmes adventures has been done many times before (I believe it starts and ends with the depiction performed by Jeremy Brett during the eighties/nineties, but that's merely an opinion), and I approached with trepidation a viewing of the latest attempt with Robert Downey Jnr. in the lead role.

Let me start with the positives. London of the late 19th/early 20th century is depicted superbly, and presumably accurately. A bustling city with many different social classes all coated with a fine film of grime. The story and pace is entertaining, the focus is on loud, ostentatious exhibitions of eye candy and talented actors playing with their characters. There's little to despise in the film, but sometimes a little can be a lot.

Frankly, I'm not sure why they decided to use the Sherlock Holmes stories as the basis for the film. Downey Jnr. clearly dispensed with any attempt to depict the detective in the traditional way, instead presenting a character who is more of a super hero. Think "Iron Man" without the gizmo's and gadgets and a barely plausible English accent. Was it more a marketing issue? Did they think it would drag more punters through the door if they connected the film with a well known character?

Perhaps I'm a traditionalist on the matter. Pig-headed!

What's Dan Watching - Capitalism: A Love Story

2010-05-02T20:17:00.001+10:00

Documentary film maker Michael Moore has had quite a bit of success over the past few years, largely I believe due to his ability to present his story in an entertaining fashion. There's no doubt his doco's do fall short with regards to a balanced presentation of fact, but they spark the audience to think about the issues and that's a good thing.

The recent financial crises has given Moore material to further display the problems with the USA today. The relentless push by the people and the corporations to make as much money as possible while dismissing the basic requirements that people need in a civilised society fuel the film that titles this post. Focusing on the decay of industry in several American cities and the tragic effects of the GFC on ordinary people who find themselves in financial ruin, Moore spends much of the film holding the concept of capitalism as the villain responsible for the mayhem.

I was starting to get a little annoyed at this biased view as the film rolled merrily on, as I felt it was far too simplistic to blame capitalism for the evils of the world. And then, finally, he hit on what the real problem was. I actually have a great deal of admiration for the USA and the economic principles that have resulted in its wealth. It has fueled innovation, provided efficient resource distribution, and improved standards of living for many people. But, it has to be said that previous American governments have been so horrendously useless it beggars belief. Under the ridiculous excuse of anti-communism, previous administrations have constantly deregulated important industries and left them to the vulturism of big business. Health is one, and finance another. Large profit making firms are simply not to be trusted, and it is a foolhardy government that hands control of industries over to these companies and invites them to do with them whatever they like. Regulation is important, because it keeps the bastards honest.

I sometimes wonder whether Moore's films ever result in change. Some indications are that things are heading in a more positive direction under the Obama administration, so perhaps things are improving. The things is, until the USA puts its people first and it's corporate scum second, I fear we will see more and more of Moore.

The Constant Study of the Self

2010-04-28T22:11:00.003+10:00

It's always a pleasing situation to learn something about yourself, to understand who you are, what your talents are, and yes even your faults too. It let's you comprehend your place in the world and you can work out what you want, what you really want.

Having spent the last few months dividing my work time between my normal duties and a project, I have further confirmed some things about myself:

The Good Things
- I'm a quick learner with new tools if I'm allowed to play with them.
- I'm excellent at helping people with their problems when they ask for help.
- Once I understand a problem I'm excellent at providing a solution of some sort.
- I'm awesome with time management.
- I'm terrific at getting a system to do what I want it to do, even if it wasn't designed that way.

The Bad Things
- I'm dreadful at learning anything by being taught with theory.
- I ignore people who need help but don't ask for it. They kind of irritate me.
- I hate committee's and the monotonous negotiation process. All I need is a decision of some sort.
- I can't tolerate people who think their problems deserve priority treatment when they do not.
- I have no interest in the reason for a failing system. I just want it fixed by whomever is responsible for fixing it.

It's been said before, a man's got to know his limitations. True yes, and equally important is to push those limitations out a bit further bit by bit. I don't think I'll ever eliminate my "bad things" list and it's by no means comprehensive, but knowing them means I can work with them and maybe even use them positively.

Of the many men who toils and strives,
Reflect on them their cheats and lies,
They bring their shield to life's endless war,
The truth can be brutal, but wonderfully raw.

The End of the World, And We Sold It

2010-04-21T21:59:00.002+10:00

It may not be the end of the world, but is it a dress rehearsal on how we will behave?

Europe continues to struggle with the effects of volcanic ash, with travellers stranded in places they desire not to be. Having once been stuck in Changi airport for three days as a standby passenger attempting to get to the UK at Christmas time, I can understand how tense it can be not knowing when you will finally get that seat on the plane. The fatigue felt from the constant worry and need to stay focused on what you are trying to do in a foreign land soon weighs upon you, and you suddenly start to think about handing over your credit card and requesting a solution to your problem regardless of the cost....

....And bam! They've got you.

Reports are filtering through of exploitation of the trapped travellers with hotel room prices soaring, Russian taxi drivers offering rides at a price higher than the cost of the vehicle, and travel insurance companies refusing recompense due "act of God" (what if you don't believe in God? And if you do, isn't absolutely everything an "act of God" anyway?).

I ask myself the question, what is it about human nature that looks upon this event as an opportunity? What is it about my own nature that looks upon this event as an opportunity?

OK, I haven't actually exploited anyone affected by this, but that's really only because my work responsibilities do not cover this geographical region. The thing is, I would be expected to if it were part of my responsibilities. More worrying is the fact that I would be able to carry out the task, easily, and would feel no guilt.

Because business is business........ and it's easier if your hollow.

The Evils of Forced Protection

2010-04-11T20:50:00.003+10:00

I couldn't help but smirk arrogantly the other day at something I heard. Amazingly, I've completely forgotten where it was I heard it as my mind is like a sieve at times.

The discussion revolved around the issue of tobacco advertising. As we all know, laws are in place in many countries essentially banning tobacco advertising in the interests of the public good (more on that later), and have been for many years now. The following consideration was presented;

Let's say you have two tobacco suppliers (a duopoly if you will) and they must compete with each other for the available market. In order to compete, both must invest heavily in advertising and promotion to win their share of the market, the result being that they both spend roughly the same amount of money, and win roughly a 50% share each of the market. Now, the governments of the world in an effort to save people from themselves place a ban on tobacco advertising and hence the two tobacco suppliers must comply. The result of this is that because neither can advertise or promote their products, their market share is not going to be effected, it will still remain roughly 50% each. However, they now do not have the expense of advertising and promotion eating into their profits. Is it possible that their industry is now more lucrative?

I always get a kick out of seeing do-gooder policy being torn to shreds. And there's nothing that's more vile in the category of do-gooding than that of saving people from themselves. It shits me off when so called experts and politicians think they can tell people how they should live their lives, and force people to conform using policy and financial penalty. Here's a few arguments they put forward, followed by my rebuttles:

Argument - Smokers place an unnecesary burden on the health system.
Rebuttle - So do joggers who need knee surgery, people who contract injuries on the sports field, motorists who are involved in accidents, and stroke victims who didn't stick to a low fat diet every day. In fact, smokers have paid for their treatment through all the tax they paid on their cigarette purchases. Can the same be said for joggers and sports people?

Argument - It sets a bad example for the children.
Rebuttle - It's the least worrying of the bad examples the little urchins are going to experience. The world is a wicked place at times, the sooner they realise it and come to terms with it the better they will be.

Argument - People are stupid, they need to be protected from themselves.
Rebuttle - Yes they can be and frequently are, but no they do not need protection from themselves. Like any other gift, a life belongs to the recipient to do with what they will.

Think about the foods you enjoy eating, the drinks you like drinking, the literature you like reading, the activities you like participating in. Consider the possibility that your government or some expert decides to place some restriction on these because they decided it was not good for you.

Enough of this bullshit, leave us alone.

The Cost of Taking Care of Business

2010-04-09T23:35:00.002+10:00

In a brief intermission, as the second part of my previous post is still bubbling away in my mind and not yet "al dente", I take a moment to reflect upon the completion of another working week.

Successful completion of an act of bastardry was concluded, to go along with all the others that it seems I have a perverted talent for. Without hesitation I managed to make a decision favouring a commercially lucrative outcome over one with a more humanitarian focus on behalf of my employer. As a result, the following questions now add to my bubbling mind:

- Why did I not feel any guilt?
- When did I get so good at being an asshole when required?
- How did I summon the attitude to admonish the person who attempted to champion the pro-humanitarian outcome?

I've realised long ago that what I do will never save humankind. It is simply an exercise in making money. I've accepted this fact and refuse to whinge about it being soul destroying. The fact is, I live a very simple kind of life and I work in a very simple kind of style. I don't deliberate excessively over things and I choose to limit time with committee's of all sorts. A situation arises that requires a decision, I make the best one I can, then I move on. The wreckage caused by many a decision lays scattered in my wake, but that is becoming expected now. Experience tells me that it is impossble to make a decision everyone will appreciate, so don't try to.

And through all this, I still sleep soundly at night...... why?

A Story Untitled - Part One

2010-04-03T22:47:00.003+11:00

Traipsing upon an emerald isle, after many a mile,
I've decided that I am lost,
Directions are needed, they will be heeded,
Whatever be the cost.

For the road seems to be long, if indeed I'm not wrong,
Although the land is a pleasant green,
And the sun it does shine, and the breeze is sublime,
But my destination simply fails to be seen.

Then in the distance, I stare with insistance,
And see a farming chap,
A break into a trot, hoping directions he's got,
some knowledge I may tap.

"'Scuse me my friend, I hope you can lend,
some advice while I stand here and dwell,
I seek directions to ramble, no longer can I gamble,
To get to the Tawdry Traveller Hotel?"

"Aye I can" says he, "Help you to see,
The path to the place that you seek,
Walk the way through that field, and your fate will be sealed,
You'll be there before the middle of next week".

With thanks he was blessed, and with knowledge I possessed,
I commenced to cross the field,
My confidence was stronger, 'twouldn't be much longer,
And my efforts would begin to yield.

And then walking with pace, I footed the wrong place,
and tumbled into a terrible tangle,
The pain it did mame, a break would feel same,
I'd twisted my wretched ankle.

Seated upon the ground, upon my bad luck I frowned,
My injury glowing with heat,
When from the corner of my eye, I happened to spy,
A girl walking towards me to meet.

Dressed in light blue, with skin alabastered hue,
She wore a shock of red hair,
Stunning to see, anyone would agree,
My pain was suddenly of little care.

"Are you hurt?" she enquired, my lust stoked and fired,
"I'm fine" I replied with a lie,
"Then this is for thee", and she gave to me,
A sprig of honeysuckle rye.

Before I could claim, her story or her name,
She left without saying more,
I watched her depart, with a pain in my heart,
And an ankle that was not so very sore.

...to be continued

Scorched

2010-03-28T21:34:00.003+11:00

It's been a while since I've added to the gallery.

This is called "Staring at the Sun" which is a title which I believe has been used many times before.

The Not So Hairy Hunter

2010-03-23T22:03:00.005+11:00

Enviro bag over a shoulder
I stroll down a prince of a highway
seeking a delicious dinner
for a price I'm willing to pay

The walk will do me good
I tell myself
A junkie for a flat stomach
That I don't even think I want

The air suddenly turns frigid and unbreathable
As I walk through the automatic doors
Dreams of luxury are offered
If only I'd swipe my card

Deep fried furniture
Leather lined limes
Shaving shoes
Everything a man doesn't need

I buy bread
To protest the blatant discrimination
Against the innocent carbohydrate
And because I like the taste

A small bag of crisps
my guilty pleasure
I am a savoury slut
Insatiably so

The man needs meat though
Beef, stripped for stir fry
Frozen veges ready to go
And a sauce of suitable sustanence

I pay and attempt to leave
But the luxury on offer
keeps trying to grab me
And haul me back

Pink iced hot dogs
Personalised corkscrews
Mobile phones that double as stun guns
Enough!

Exit through the automatic doors
The air turns from frigid to balmy
And I can breathe again
Back in the real world.

...ink

2010-03-18T21:49:00.002+11:00

With a sullied slink,
and bawdy blink,
I give a wink,
Like a filthy fink.

Produce a link,
A chainy chink,
Be in sync,
Approach the brink.

Kick up a stink,
Within our rink,
Faces are pink,
We're done... I think.

Gleeble

2010-03-14T21:03:00.004+11:00

I ventured on a ramble yesterday, to a place I commonly refer to as my "old stomping ground". The third of my abodes upon my arrival in Sin City was in the city-fringe suburb of Glebe. It was a pleasant reminder of pleasant days.

Post living in Redfern, I took a lease on a small apartment on Bay Street. It was expensive and of rather low quality, but as the real estate money-makers would wax lyrically, "location, location, location". Being on the city fringe, one needed only to step out the door of their building to be thrust into the heady delights of vibrancy. Sometimes indeed that vibrance had the ability to invade one's living space, and I remember being apalled at the noise of the street sweepers that operated all night long (the only time traffic would allow them to perform their duties) and the garbage truck that reversed up the small alley immediately outside my bedroom window at 11:30PM three times per week. This was a shock, but I soon accepted it as part of living in the area, and my sleep patterns syncronized with it.

The first task on my arrival yesterday was to re-acquaint myself with a culinary delight. Singapore noodles at the Hot Wokmaster on Broadway was a staple of Friday nights when I lived in the area and has never been improved upon by any other establishment I have tried so far. The HW is an unassuming place, where what must be thousands of Asian dishes are printed up on the wall for you to try. A pot of green tea is provided and in my case a complimentary bowl of soup appeared for reasons I am unsure. More refreshing than tasty, I consumed only some of it as I wished not to ruin my appetite. Hence, a steaming pile of golden noodles duly arrived. It is a curried dish with grenades of sliced chillies that are necessary during cooking but best avoided when eating lest your palate be obliterated. As delicious as always, a great way to be fed for under a tenner.

I've always enjoyed walking around the east side of Bay street. Large brick warehouses have been converted into trendy apartments and offices and it all looks fantastic. That is except for St Barnabas, a historic old church that burnt down a few years ago and still is in ruins. I remember a homeless chap who had constructed a small dwelling on the side of the church, and as he seemed to bother nobody, remained there for many a year. He was nowhere to be seen and I wondered what had become of him. With the destination of Glebe Point Road on my mind, I cut through the small one way Greek Street passing by the orange Church of Scientology. Arriving at GPR a demonstration of rhythmic martial arts was atracting a largish crowd. I've liked GPR for a while, as it is a little like Newtown but a little more upmarket and less grimy. Full of cafe's, restaurants and cool shops it continues to attract an attractive crowd. I darted into Gleebooks (hands up for more independant small book shops!) to pick out some sorely required reading material. Lately I have had a crisis of confidence on the way people treat each other, wondered if perhaps I am going the same way and I hoped to find something to give me a little burst of inspiration. I settled on a penguin book, "Crimes Against Humanity" by Geoffrey Robertson. It appeared informative, interesting and may perhaps settle my mind that all is not lost. It also cost $9.95 so having mind and belly fed for under $20 seemed to be good going.

After poking a curious nose into a few more shops, I retraced a pilgramage I used to perform. If you are a good walker, and I am, and you live in Glebe, which I did, you can enjoy the heady delights of a night in the city without worrying about expensive taxi's. The walk from Glebe through Ultimo to the city is very enjoyable and takes 20-30 minutes. Mostly residential, it is quiet with wide footpaths and traffic is not excessive. Frequently, after an evening of frivolity, I would walk home through these very streets in the dead of night, happily pickled. Not once was I ever assaulted or harrassed, which is frankly amazing. Perhaps they knew I had no money left on me, having spent it all on refreshments.

I would really like to live in the area again one day, but it is pricey. Perhaps a few extra visits will have to do for now.

A Battle Between Good and Something Else

2010-03-09T21:27:00.003+11:00

Stepping from my bathroom attired in only a wet towel, I sensed a presence foreboding and evil. A sense of unease descended upon my person and for good reason as I spotted out of the corner of my eye a small dark shape upon the tiled kitchen floor. As the light was out, scant illumination was being provided from the bathroom so it was difficult to tell exactly what it was, but my increasingly rapid heartbeat and recently noticing quite a few cockroaches in the garden downstairs made the situation rather clear.

An uninvited creature was in my home, and obviously had designs of staking a claim.

Intense moments such as these should never be tackled when dressed in only a towel, rather full chemical/biological/radiation suit should be donned and one should be armed with a full arsenal of creature elimination weaponry. However, my adversary had obviously planned it's arrival purposely to catch me off guard and now waited motionless for the opportunity to attack my toes, as they always ALWAYS do. I assessed my options:

- Insect Spray
Drats, it sits upon the fridge with the beast between me and it. I would need to leap over the cunning devil to reach it and hope he doesn't catch one of my toes as I soar over. Not worth the risk.

- Negotiate
Never. Cockroaches show no mercy. They will laugh at your offers and then attack.

- Cry
Tried it before, doesn't work.

And then I notice nearby the solution. Not a perfect solution, but probably the best any man in a wet towel could come up with at short notice. A shoe sits upon the floor. Primitive and brutal, I am left with no choice. Now, this needs some skill because I need to get close enough to discharge the weapon before the creature leaps at me and I need accuracy because I will probably only get one go. Prepared mentally and physically, I step slowly towards it. I'm unnerved as it doesn't move at all, cool as a cucumber. A perfect metre away and.......

I STRIKE !

A perfect hit, I proceed to rain blows down upon it like a mad man. Powerful and violent I can feel a bloodlust as I reclaim my territory and leave no doubt of who will come out of the encounter the best. With no movement from the creature I fall back and breathe deeply, satisfied that the battle has been won. A few minutes pass and I collect myself allowing the adrenaline to soak away. The creature is motionless and still looks the same as when I first spotted it. The time comes for me to switch on the kitchen light and observe my prize.....

.... it turned out to be a large piece of black fluff....... not a cockroach..... I really must clean my kitchen floor more often.

M&D and Me

2010-03-04T20:54:00.002+11:00

I don't know about your's, but my parents are very odd creatures. I refer to them under the title "M&D" as they have practically ceased being individual entities and are now just one human conglomerate.

A recently concluded visit by M&D has as usual resulted in me getting a case of the guilts. They spent a few days here and unfortunately my accommodations being a one bedroom apartment are inadequate to provide shelter for three adults. A few nights on an inflatable mattress that tried to consume me before developing a slow leak that rendered it useless had me in poor spirits and the desire to see them leave so I could reclaim my living space was strong. However, as soon as they left I started to miss them again and realise what a miserable shit I am. Peculiarly, even through all this they seem to continue to like me. Very odd behaviour!

The above aside, their visit was excitingly productive. They suddenly have discovered themselves in a quandry, whereby their current abode is a largish family home without a family in residence, and the local area has become infested with professional working families who have little time for elderly friendly community spirit due to the never ending struggle to meet outrageous mortgage payments. The result is M&D, retired and relying on a fortnightly phone call from myself and sister to provide a spark of excitement in lives that have become a little stale. Realising this, they have endeavoured to seek a change and failing to find one locally in A-Town, have cast their gaze across the border in a more Sin City direction. I escorted them the other day to the stunning locale that resides a train ride north of SC to view abodes catering for just such folk. To say I was stunned was an understatement. Beautiful living spaces, great facilities, prices that snub their noses at Sin Cities stupid real estate debacle, and communities that perhaps are slightly more in touch with the things that matter. I've never wished I was 55 years old so much in my life.

M&D were visibly excited. The possibilities of reconnecting with a fulfilling lifestyle were plain to see and they basked in it. M can be difficult to impress at times. Basically until I announce suitable arrangements are underway for the production of her grandchildren, she will probably view everything else I do a waste of time. But even she was taken by the prospect of heated swimming pools, craft rooms, and new friends aplenty.

I don't know if they will jump at this opportunity. Naturally cautious people, much deliberation and a substantial exercise of "going over the figures" by D will have to be exercised. But it would be cool to see them a little more often, without having to sacrifice my homespace for the pleasure. Just call me a selfish swine!

Say What?

2010-02-24T21:42:00.002+11:00

A rather interesting thing happened at work today. Well, I thought it was interesting but many others may not. However, being the despotic overlord of this here blog, today's occurrence shall henceforth be considered a "rather interesting thing". Disobedience to this doctrine will not be tolerated.

Ahem.... where was I?.... oh yes

I had transmitted an email of general inquiry to my counterpart in the faraway city of Santiago, Chile. A response was received far too quickly which upon opening revealed itself to be in the language of the Spanish. This intrigued me, not because of it's content which I could take a very educated guess at deciphering, but as to what a chap as myself with almost zero Spanish language skills should do with it. Now, usually I would entreaty the skills of a resident colleague who hails from the city of Madrid. "Nay!", said I and with my technogeek inner self singing in delight, I copied and pasted the email into "Google - Translate", selected the relevant languages and pressed the button for action to commence.

Success!

There in all it's glory was a perfect translation (checked by my colleague from Madrid) confirming what I suspected, that my counterpart was on holiday and extensive instructions on who should be contacted to assist with my inquiry.

In further thought, a question arose a little while ago regarding what language we will all be speaking in the future. With borders tumbling, electronic communication and inexpensive travel in abundance, will individual languages survive? Will there be one "Super Language" that we will all eventually submit to? This is not a new enquiry, but I was thinking of the options:

- Esperanto
There's been a lot of talk about this being a "universal language". I don't think so. It's a constructed language (by Dr. Ludovic Lazarus Zamenhof). I don't think we are going to accept a constructed language. We want something that has evolved naturally, that has the influence of generations of people who added little quirks and curiosities to it. Constructed languages are like pre-packaged frozen lasagne, they do the job but are not very satisfying.

- English
Probably the most commonly spoken language in the world, I believe there will be resistance to it's adoption as a primary language in many parts of the world, simply due to nationalistic pride. Fair enough I say !

- An Amalgamation of Different Languages
This is already happening. Multicultural societies inject an influence on local language. The result is colourful verbalization, the evolution of language that us wordy people enjoy so much.

There is another option, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. Referring back to the "rather interesting thing" mentioned earlier, I wonder if technology will soon answer the question for us. If someone like me with feeble Spanish language skills can easily convert a message into English, perhaps there will be no need to concern ourselves. Ah yes, I can hear those with multi-language skills tut-tutting, "Hold on there Dan, you can't rely on Google Translate to give you an ACCURATE translation". But here's the thing, is it possible that the increased use of these translation tools will evolve our languages in a way that reduces the chances of translation error?

Without striking fear into hearts, will the language of the future be..... Googlish ?

What's Dan Watching - Antichrist

2010-02-22T21:55:00.001+11:00

It's pretty clear that I have been in a movie mood as of late. Perhaps the vile humidity of a Sin City February has brought this on, a time when the coolness of my cheap leather couch, the a/c cranked, a chilled ice-cubed drink and a bloody big telly are worthy of my time and attention. Or perhaps I have an affinity with couch-potatoism. Meh, who know's, but one thing for sure is that if you wish to ruin the pleasant atmos then spend 109 minutes watching a film that gently intrigues the viewer before making every effort to have them running screaming from the room in revulsion. Either that or watch the movie "Antichrist", which achieves exactly the same result.

First of all to be fair, there are some really amazing black and white slow motion sequences in this film, including one or two that are so damn close to high class erotica that I found myself exclaming the occasional "blimey!" in appreciation. Yes indeed the cinematography was quite something.

So let's get onto the disturbing bit. A slight bit of plot spoiling here. Basically, a married couple are in the shower having crazy monkey sex when their young child is killed when he accidentally falls out of an open window. Guilt and depression descend predominantly upon the wife and her husband who is a therapist tries to fix her up. It doesn't work and he decides (rather foolishly I might add) to dash them off to a secluded cabin to try a few other techniques. It doesn't work and something dreadful happens to his testicles. There's actually a lot of other things that happen but quite frankly, all I can really think about are testicles after my viewing of the film. If this sounds weird, see the film and you will know what I mean.

And now, I want to put all this out of my mind.

What's Dan Watching - Inglourious Basterds

2010-02-15T21:44:00.002+11:00

What is it about bad boys?

I always loathed the evil villain, and cheered on the hero as he conquered in the name of truth, justice, and the something or other way. The scoundrel always scared me and I liked nothing better than seeing him/her put out of action. I still remember sitting in a darkened cinema with my Father cowering in fear at the mere sight of Darth Vader doing what he did best.

But strangely, my attitude has changed and I am now such a fan of the reprobate's of film it's almost worrying. Is there something in my subconscious that wishes I were like them? To ooze confidence and snub one's nose at societies rules and regulations. To wallow in luxuriating power, as the little people fulfill your every desire. To be stunningly intelligent so as to never have anyone get the better of you, and use this intelligence for the betterment of your own selfish fancies. People who know me usually say I'm a pretty decent person, and frankly I feel practically incapable of wrong-doings. But sometimes, just sometimes, I feel I'd like my dark side to have a little exercise. Don't panic, my moral compass is always in control ;)

I speak of such things, because a soon to be favourite (if he isn't already) vagabond has appeared on my screen. Quentin Tarantino's "Inglourious Basterds" received a viewing and has comfortably placed itself in my collection of QT classics. But, the highlight must be the performance of Christoph Waltz playing the part of the dreaded SS Colonel Hans Landa. With the nickname "The Jew Hunter" his role is to unsurprisingly locate hiding Jews in nazi occupied France during WWII. The character is intensely intelligent, ruthless and morally reprehensible. The performance by Waltz in the role is quite extraordinary, something about the pronounced jawline, the searing eyes, and the uncomfortable efficiency of his interactions with the other characters clearly marks him out to be a man to be feared. To say I was a little mesmerized is an understatement. I hated him, but I also found him infinitely interesting.

The movie as a whole is typical Tarantino. The violence is ridiculously and wonderfully over the top, the black humour is in abundance, the dialogue unrushed and intense. Once again there are multiple interesting stories occurring throughout the film that all intersect, a tough thing to do well, but here done successfully. The ending may not be everyone's cup of tea, but Tarantino films have never ended sensibly and never suffered for it.

Basically, if you didn't like any of QT's previous films you won't like this one. But it's worth seeing if only for the performance of Christoph Waltz. He has a new fan.

What's Dan Watching - Airways

2010-02-10T21:27:00.002+11:00

There's a general consensus that Australian's are not exactly the most creative of folk. Ofcourse, this is rubbish, but only up to a point. Frankly, we tend to pick and choose the best facets of overseas culture and adopt it as part of our own. Oh yes, there have been ingenious Australian inventions exported (think rotary clothes lines, wine casks, and dual flush toilets), but they hardly represent enlightened turning points in human civilisation. So it's a relief that Channel 7 has decided to not "rock the boat" by unleashing "Airways" onto the Australian television viewing public.

Based on the successful "Airline" and "Airport" format from the UK (ableit 10 years or so after they had exploited the concept, Australian television executives are not terribly progressive thinkers), Channel 7 has managed to produce quite a vile little product with minimal expenditure (Let's face it, it's a camera crew spending a day at an airport!) and even less originality while knocking together something that helps them meet their minimum quota of locally produced material to keep their broadcasters licence. Bravo! Narrated, yes thats right, narrated by Corinne Grant (comedienne....apparently) in a voice that suggests she's either high on smack or simply a pain in the arse, the show concerns itself with the airport operations of Tiger Airways (one of our new "spam in a can" airlines) and their customers (let's just refer to them as "bogan's" for the sake of argument). If you enjoy laughing at stupid people, you've come to the right place.

Essentially, said bogan's have discovered that for the price of a slab of beer they can get flown in an aero-plane (say it slowly, a-e-r-o p-l-a-n-e) to the Gold Coast to get pissed. Little do they realise that unfortunately the world does indeed not revolve around them, and the other 150 bogan's on the plane have little interest in delaying their debauchery for the occasional "Super Bogan" that decides to rock up late for their flight. And this, this is where the hilarity begins as we see combinations of tears, anger, and laments. Oh, to be in attendance at the airport at these moments, to point and laugh and harangue. The only thing more interesting is to catch a glimpse of the faces of the airline staff. They look restrained, but it's clear they are thinking "If I was to jump over this counter and punch this person in the face, would the world judge me harshly?". God, what I'd give to see that.

Speaking of punches in the face, one should be reserved for the sound editor who for reasons that can only possibly be because Channel 7 has some sweetheart deal with the bastard record companies, insists on innappropriately dropping in too many snippets of top 40 pop music at full volume. It's not even decent music either, it's that shite where some daft talentless tart sings a lament about how her boyfriend won't pay her mobile phone bill or some such tripe.

It certainly isn't the most God-awful piece of Australian made television, I believe Neighbours and Home & Away are still battling it out for that title bless 'em, but frankly they could have done this without Corinne Grant (many things could be done successfully without Corinne Grant me thinks), without the turgid music, and without a fancy camera crew. Give a few travellers a handycam and you've got a show!

Now boarding on Channel 7 at 8PM Sundays.

Bar-Rooms and Beauties for the Bard

2010-02-07T20:47:00.003+11:00

The scene is a trendy city nightspot. Our hero walks in and proceeds to the bar.

--------------------------
Dan: Druid of Deity, my soul and sensibilities require diversion. Ice cold attitude of Tastic temperance would satiate the burden. May your powers and will be of sufficient strength to conclude my pondering?
(Bartender, I'll have a Cascade Lager please.)

Bartender: Forbearance is the watchword sir, as we face temptations to champion concoctions representational of the feeble ilk. The potions from afar are poorly indicative of our passions, but hark, the recepticle is nigh, and your illusions of utopia are to become positively judged.
(I think we've got one out the back.... yes we have.)

A pretty lady walks over to the bar, catching our hero's attention. He speaks to her.....

Dan: A breeze, of lavender and rose petal sensibilities could be considered crass in this moment. Thine ownership of the beguiling tendancies over the weak has struck and hath captured another. With begging, for I cannot breath another breath until my curiosity has been plunged into the sea of knowledge. Does thou regard the locative instrument of our shared time and space as of some commonality?
(Hello Beautiful, do you come here often?)

Lady: Rather odd fruit to proclaim, and of limited strength in artistic terms.
(Is that the best chat up line you've got?)

Dan: Forgiveness, but my tutor was in combination with absence and ignorance when the lessons of life were in bestowement. Perchance a door to knowledge would wonders do, if ye care to turn the latch?
(Sorry, I'm not very good at this, where did I go wrong?)

Lady: The mind and matters pertaining to it light the pathway to the prize. The unsuccessful neander of brutish concept are inept of this. A connection, thee soulfully impoverished tick, with a desiress is a celebration, smiled upon by the gods and blessed for eternity. Mercilessly, ye must suppress urges to take vile actions and exhibit animalistic insensitivities. In the heart of the heartess beats a song with rhythm, and duets need collaborative energies, such as sails need the wind. Abrupt and dunced speech doth indicate turbulence ahead. Are ye of a thinking sort? Can thee accept Gods script of truth and light the candle of courtship?
(???? *Male attention span exceeded*)

Dan: Ha ha. My abode is sparse and lightning bolts of mind matter gave rise to speculation. Humorous affiliations with jungle sorts were at the forefront of ponderings and.......
(So, I was thinking of getting a pet monkey...)

Lady: Desist. Compadre's have broadcast my moniker and the gravity of their enquiries is lunar. A parting of the ways is nigh.
(Someone's calling me. I have to go now.)

End.

Bread and Butter for the Bard

2010-02-02T19:58:00.003+11:00

Below is an interpretation of how the bard may have brought my lunchtime escapades to the globe theatre. A version of CliffsNotes are included in brackets however I hope they won't be used and the reader will trust their own interpretation.

-----------------------------
Entrance stage right our hero. He walks up to a counter of food service.

Dan: Hark, oh angel of sustenance, an imposition on thee.
(May I place an order, please?)

Lunchlady: Fair toiler of the pasture, emit your necessity and through noble gesture I shall grant thee wish of anti-famine.
(What'll it be bud?)

Dan: Between twice leathend, the flesh of the beast noble, hence sacrificed for the betterment of man, a singular of the udder spirit intensified, and brought to completion with the devils fruit, red as anger, bursting with sweet blood when pursed between thine lips. Is it folly to dream of such, to please my wretched stomach groan?
(Meat -indeterminate, probably ham-, cheese, and tomato sandwich please.)

Lunchlady: Doth the article of which you speak is pure of soul, unsullied by friend or foe and constant as the seasons. The evilness of the brimstone beckons to purge the natural being and allow delectable vileness an entrance to its station. Weakness, is it in thee?
(Do you want it toasted?)

Dan: Nay seductress, but my heart hath catacombs of darkness that echo day and night. To resist is to deny the tides. Weakness is part of my guise and a master that beateth me mercilessly. I acquiesce.
(No thanks.....oh allright go on then)

The lunchlady turns away to prepare the meal, while our hero walks to the front-left of stage to deliver an interlude of comic relief. This would be unscripted and directed primarily towards the "groundlings", also known as "stinkards", the lowest socio-economic group in attendance. Their appreciation for uncouth and vulgar humour would have been satiated.

Lunchlady returns and hands over paper wrapped meal.

Lunchlady: Receive this, and may it's powers raise you above the savage and closer to God. Recompense is not my task, but my colleague of the coin yonder will require recuperative wishes from your purse.
(Enjoy. Please pay over at the register)

Dan: Blessed be thee.
(Ta very much.)

Our hero exits stage left. End.

A beer, a Book, and Benevolence

2010-01-31T19:08:00.005+11:00

'Twas upon the water the other day, Sincity harbour no less, on a voyage that could possibly be considered cliched yet immensely enjoyable. The vessel was the Collaroy, the destination considered Manly.

I do enjoy boating. When I was a kid, my Dad had a boat referred to as a "trailer sailer". Small and fibreglass, it could be hitched to the back of the car and taken down to anywhere a stretch of water existed. For 2 months a year it was hauled out for a handful of sailing days, with the remainder of the year being under a tarpaulin going nowhere. I can still remember sailing that craft. A small flag in front of the mast indicated the wind direction and you would point the nose just off an angle to it. A strong rope attached to the "boom" (look it up) through a pulley would be wrapped around my right hand ;) to pull the mainsail to the best angle and my left foot ;) would be upon the rudder to steer. You would then crash through the waves that would explode a spray of water over the boat. An immense feeling of being at one with nature and harnessing natural forces would sweep over you..... uhm, while you sat in a fibreglass boat ofcourse.

Now, the Collaroy is a bit bigger, has no mainsail, and I doubt the Captain was steering it with his left foot. But it was still nice to be out there. I love the roll and pitch of a boat, and have frequently wished to sleep on one to experience being rocked to sleep. One of my favourite things about being out on the water of Sincity harbour is the undeveloped green forested area's on the shoreline. I keep imagining the times of the earliest European explorers entering the harbour, and that they would be seeing the exact same thing.

Arriving in Manly, I trotted down the Corso towards the beach. I chose a blazingly hot day to do this but I am a fearless explorer me. The beach was crowded with what looked like a surf carnival. I'm not altogether a beachy kind of person, preferring the comforts of swimming pools, but the atmosphere was convivial, and when a troop of bagpipers began a performance I felt pleased to be there. Bagpipes have a rather grandeous aura about them, a fuck-off to authority attitude, loud and proud. I thought that a kilt would be a rather warm garment to don on such a day, and pondered the concept of how wooly daks would be considered both a mistake and a necessity at the same time.

Clearly with the heat of the day taking a toll, I retired to a local public house to slick a thirst. My first two choices of beer were in the process of having their barrels changed so I settled on a frosty ale from my old home town. In an example of how I occasionally withdraw from the excitement around me, I then proceeded to take my beverage to a comfy corner and read an engrossing book I was part way through. I did this partly to cool off, partly because I was enjoying the book, and partly because I dream of the day when quietly reading while drinking a beer in a pub becomes an activity that doesn't mark you out as anti-social, geeky, or just plain weird. I was fourscore pages in (not all while in the pub. A speed reader I am not), when an elderly couple sat upon a nearby couch with two tall glasses I mistook for pink gins. I felt their gaze:

"Hi there" piped up the fairer of the two in an American southern drawl, "watcha readin'?"
"Hi", I responded, "A collection of essays about an authors life".
"Don't read much myself" she admitted, "but surely the pubs for drinkin' and the library's for readin' ain't it?".
"Don't worry, I qualify", I said kindly, pointing at my glass of beer.

Her partner chuckled wisely and with slight relief. An engrossing conversation of 20 minutes then evolved, mostly involving the rights of people to carry guns and of me creatively adding the phrase "uh huh" in varied tone's. On consumption of their beverages, they took their leave.

Dan the VespaMan, a master of race relations.

Don't Mind Me, Just a Little Self Flagellation

2010-01-30T23:29:00.003+11:00

It's just one word. One little word, a beautiful bastard of a word, but you can't say it can you?

No.

Never? Not ever? I know why you can't too. Oh yes, you walk tall and deal with things. Your mask is a very tight fit you know. Whenever someone gets their fingers under it you turn away. Why?

I don't know.

Yes you do you faker. You know very well. Your not so clever that you can fool yourself. Your scared, you weak fool, scared of what you might find behind that mask.

Maybe, but why am I so happy then?

Who said you weren't? You just don't trust yourself to take a little more.

Greed, too much of a good thing.

Tish and tosh, there you go. Everything in moderation you quip. Why don't you trust yourself? You feel it don't you?

Well, yes.

That hesitation just makes it more relevant. You can feel it in your guts, that painful perfect slow burn. That scrape up your spine that ends with a tingle. Your daydreams of what may be if only you could say what you feel. Your emotionally retarded my friend, you confront it with a facade. You dip a toe occasionally and recoil even if the waters warm. When many around you are having their renaissance you seem to constantly fail to have yours, even when the inspiration is there.

But I want to. I just feel kind of silly saying it. I do WANT to say it.

But when, my boy, when are you going to. Say it once and then duck for cover? It may be cowardice, but at least it's a start. You will probably get laughed at and ridiculed. But no more than you laugh and ridicule yourself. One little word, that can open possibilities. Are you prepared to gamble on it? I don't think you are, you've never been a gambler. You and your stupid pig-headed patience. Your cynicism keeps you safe, but means life is living you, rather than you living life.

I think it's rather sad that I can't feel sad.

Feel? You flatlined the feel factor long ago. The troughs were deep, and your scared of them. You think they follow the peaks just as night follows day. How did someone get so stupid? Oh ofcourse, you feel you don't deserve the peaks? Right?

Uhm, not sure about that.

Get a grip. It's not about deserving. You've done nothing wrong. Your as worthy as anyone else, but you will have to say it. You simply will have to verbalise it. One word, to be uttered.

Soon, maybe.

Humpff!

Poetry Can't be Dead, Perhaps Just Slumbering Instead

2010-01-20T15:34:00.003+11:00

When I started this blog I had a notion to include a poem with every post. It started well enough, but then I decided I didn't want to structure my posts in any formal way. I would like to think my posts have about as much organisation and tidyness as a bedroom floor strewn with the garments (and paraphernalia) of two lovers. Hmmm, yeah well maybe not.

Poetry to me has a versatility, it's melodic, like painting colourful swirls with words. Funny, insightful, dramatic, and soulful. Even bad poetry has something to offer. I liken it to cheese, the words providing the texture and substance, while the ryhme and pace provide the flavour which can be as complex or subtle as the authour wishes. Outside of music, there seems to be a dearth of poetry in day to day life and I blame this on the genre itself. Somewhere it lost its way, and couldn't keep up with the advent of new communications (email, sms etc). Many people dismiss it as being overly dramatic, soppy, and a long-winded way of saying something that can be summed up much more quickly and efficiently. Perhaps it's time that our modern communications discovered the joy of the poetic phrase, to whit some suggestions for your next SMS:

Standard - where r u?
Poetic - where r u? can i b there 2?

Standard - b there in 30mins.
Poetic - b there qik as a hare.

Standard - can we go on a date?
Poetic - Wud be gr8 if we cud go on a date?

My gripe is ofcourse a foolish generalisation, as there are many sublimely talented folk out there fertilising the minds of the poetry hungry with brilliant work. Kudo's to them, the custodians of the artform. May they live long, and breed future generations of poetrarians (if that is the word for it).

The mist of rhyme it seems,
Is ryhmey and misty and screams,
Tittle-tattle and fiddle-faddle foolish fumbling fiends.

I'm as much to blame,
Stupid all the same,
Sincereless and stupendous suppose the sunny Sincity's insane.

Why don't I do it then?
I can't I bleat again,
Weirdo and worrying when the wily weather will wane.

Be gone the curse of fear,
Looking upon me with a sneer,
Quite the quarter and quiet queue to quaff at me be queer.

The Virtuous Bad

2010-01-17T20:06:00.003+11:00

Rogues, rascals and scallywags. Misunderstood trailblazers, or blight on society?

There seems to be a peculiar fascination with those who shirk what is considered "acceptable" conduct, the way a person "should" behave. Recently reading a book about the actor Jack Nicholson (one of my personal favourite "bad boys") I pondered why this is so. Do we live vicariously through them, a deep seeded desire to cast off the shackles that restrict our behaviours within boundaries we set ourselves?

For myself, I've never been a fully fledged member of the "bad boy" club. On the occasions I may have (in a fool exhibition of bravado and over-confidence) tried it, the result has been so transparent that all but the most naive of people saw through it. But, the funny thing is, getting along with these renegades has been something I've done very well. For example, when I first started working we had a client who was generally described by all as a "son of a bitch". A hard nosed businessman, he on several occasions conducted his activities in such a way that they bordered on the scam-like. If he could trick you into a difficult position for exploitation, he would do it. Perhaps it's because I have a somewhat suspicious and cynical mind, perhaps also it is because I realised at an early age that it is OK to say "No!" when I wasn't comfortable with something, we developed a respect for each other. Even at school, I never had problems with bullying, and even though I may not have been friends with them, I think I must have been seen as a non-threatening person, someone who will not provide any value in abusing.

One of the things that perhaps we all need to understand is that people are tricky creatures. They don't always share an attitude of common decency towards others that we perhaps believe they should. The answer is to study these interesting people, and accept them as one more shade of colour on the tapestry of experience that rolls out before us.

Failing that, call them an arsehole and suggest they sling their hook!

Your Mission, If You Choose to Accept It.

2010-01-09T08:20:00.003+11:00

When it rains, it pours. Indeed there would be a few of my fellow New South Welshmen (and Welsh women) who would agree. However, I'm not speaking of matters of precipitation.

Yesterday turned out to be my busiest day of the year. Yes, allright, the year is only nine days old but it was still all go. Alighting from my slumber at 4AM with tonsils feeling fighting fit, I had a plane to catch. In an act of foolish bravado to company ideals I was embarking on a day trip to the land of the long white cloud. I say day trip because I would be getting there, doing what needs to be done, and returning on the same day. Luckily, on arrival at the airport I had the joy of discovering I would be flying in business class which meant a good breakfast onboard. Airline food gets an awful bad rap these days, and there have been occasions I have lended my voice to the chorus, but not on this flight. Eggs, bacon, sausage, fried tommys and mushys, and scrummy warm pastries and toasts made me a happy traveller. I arrived in Awkwardland and strolled down to the office.

Without going into the details of what I did over there (for it's a little dull), can I just take this moment to throw a general motion of appeciation out there for our trans Tasman neighbours. I've always found the NZedders to be a friendly and enjoyable bunch of folk to be around. Much like my fellow Sincity comrades, they enjoy a good time and a giggle. However, they have a slightly more relaxed attitude to life where things are not so rushed and frantic. Some rudely say that NZed is a few decades behind the rest of the world, but this creates a charm. My heart was once broken by a stunning NZ lass many years ago but frankly it was worth it for the three weeks of pleasure that preceeded it. They make a good impression on me they do.

The working day done, I was again to find myself on a plane that evening and winging it back to Sincity. This time economy class beckoned, but I was happily content so no matter. Why content? A good days work and an invitation to a glittering social event beckoned on my return. Due to an arrival of around 1945hrs, I was going to be fashionably late which is about as close as I get to being fashionable at all. A quick shower and leaping into jeans and a shirt, I was soon aboard the Vespa chariot and transiting like a bat out of hell. The event? A celebration of birth and official farewell of codename "M" of the Sincity Secret Service.

Only a recent addition to the ranks of folks I know, "M" has taken on great responsibilities including bringing in secret agents from the cold, issuance of licences to kill/thrill/and fulfill, and maintaining the integrity of quink and soon to be country. I remember a mission "M" sent me on by secure email requiring me to penetrate a forbidden sector in order to gain intelligence for future missions and possibly make contact with agent P-008. I reported failure, but was advised sagely that it would require several attempts anyway.

The celebration was held in a semi-private room and I was pleasantly surprised to find that essentially all the cool and sophisticated of Sincity were in attendance. There were several fellow secret agents I had met on previous missions in attendance who all bedazzled me with tales of their ops. I will refer to them as 001 to 006 as loose lips sink ships and all that. Several operatives I hadn't met were there, obviously from other intelligence departments, including a stunning creature I conversed with for around 30mins about the Indian bollywood industry and travel. She had a friend perched upon a knee, possibly providing security so she was obviously holding important secrets. I was told her codename but have a short-term memory like a sieve that lets only the important things through. Amazingly, I was even able to speak in an understandable structure as I tend to get apprehensive in such situations.

The evening concluded with the entourage heading off for iced treats while I made my excuses as the long day was starting to take a toll and I knew these beautiful people would soon be powerless to stop me falling into unconsciousness. I mounted my Vespa steed (which is still waiting for Q branch to install the gizmo's and gadgets it so desperately needs) and zoomed through the dark and quiet streets of Sincity at foolhardy speeds back to the Rockdalian base of operations.

....and then, slept the sleep of soothing slumber.

Rememberance of a Friend

2010-01-06T22:10:00.006+11:00

Perhaps it is due to this current blue funk I find myself in as a result of a battle between good and evil being played out on/in my tonsils, but my mind turns today to the anniversary of a friends passing shortly before I left A-Town for Sin City those few years ago. I'm not a sentimental sort, and I have not the characteristics to dwell on these things annually. However, it does amuse me to recount the interesting folk who I have stumbled across in the past.

Christened with the name Phillip, Phil as he preferred to be known was introduced to me at a party being thrown by a friend of the brother of the uncle of the workmate of the plumber of my then on-off girlfriends hairdresser (but I can't be sure that I've got that completely right, it may have been her pedicurist). Phil was by his own confession "Bent as a $3 note" and proved the point by attending the party with his partner Frank, a humourless and dour Frenchman that Phil explained he found in a seedy bar outside Toulouse and swapped a pocketful of magic beans for.

To really describe Phil is an impossibility. Eccentric is one way. Mad is another. Probably one of the smartest and cleverest people I've ever met should also be thrown into the mix. He worked in the industry of finance, a surprising area of endeavour considering his character. To say he was financially wealthy was an understatement, but not obviously so. He and Frank lived in a small neat house, he drove a small neat car and usually could be found wearing old jeans and cheap t-shirts. Visiting his abode, it was inexpensively furnished. But there were tell-tale signs:

- He always wore an expensive suit to work. In fact, "expensive" doesn't quite explain it. As was revealed to me by Frank, the suits were handmade in Milan with the finest materials by a chap who only made suits for those he invited to the priviledge. It was suggested that for the price of each of these suits you could purchase a good car and he always seemed to have a healthy rotation of them.
- He was a regular traveller and I mean ridiculously regular, with adventures to far flung places occurring every few weeks. Snippets of information concerning what he accomplished on these journeys will hopefully someday be published.

Phil had peculiar habits. Every meal I attended at his house included his favourite side dish, a type of caramelised garlic turnip creation. I never really knew exactly what it was and wasn't terribly keen on it. He frequently proclaimed that no meal was complete without it. He also swore a lot. Now some may say this is a sign of a limited vocabulary, but his control upon diction was extraordinary. The result was a masterful use of vulgar language, intelligent and bitingly witty. The conclusion of these meals always ended with him drawing a tot of sherry from an amazing wooden cask perched upon a shelf in the kitchen. The cask was carved with intricate scene's of Greek mythology, beautiful workmanship. Attached to one side was a black metal sillhouette of a lady in what could only be described as a compromising position. The cask had been discovered on one of his trips to Germany and was apparently made by a man who is currently in an asylum.

Phil spoke French (for the purpose of insulting Frank mainly) and Latin (for the purpose of insulting humanity generally), but it was his grasp of the English language that enthralled me. He mercilessly tormented me on my feeble endeavours in romantic pursuits, clearly pointing out where I was going wrong and techniques to rescue particular situations, all designed to be useless and create hilarity. He in turn liked nothing better than to have people attempt to playfully insult him resulting in a comic banter that frequently would have me in stitches.

His ability to attract women was the stuff of legend. He told me he only once slept with a lady, and found the experience "simply not the cut of his jib". I always felt it was a little deceptive the way he flirted with women, and I'm sure many a heart was broken when they discovered the truth about his orientation. However, I hope also they enjoyed spending time with someone who ensured they were treated to princess-like standards when in his company.

There was a dark side however to my friend. Albeit privately, he was a drug user and I was constantly amazed at his ability to keep the negative affects of his addiction from interferring with his more impressive activities. I must admit, I've never been too fond of the drug culture and would generally choose not to spend much time with people who indulge heavily in the pastime. Phil perhaps represented the one exception.

I fell out of touch with him a few years before transiting across the border, and it was an email from Frank that had me seeing again my friend. The situation was a rather unhappy one, as Phil was in hospital. When I walked into his ward and found him, there lay a feeble and gaunt shadow of his former self. He was heavily drugged up but when I sat down he looked across and said, "Where the fuck have you been?" with a broad grin. It was difficult to have a discussion, as the drugs were making him rather incomprehensible. I asked him what the cause of his condition was and he answered, "Just a dose of death, Dan, nothing serious". Five days later the dose completed the task.

The funeral was a simple affair but well attended. I saw no sign of family, only friends. A distraught Frank explained his intentions to return to France and I've not seen nor heard of him since. Although there was much wailing and emotion, I find funerals a rather peaceful and solemn affair. I was certainly sad that I wouldn't get the chance to see Phil again and have him laugh at the details of my love life, but I was glad I had the opportunity to know him at all.

Phil passed away at the age of 43.

We Will Fight Them on the Couch

2010-01-05T02:04:00.002+11:00

Oh dear, it's not often that I'm awake and/or of clear thought at 1:30AM on a Tuesday morning. Something must be wrong, and indeed it is.

I was wondering why in the last few days I've been feeling a bit down, off my feed, a bit of a grumpy bum. And then yesterday (Monday) I felt a strange and uncomfortable sensation in the back of my throat that no amount of ahem's seemed to shift. A curious soul as always, a torch and the bathroom mirror has revealed what I suspected, the telltale signs that the dreaded tonsilitis plague has come to town. It seems to visit very infrequently (probably 10 years since the last) but it's like a child-hood friend that you don't really like but seems to always visit at the wrong moment.

So, being a man of action, first thing is to call in my apologies to work tommorrow morning as sick leave is for just such occasions, present myself across the road to my local GP for a professional opinion on cause/remedy, and then purchase a small pot of red paint for the purpose of putting a large red cross on my front door.

I have been described during periods of illness, as being a rotten sod. I can accept that, in fact I would agree to it. I feel it's a persons right to be unjolly during these trying circumstances. Unsociable too, indeed very unsociable.

Very well, you vile microorganisms, you've picked the wrong chap to mess with. Oh yes, you may number in the millions perhaps billions and I number but one, but prepare for the first big battle of the second decade of the 21st century. At the risk of sounding crude, your arses (if they have arses?) are mine.

Now That the Fireworks Are Over

2010-01-03T13:11:00.002+11:00

...and a happy new year 2010. Yes indeed a happy new decade too for that matter. There's something about round numbers that appeals to me, a slight appreciation of some sort of order, a conservative bent that appreciates things being tidy. It doesn't take long though, and the joy of messing things up, kicking the house of cards down if you will returns. I fluctuate it seems, thank goodness.

The question of new years resolutions raises its foolish head around about this time. Like many, I don't participate in this peculiar tradition, because I think if you want to commit to some sort of plan for your life you should do it whenever you damn well please, rather than time it with the calendar. I mean, say you have a good idea for yourself in August, why wait till January?

But perhaps, surprisingly, I have taken an interesting step towards a deeper appreciation for my fellow humans. Yesterday, I was in the city as I find the scene of busy shoppers and poor weather beguiling. There are usually many folk on the sidewalks requesting a donation from the passing foot traffic to help finance their desire to escape a life of financial strife, usually detailed in scrawled text on a piece of hurriedly ripped cardboard. Now I don't generally participate in the donation process for these people, my cynical mind suggesting that they probably won't spend it on the operation for their daughter they articulated on the grubby cardboard sign. In the usual style of the white collar bourgeoisie I seem to have found myself a part of, I presume the coin I toss into the poor souls hat will be liquidised that night and consumed, heaping further sorrow upon the sorrow. Instead my crumpled fiver tends to go to the big issue vendor for the following reasons:

- It's actually a pretty good read.
- It took some effort for the vendor to take action to improve their financial situation this way.
- The vendors are quite happy to chat, and are rather interesting people.

Whether it is making a difference to their lives, I'm unsure, but I do hope so.

However, yesterday something peculiar occurred. I gave an embarrassingly small amount of money to a chap who was not a BI vendor. Like many of the others, he too was sitting on the sidewalk leaning against a wall with a grubby hat in front of him soliciting donations. He didn't have a piece of woe enscribed cardboard in front of him, but instead was reading a book about engineering in Victorian era Britain. It was no picture book either, it was quite tome-like. I hoped the tinkling of the coins into his hat would not break his concentration.

I quite liked the idea that by giving the chap some loose change he may decide to continue to read. It's a good idea that charity can broaden the minds of recipients and those who fork over the readies at the same time. I'm not sure if I'll donate again, but perhaps I will if I see other street people ensconsed in the joy of the written word.

All the best.

Do the Evolution, Baby!

2009-12-20T22:13:00.002+11:00

In the late 90's, alternative rock band Pearl Jam unleashed a thumping tune entitled "Do the Evolution". Quick paced with racing guitar work and vocals that have the passion and edginess only Eddie Vedder can evacuate onto the listening audience, it's a song that is great fun to jack up the volume to. A little strange though is the fact that the lyrics are rather dark, disturbed, and cynical which seems to be in complete contradiction to the music. So lets just concentrate on the title for todays post.

I've always been a person with a reasonably open mind. A curious mind certainly. But a recent event has convinced me that I had made a mistake which has thankfully been corrected.

So what was the mistake Dan? I'm glad you asked (curiosity show flashback there). It is this, that you can study something for as long as you like, you can think about it, speak to people about it, read about it, watch movies about it. But it is necessary to actually INVOLVE yourself directly in it to really start to understand it properly. Theory is great, but it only forms a foundation. The practical experience is essential.

As an example, around ten years ago I decided I wanted to learn to fly an aeroplane. As this is a costly activity I knew it wouldn't be a long term pastime but I went ahead with it anyway. I studied the theory quite intensely, discussed things extensively with the instructor and felt confident that I could achieve the goal. When learning to fly, the first hands-on experience is doing what are called "circuits" essentially taking off, flying back around the runway, landing, and then taking off again without stopping. It teaches most of the basic essentials. I was mortified to find that even with all my preparation I was crap at it. I fumbled the controls, I would land too hard or float down the runway, I would forget procedures. I couldn't understand it, even though my instructor assured me that I wasn't doing anything he hadn't seen other newbies do. Frustrated, I hit the books and theory harder but I couldn't see anything I'd missed. I returned the following week and had another go. The first few attempts were again rubbish, but then something clicked and I did a reasonably good circuit. And then another. Suddenly, the pieces fell into place and I was roaring around beautifully, and touching down smooth as silk. I can't explain exactly what it was that finally got me to understand how to do it, but what I do know is that even though the theory gave me an idea how to do it, it was the actual practice that tidied everything up.

I call that an evolution. and just like the occasional revolution, it's a good thing. But as the song title suggests, to evolve one must "do" and not just think about it. The phrase "Success is 10% inspiration, 90% perspiration" I believe quoted by Thomas Edison has never felt so true.

So This is Christmas?

2009-12-13T15:59:00.003+11:00

A festive flair for the gallery in this post. Yes it's Christmas time again, and who doesn't like wearing a little red once in a while?

This is called, "This Is Not Xmas".

And now the ramble begins..... I'm actually not very good at doing the whole Christmas thing. I do remember enjoying it as a kid, but then something happened to me to spoil the whole thing. Enter the dissafected, cynical, smart-arsed teenage attitude, oh around the year 1988. Add a dose of compressing into one day the seeing of every person you have been trying to avoid all year. A sprinkling of showing gratitute for gifts you never wanted and will never use while your brain is not a cauliflower, and a pinch of "If we're not religious, why are we celebrating a religious festival?". Yes, it seemed my task on the day was to be a 'orrible little git. Job done!

Things have gotten a bit better, maybe.

Funny though, how I notice things that are not so good. Yesterday, I saw three seperate women completely lose it at my local shopping centre (which was heaving). I mean yelling and crying. One was because the attendant was having difficulty extracting her jammed receipt from his cash register for goodness sake. The pressure seems to be on and if the breakdown is going to happen now seems to be the perfect time.

Even yours truly is starting to lose his way a bit. For the last 15 years I've worked in an industry that views December as not much more than a cash cow. The heat is on to get all we can while the getting is good. Now, people who know me would say that I am a rather temperate person. Even during a crises I can keep my head. But last week somebody at work managed to find my "piss me off" button and bashed it several times, just like those people who think the more times you hit the button at the pedestrian crossing the sooner the lights will stop the traffic. I snapped just a bit, and gave back a volley of "back off!" suggestions. I am unfortunately not good at this, perhaps naively believing that the best way to resolve a disagreement is to discuss it sensibly. I wonder how far these things should be allowed to continue before one releases the F-bomb off?

I am however looking forward to a bit of down time after xmas. I call it "the decompression", a few days that start on boxing day and last for three days. To sit upon couches, read, sip cold beer, watch bad movies, think, smirk at my laziness, consider starting that painting I've never started (and probably never will), admire my feet, take afternoon siesta's, walk the Sydney streets, and be selfish.

How many more sleeps?

Pleasure Treasure, A Large Measure

2009-12-09T20:03:00.005+11:00

Thumbing my way through a recently purchased paperback of non-fiction, I have received a small yet potent dose of Epicureanism and liked the taste of it. Now you, dear reader, being an intelligent and wonderful person who has accidentally stumbled across this blog in error or possibly pity, would immediately identify this as a philosophy of an ancient Greek called Epicurus. Yes, your such a smart bunny.

Essentially, what I'm talking about here is the issue of happiness and pleasure and the importance these have in our lives. I'm always amazed at how difficult we make it for ourselves in attaining these delights, when really it's there for the taking. I've been dreadfully guilty of this, to the point where feelings of shame and embarrassment are the result of indulgence in fairly simple pleasures. How ridiculous! Where did this come from? Consider:

- If you eat that you will get fat and it will rot your teeth.
- You can't wear that, it doesn't suit you.
- This is no time for laughter.
- Sex is for making babies only.

I'm sure at some stage, some do-gooding swine instilled some of these awful ideals into society. A pox on them. The Irish comedian Dylan Moran summed things up rather well:

"You have to have a good relationship with pleasure"

I particularly like the use of the word relationship in his phrase. Just like the emotional connections that are made with family, friends, and lovers, so to does one need to embrace pleasure and be at peace with it. Biologically, the human animal is hardwired with pleasure as part of the firmware and to ignore it, suppress it, abuse it, or hate it is not the way it was designed. Moran assists us further with a suggestion:

"...to lay face down on a large cushion, with a mouth full of chocolate, and something wonderful happening to my lower half"

Well, it's a suggestion anyways, and can be adapted to individual tastes.

The other thing that needs to be sorted out if happiness must be achieved is an appreciation of the self. Again, I have spent years worrying about my body image, intelligence, and perception to others. As time goes on, the realisation that you've got what you've got becomes more evident and again it's something you just have to make peace with. Now, I absolutely adore mocking myself, playfully denigrating my abilities and attributes. I think it's healthy, I really do. The reality is though that even though my confidence is not 100%, it gets better all the time. Some of the things that worried me are now accepted as part of the package. It must be made clear that it is not a display of defiance to change, but instead a refusal to allow stupid and petty hangups distract from the things that make life worth living.

Now, what did I do with that cushion and chocolate?

You've Got to Have Sole

2009-12-07T19:32:00.005+11:00

The next addition to the Gallery.

Titled, "You've Got to Have Sole" this came out rather surprising. I always quite liked my feet, and there's no doubt that tickling my soles is enough for me to descend into a babbling mess pleading for mercy. But they are actually quite ugly. Ofcourse, they aren't there just for show, they're there for go.

Then again, a soul.... I mean a sole.... untickled.... is a sad soul.... I mean sole.

Smooth, Suave.... With a Dash of Delusional

2009-12-01T21:57:00.006+11:00

Now, I don't want to keep banging on about this, but as clearly indicated in previous posts I am certainly a man with the style and sophistication of plankton. It's true, it's true, but what can one do?

In the hope that by evacuating this fact into the blogosphere the returned energy will transform me into S & S on legs (oh brother, this is what happens after a dull day in the office!), to whit:

Slouched upon my couch, I was indulging in a vigorous session of ponderification regarding the issue of existentialism. Climaxing with the realisation that I had no idea what existentialism even meant, I focused on the development of deep seeded envy for those who were smarter than I and could discuss the topic with ease and at will. When behold, out of the corner of my eye I spotted upon the television screen one of my favourite cartoons and was distracted enough to put all other thoughts out of my mind.

(It is perhaps prudent to point out how nicely I have shown the ability of my brain to shift gear so swiftly from sputtering along with complex topics to purring with the simple and childish. Just like my Vespa, my brain works much better when it is on a downward gradient)

Titled "The Three Little Bops", it is a triumph. Produced in the mid fifties, it is just short of seven minutes of wonderful jazz music and swingin' lyrics. As expected it is based on the "Three Little Pigs" fairytale, however there is no indication of a homosexual threesome arrangement, and the phrase "not by the hair of my chinny chin chin" is thankfully omitted, although the big bad wolf does exclaim, "...if I can't blow it down I'll blow it up" at one stage. Stop it, that mind of yours!

Essentially, the pigs are terrific musicians and the big bad wolf desires to join their group. However, his musical skills are inversely proportional to his enthusiasm and they give him short shrift. Ultimately, in what is a stock standard outcome for cartoons of the era he comes a cropper of a load of TNT. Extinguished of life, he is next noticed roasting (surprisingly happily) in the depths of hell, albeit with a sudden ability to play the trumpet with panache.

And here, here is where the phrase is uttered, words to live by:

"The big bad wolf he learned the rule,
Ya gotta get hot to play real cool!"

There's a lesson there for me...... somewhere.

*not seen the cartoon? You can find it on youtube, what are you waiting for?*

God - She Rides a Vespa

2009-11-29T22:04:00.004+11:00

For somebody who has no strong religious beliefs, it' surprising how often my mind turns to things of a spiritual nature.

A few years ago, I resided in the lovely suburb of Glebe. I had an apartment on Bay Street, next door to the Broadway Shopping Centre and within observational distance of the tower where those two people were spotted shagging the other day. I also overlooked Greek Street, a narrow road that was more of an alleyway than anything else and was used mainly for drunks to urinate/vomit/swear at the top of their voices in. It was also where the church of Scientology has a branch, and I was constantly disappointed to not see Tom Cruise or John Travolta walking down the street headed for a meeting. Each evening, the scientologists would come back from goodness knows where in buses all dressed identically. They seemed happy enough and there was a broad cross section of age and race amongst their ranks. In some ways, I quite liked them as they seemed to have some sort of purpose in their lives and refrained from bothering me when I would be in transit to/from the pub to wet my whistle. I was a happy man living a reasonably reserved life amongst a throng of activity.

Religion, I feel is a very personal choice that we all have to consider at some stage. What you choose to believe (or not) will have an effect on your life either directly or indirectly. The key though is to ensure that whatever decision you make, it is your decision. It's also important to ensure that a healthy respect is afforded to other people's rights to believe whatever they like. I may think that someone's religion is misguided, but I'll defend their right to follow it.

For me personally, there have been times where I would have classified myself as an atheist. I don't anymore, as I feel it cuts off too many options. I've always been rather keen on options, and believe it is healthy to keep the mind open to different possibilities. I don't feel that any specific choice needs to be made, and I have no intention of doing so. Instead, I maintain a curiosity in the various faiths and try to take something from them all. I must stress that sometimes what I take is not necessarily positive and as I cheesily included in my bio for this blog, the beautiful and the ugly are equally important.

It's hopefully through a continued interest in the faiths that I can develop a better understanding of the people that follow them. Perhaps then this is my personal religion, a type of humanism.

Amen to that.

Superfluous Pants and the Technofear

2009-11-25T20:17:00.007+11:00

When did modern technology become so rude?

Let's set the scene. Arriving back at my apartment after a day of work, the humidity and heat made my workclothes uncomfortable and clingy. I hate them really, the shirt that rubs my neck and the god-awful pants that never seem to sit comfortably. No sooner had the door slammed behind me than the work duds were dispensed with and I stood, pantsless, before my wardrobe wondering where my comfortable denim shorts were hiding. Alas, the whole transformation was done in haste and (again) I had failed to draw the window blind and had unwittingly revealed my nakidity upon the world outside my window (which is a bloody big window mind). Squealing in a decidedly non-masculine tone, I quickly saved my blushes covering up my naughty bits (yes that's right, nipples) with my hands and leaping behind an adequately sized pot plant (which was almost dead and rather small, sadly). Peculiar fantasies raced through my mind of the inhabitants in the womens fitness centre across the road seeing this spectacle and being overcome with lust. The truth being more that the viewing would be motivation enough to keep working hard to avoid looking like I. Who cares, what's wrong with naked!

Now suitably clad, I wandered down to the local shops in search of sustenance. This is usually a nightly journey as my fridge is used mainly for inedible substances. The other day I found a spare set of keys, a Jimi Hendrix CD, and a packet of chewing gum in there. Oh yeah, well what do you keep in YOUR fridge then? Yeah well, ok that does sound pretty good then being food and all. Anyway, at the shops I got what I wanted (something in a can to eat, something in a can to drink) and proceeded to one of the self-serve checkouts that are fairly new. You know the one's, where you scan the items yourself receiving nothing from the attendant other than a contemptuous sneer as you fumble about. I actually don't mind these as it is better than being served by the person who appears to be about to give up on life and bring a machine gun into work with them. The problem is that when you have finished the scanning and paid, the voice from the machine emits a firm "please take your items!" which is only one level up from "we have your money, our interest in you is now extinguished, please go away!". Rude.

Even in my home it doesn't end. Last night I was doing some things on my computer when it all of a sudden popped up a message saying a windows update had occurred and required to be shutdown and restarted. I was right in the middle of something for goodness sake. I leapt to my feet, pantsless, and shaking a finger at the screen exclaimed "You swine, how dare you!". I was then distracted when I noticed my window blind was up. Rude.

At 6:10AM this morning the shrill of the alarm broke my slumber with all the subtlety of electrodes on testicles just when I was in the middle of a terrifying nightmare about electrodes on testicles. Furious, I leapt from my bed, pantsless yet wearing a small beret on my head..... why, I hear you ask? Because it was time to get up.... oh the beret.... because I went to bed after dark and because there was no light outside I usually don't lower the blind. The beret can quickly be used to recover my modesty. It's up here for thinking, down there for dancing. And you thought it was going to be something weird and perverted didn't you? Honestly, where is your mind!

So, what all this means is that I feel modern technology needs some decent manners. The self-checkout should thank you and wish you a pleasant day. Your PC should gently enquire if it would be allright to shutdown and restart. The morning alarm should wake you by saying "psst! uhm excuse me but you really should be getting up if that's allright with you". And the system generated form letter from the local council tersely warning you that indecent exposure is a crime should instead be more understanding of the complexities associated with window blind operation and the pantsless man.

Here endeth the ramble.

The Hands that Built the Blog

2009-11-22T16:33:00.008+11:00

As suggested in a previous post, may I present my hands. The first image is called "The Right to Reality", the second "The Left to Life".

Cheese Is My Favourite Fruit

2009-11-21T09:09:00.003+11:00

What? Hold on there Dan, what on earth are you talking about?

Taking a few steps back, it is probably prudent to explain my gastronomic "weakness", which I incorrectly call a weakness because it is actually something I'm pleased to have. We all have certain foods in our lives that hold a special place and transcend the role of simply providing nutritional fuel. There is something else going on, something almost indescribable and illogical, but obviously very important. For many it is chocolate, seafood, or something else that sparks the culinary senses.

For me it is - cheese.

Now, let me try to explain what I mean by the title of this post, as many people would want to point out my error (uhm, if they read this blog ofcourse). When you bite into a piece of quality fruit, there is the sensation of what I refer to as the "burst", a pop of the skin that releases the juice and flavour. Cheese, in my opinion has a similar characteristic. Placed on the tongue, it sits inanimate. But as soon as the molars begin their crush, the tongue begins to explore the texture and confront the flavour, the "burst" ignites.

The other day, I indulged in some aged New Zealand cheddar. A dense, crumbly textured cheese, it had a burst that I could feel in my spine, and gave me a pleasant headache which lasted about two seconds (I'm guessing this was the pleasure chemicals being released from my brain). I had no choice but to express my delight with a rapturous "mmmmm". I ate a few pieces, and the amazing thing is that each piece was better than the last. I think my tastebuds adjusted their sensitivities to take best advantage and the suspense leading up to the next piece was wonderfully fulfilled. This was living in the moment, attention being placed on doing nothing but enjoying deliciousness and the buzz of what I presume must be dopamine lovingly injected into my bloodstream by my brain.

There's no doubt that an excessive amount of cheese is no good for anyone, and I actually have excellent skills to ensure I don't over-indulge. Actually, I think it is good to self-deny to an extent as it seems to intensify the experience, it makes it special and heightens the enjoyment. There is also the side benefit that cheese actually does have many nutritional qualities.

A food that is good for you and delicious = Joy!

The Beautiful Shades of Grey

2009-11-17T21:46:00.003+11:00

A little while ago I watched the screenplay adapted from Frank Miller's graphic novels "Sin City". It got me to thinking about the use of black and white imagery and how much I enjoy pictures that use it effectively. I also was curious about the use of limited splashes of colour in the imagery.

Attached is a picture I zapped up tonight. Tools used were a 5 year old Kodak digital camera set for a closeup, Picasa for image manipulation, and a willing model who worked for no pay (yours truly) so as you can see a limited budget was in place for the project. Twenty images were taken with this one selected. It took about 10 minutes from click to "that'll do". I chose the eye and eyebrows as the subject because I find them the most interesting (windows to the soul and all that stuff, right?) and it's actually a little unnerving looking at it now. The furrowed brow indicating the scepticism and cynicism, the disorganised hairs of the eyebrow a reflection of the mind behind it, the slightly drooping eyelid betraying my laziness, while the cooling blue of the iris gives a sense of control to all this negativity. Anyway, I'm sure this is not an original project but I shall call the image "Blue Mine Eye". Criticisms gladly accepted in the spirit they are offered.

But, back to the issue of proper black and white imagery. Take for instance just about any of the black and white photo's of James Dean cityscapes (a favourite can be found here). They ooze cool and sophistication from every pixel (digital photo ofcourse). Not only the main character but the gritty scenery that surrounds him. The shadows and reflections sizzle and melt like thick molasses. I'm not sure if I want to be like James Dean or replace him in those scenes.

Envy, pure envy.

The Transit of the Mobile Phone Ignoramus

2009-11-15T21:26:00.005+11:00

Blessed was I to pay another visit to the township of the new today after my rambles of the previous week. The reason? A chance to meet some accomplished affiliates of the blogosphere. But, it so nearly wasn't so.

To one stumbling accidentally upon this blog and not quick enough to strike the "back" option in their browser after realising their blunder, the author's primary mode of transport would seem obvious. But obvious it was not today, instead it was what fellow Vespa riders would refer to as "being a bitch of a thing" and not cooperating with forward propulsion on command. My relationship with my Vespa is similar to a mad dictator with his subjects and disobedience is not tolerated. Undeterred, I hoofed it down to my local train station, only to find the connection to my destination not being serviced by said transport, instead resulting in a jarring and sometimes dangerous bus ride to get me to my desired terminus.

I had arrived and felt confident the hurdles had been leaped, and a dive into conversation and iced coffee (hold the cream) would soon be underway. Alas, through poor planning and dare I say an arrogant attitude as to my knowledge of the area, I found myself located where the arranged meeting place was not. Clueless, I weighed up the options which consisted of throwing myself to the ground and bursting into tears or calling one of the affiliates. A cool head prevailed, and I took the tearless option. With a friendly "look across the road (git!)" I spotted the waving confederates.

The iced coffee was delicious, the company enjoyable. I made valuable contributions to the meeting by demonstrating my ridiculous inability use my mobile phone skillfully, the plight of Greek accordian music at 2:30 in the morning, and how to drink iced coffee without spilling it down the front of oneself (miracle!).

In an extraordinary display of forward planning (by my substandards anyway) I have already decided that next weekend I shall be visiting the Museum of Contemporary Art on the harbour and giving another one of my rambles about the experience. Perhaps if I take my laptop, and write the ramble while inside the MCA I may personally qualify as a piece of performance art. Surely this has been done before, and I will have learned types referring to me as "derivative". I've been called worse!

The Devil's Work for Idle Hands - iMacsturbation

2009-11-10T23:02:00.002+11:00

I may have rambled in a previous post (find one which is rambless, and I'll give you a prize) about being a geek and totally out of touch with all that is fashionable and valued by real people. I may have also mentioned that it is an impossibility for me to step foot inside the Apple store on George Street here in Sydney and not drool like a mental patient at the goodies therein. Very embarrassing, but I guess we each have our weaknesses.

So it was that recently I have had to declare those loveable bastards at Apple a pack of swines, as they revealed a line up of new iMacs that seemed to be specifically designed to turn the screws on my junky like tendancies for this sort of thing. They are beautiful things, designed to work as good as they look. For 1600 knicker they are pretty well priced. The problem is, I don't actually need one. I have a perfectly functional PC that although it's a little old does the job with aplomb and does everything I need it to do. But I want one.... badly.

Whenever I look into potential purchases such as these I have a tendancy to do my homework rather well. The first issue that strikes me is the financial outlay that would be required. Through a staggering example of bad planning, my father is not the Sultan of Brunei or some other such person of equal wealth. This has meant the 1600 clams required for said purchase would need to be sourced from my personal income. Unfortunately, as that is limited and has many other strains imposed upon it, some economic juggling at master accountancy levels would certainly be required. When I consider that my Doc Martins are just about worn through the sole, my jeans are developing a "distressed" look that is genuine, and my vacuum cleaner is just about to explode, you can see why I have doubts about this being a wise decision.

Secondly, the purchase would go against a plan I was developing. You will shake your head in disbelief when I mention that in order to force myself to limit time in front of the computer, I replaced an old chair with a stool for sitting on. The idea was that it would become uncomfortable after 10-15 minutes and force me to walk away for a while. It actually worked too and I hate that stool with a passion. If I get a new iMac, I won't want to have to put up with that and the bad old habits return.

Thirdly, and probably most important... Dan get a life ! Yeah, go on say it, I know anyone reading this is thinking it.

I guess spending money and time on things that one doesn't need is not uncommon. I just seem to really enjoy wasting time on silly things I guess.

Newtown.... Trippin' Out On You

2009-11-07T20:38:00.004+11:00

Indulging in perambulations down King Street in the locality of Newtown yesterday and also venturing down Enmore Road, I surveyed a locale teeming with a conglomeration of intense tribalism, casual indifference, wealth, poverty, sophistication, inelegance, and one or two examples of very advanced people who had decided all of these ingredients were to be tossed into the mix for their broiled persona. I was once told by a local resident that this part of Sydney is where you go "to NOT get away from it all". How true.

I actually considered establishing a residence in or very near Newtown at one stage. I used to scoot through on my way home from work each day and the wafting smells of curries, the commotion, the ne'er do well that seemed to always evacuate obscenities in my direction as I rode past, and the manicured goths (who I consider exceedingly interesting) always advertised the area as a place for living. It was mainly a financial decision that denied me the outcome and hence I finally found shelter a metaphorical stones throw away.

When I'm on these excursions, I have a stupid habit of not looking where I am going. If you see someone walking the footpath dressed unfashionably looking all about the place except in the direction of his travels, feel free to assertively request the chap to "look where your going!" as the chances of it being me are high and I won't take offence. As it was yesterday walking along Enmore Road I spotted the large sign for the upcoming B-52's gig at the Enmore Theatre. Foolishly lifting my feet insufficiently with each stride, I stubbed my right hoof and indulged in an unrehearsed performance of interpretive dance I call "Silly Man Trying Not to Fall Over". Applause and praise were not forthcoming, instead a muffled expression of hilarity was heard. I couldn't be sure where it emanated from and had brief pause to consider that God did exist and she had a sense of humour. I soon discovered the source was a scraggly little man dressed even more shabbily than I, nursing a bottle in a brown paper bag.

"Look where your going buddy!", he suggested helpfully. Wise words indeed.

I decided to recharge my batteries in case further artistic expressionism was required at a cafe the name of which has escaped me. Being a fairly warm day I ordered my personal yardstick for cafe quality:

"I'll have a regular iced coffee please"
"Certainly, would you like cream with that?"
"No, just the iced coffee please. Oh, can I also have one of those mini cheesecakes too please"
"Yes, would you like cream with that?"
"No thankyou"

I do hope I haven't accidentally made a faux pas in Newtown cafe culture. Perhaps it is rude to consume things that don't have a dollop of canned squirty cream on the side. Perhaps they thought I could do with the calories....to add to the other one's.

Deliciously satisfied, I headed for the train station, which set me to thinking of a solution to the graffiti problem plaguing Sydney. It seems to me that much of the wall art around Newtown is surprisingly free of graffiti. It seems there is a degree of unspoken agreement that they need no further adornment. However, Sydney trains represent a blank canvas, screaming out for expression. I bet if artists were given the opportunity to express themselves on the rolling stock the desire to graffiti the trains would reduce due to lack of effect.

But then I always were a dreamer.... and a tripper.... and an iced coffee sipper.

This is Meme, all Meme, and Nothing But Meme

2009-11-03T22:00:00.004+11:00

A kind invitation by the Baroness of all things boot-worthy for the blogging world to participate in a meme had me scrambling to participate in an obvious exhibition of me tooism. I should be held accountable for my answers and if anybody was to think worse of me for them it would be unsurprising. Let's begin:

Where is your cell phone? Unsure.

Your hair? Frustrating.

Your mother? Concerned.

Your father? Unconcerned.

Your favorite food? Savoury's.

Your dream last night? Shoeless.

Your favorite drink? Iced-Coffee

Your dream/goal? Achievement.

What room are you in? Bedroom.

Your hobby? Observation.

Your Fear? Incapacitation.

Where do you want to be in 6 years? Utopia.

Where were you last night? Here.

Something that you aren’t? Savvy.

Muffins? Yum!

Wish list item? Savviness.

Where did you grow up? Adelaide.

Last thing you did? Swam.

What are you wearing? Boxers.

Your TV? Off.

Your pets? Greenering.

Your friends? Scattered.

Your life? Peachy.

Your mood? Relaxed.

Missing someone? Unsure.

Vehicle? Vespa.

Something you’re not wearing? Shoes.

Your favorite store? Apple-Store.

Your favorite color? Red.

When was the last time you laughed? Tonight.

Last time you cried? Unsure.

Your best friend? ...?...

One place that I go to over and over? Fridge.

person who emails me regularly? Spammers.

Favorite place to eat? Pubs.

And that's the way we do that then.

Because Your Not Worth It. Thank Goodness!

2009-10-31T17:04:00.005+11:00

Well, it had to happen. During the night there was a destabilisation of the space-time continuum, obviously centred on my apartment, and I've lost several weeks. It is simply the only explanation. Oh yeah! Well, how do you explain this then.....

Awaking this morning, I pulled on my best pair of tatty jeans and matching tatty t-shirt (I'm a tatty style-meister) and stepped out of the front door for one of my rambles of a Sydney location. Soon discovering myself barefoot, I re-entered my home to complete the ensemble with necessary footwear. Todays excursion would be to Bondi Junction shopping centre, to see the "beautiful" people.

Bondi Junction shopping centre is famous for ear candling and the largest collection of diet books on sale anywhere in the world. It is a place to see and be circumvented, especially if you do not reside in Sydney's eastern suburbs. From the moment I stepped inside the complex, the complete lack of gel in my hair and the wearing of shoes that cost less than dollars 200 singled me out. Even though it is still October there are a smattering of chri$tma$ decorations appearing in the hallways SO either the explanation in my first paragraph holds true or these are decorations they haven't yet taken down from last chri$tma$. I'm right aren't I ?

The "beautiful" people who swarm through Bondi Junction shopping centre are generally dressed like shit, but a much classier kind of shit as in expensive shit. At least compared to me. Which doesn't really say much. The fashion of the season with the ladies is a pair of thongs (expensive ofcourse) with matching coloured toenail polish (which is more expensive than the thongs). The fashion for the gentlemen is a thong wearing girlfriend with coloured toenail polish that matches his car. Trinny and Susannah are full of shit, and it appears that when it comes to todays fashion I may just be the next guru.

The best seller for the day were small pots containing a turds worth of face mud for the quite reasonable price of too much. Applied liberally to the face of an evening, it is designed to open the skins pores to release the stress of credit card debt and enrich with essential something or others that I can't remember so may not be all that essential. The scientific evidence clearly indicated that nine out of ten Hollywood celebrities hadn't said the product was total rubbish and this seemed to be good enough as a flurry of desperates rushed the counter waving their visa's, mastercards, and american express's in the air in a desperate attempt to get one of the last few thousand pots of the product still left for sale. Indeed I could hear many bitchy comments and see the occasional catfight in the queue with the requisite tears. But finally, the gentleman all got their pots of goop and were busy calling their girlfriends on their mobiles as they were off doing something else, probably buying thongs.

While riding on the train back to civilisation, I reflected on my visit to see the "beautiful" people. I've always believed that it is important to travel to new places and experience different cultures and I felt richer for the experience. I was dissappointed to not see Lara Bongle (hey, when she learns how to spell her name, so will I) at Bondi Junction shopping centre, but frankly if you want to see celebrities it's still the place to go. All the "beautiful" people seem to look like someone famous..... sometimes disturbingly so.

How Do We Sleep While Our Books Are Burning?

2009-10-25T21:37:00.004+11:00

This sort of thing worries me. See the article here.

What to do? Well, perhaps an answer lies in history. On July 1st, 1681, a Roman Catholic Archbishop by the name of Oliver Plunkett became a martyr after he was hanged, drawn, and quartered at Tyburn by the English. See here for the details of why, when, how etc. Anyway, the preserved head of the unfortunate chap can be viewed at St. Peter's Church in Drogheda, Ireland.

Enough of the history lesson, I suggest that the ashes from the book burning should be gathered, preserved for viewing at a library and canonized in an act of defiance against this abomination of the glory of the written word.

Just a thought.

I May Be Wrong, I Hope

2009-10-19T21:42:00.008+11:00

The issue of illegal immigration, and the arrival (or attempted arrival) of boat people has confronted us again, surprisingly with little indication of a pending federal election to really take advantage of it. Ofcourse, this hasn't stopped the media from wringing every last drop of emotional fluid from the rag, as they work around the clock to sell their stories using our ignorance, racism, fear, and yes perhaps even our stupidity as fuel.

But alas, I don't wish to blog today about the media's role in all this, or even to put forward an argument as to whether the boat people should be welcomed to our shores or not. There are many blogs and opinions that can cover this, and I would even recommend reading most of them in order to develop a broad and well informed understanding of the situation.

This leads neatly to where I wish today's blog to go. Recently, a discussion regarding the boat people erupted in my office with several people donating their views. Now, the old rule was that the issues of sex, politics and religion were not desirable subjects for debate in the professional workspace as it had the potential to cause friction between workmates. I reject this, not because I'm particularly interested in the details, but because it exposes the real people behind the people you work with. It was quite amazing to hear the opinions put forward, the surprising conclusions and arguments with some being well thought out and balanced while others were simply moronic.

There seems to be a push these days that we are supposed to have unwavering confidence in ourselves. That we should stand firm with our beliefs and never let anyone sway them. Total bullshit! As imperfect people living in an imperfect world to not have doubts about our beliefs and ourselves is ignorance at its most appalling. A great many problems are caused by people who think their opinion is to be valued above all others, and those who cannot even for a moment consider the possibility that alternative points of view hold some sort of worth are to be mistrusted. Without dwelling excessively on the debate about the boat people, surely it is possible that there are valid arguments to welcome them as well as deny them access to Australia. I gained a greater appreciation for the intelligence of my coworkers who were able to argue both sides of the debate and come to the conclusion that there is no definitive answer to the problem.

Perhaps I will never be part of the confident and sophisticated people of the world. But frankly, I think I would rather spend my time with those who are a little unsure of themselves as they at least seem to have their eyes open.

The Friday Nights Green Tights

2009-10-16T22:29:00.005+11:00

Alexander the younger, son of the King of Diampora was considered a strange boy. He was fond of riding his stallion, Popsicle, while wearing a large embroidered hat, a scarlet tunic, and bright green tights. The people considered him a dandy and laughed heartily at his unusual dress and demeanour. To any other royal of the time it would be shameful to receive such disrespect from their people, but Alexander revelled in the attention and felt if he was providing such good entertainment then what's the harm.

Whilst riding though the woods not hunting guinea fowl, Alexander heard a gentle sobbing wafting through the dense tree's. Curious, he decided to seek out the source of the sad sound but soon came across a problem. You see, the kingdom of Diampora bordered that of Aropmaid and a bitter fued between the two had existed for many years. The reasons for the divide were lost to legend, however the stories told over roaring Diampora hearths were that a representative of the King of Aropmaid had failed to remove the bunch of grapes that all men wore in their hair during diplomatic meetings when the, "Remove your bunch of grapes, NOW!" song was sung to end the meeting. Oh yes, it was a slap in the face and forgiveness was impossible.

Where was I? Oh yes, Alexander was a rather naive person and so continued to venture across the border as the sound of the weeping grew louder. Eventually, he discovered the tree's thinning out and found himself staring at a huge castle, like with turrets and stuff. A rather tall tower was at one corner of the castle, and standing at a high window was the most beautiful lady Alexander had ever seen. She had long black hair that glistened like pitch and a nose the same shape as a turnip. Peculiar emotions stirred in Alexander and for the first time in his life he regretted wearing bright green tights as much as your author has regretted writing himself into a difficult corner with a high risk of being accused of plagiarism or perversion.

"Erm, hello there, are you allright?", called out Alexander waving a purple satin hanky in the air.
"WTF!", exclaimed the beautiful lady seeing our bizarrely dressed hero, with particular concern for his tights.
"I heard you crying and thought you may be in distress. Are you?"
"Well", she said, "I've been shut in this tower by my parents who have some sort of irrational fear over my chastity. Frankly, I've had better days don't you know".
"I shall save you, dear lady, fear not!"

With this, Alexander began attempting to climb the side of the tower, which was a bloody stupid thing to do as the tower was 50 feet high and if he had walked around the side he would have found the unlocked entrance. Eventually, he found the entrance, climbed the stairs, rescued the lady, they got married, united the kingdoms, and had many children.

The End.

Post note: Some may consider the ending of this story to be rather hurried and lacking in detail, at least compared with the earlier passages. If so, I agree with you entirely but when the authors toast has just popped up his train of thought tends to wander.

Laugh, Fall Off Couch, Repeat

2009-10-11T15:52:00.006+11:00

Documentary films have been a favourite of mine for a while now. I like to think it is because they open up interesting subjects for study and interpretation that spark my intellect to question and develop in order to become a more rounded and interesting person. Ofcourse, the truth is more that I'm a lazy git who can't be arsed to check these things out personally and it's just so much easier to watch others do it instead. Yet another of my masks falls to the floor!

Anyhoo, this leads me unsurprisingly into this trifling ramble about the latest documentary I've just seen entitled, "A Complete History of My Sexual Failures" by independant filmmaker Chris Waitt.

The film concerns itself with the shambles of a love life so far conducted by Waitt, as he attempts to find the reasons for his failure to lead a fruitful relationship with several past girlfriends. Waitt himself presents as an eerily accurate facsimile of Kurt Cobain albeit a little more hairy and a little less deceased, but just barely. He is the type of fellow who feels that most problems in life should be dealt with by sitting under a warm blanket on the lounge with a cup of tea and a confused look. You couldn't help but want him as a mate, but you wouldn't feel confident lending him anything you valued.

Besides Waitt and his procession of ex-girlfriends who deserve every sympathy, the other star of the film is his Mum who stands steadfast by her wayward son while providing "motherly" advice that is frankly priceless. A fine example of how sometimes no matter how old and seemingly wise a son thinks he is, his Mum still is able to see through his shit and tell him so. Whilst most of the other ladies in the film have taken the sensible option of persuing their lives without Waitt's involvement, his Mum makes every effort to assist with the successful completion of his film even though she doesn't much approve of it.

What is obvious is that the film is not a pure documentary. Many of the scenes would have been impossible to capture without pre-planning and scene setting and so it does divert here and there into the genre of mocumentary. This however doesn't detract from the fact that it is "fall off the couch, tears down the face in fits of hilarity" level funny. Laugh? Yep, much!

A word of warning, there is frontal nudity of male genitalia. I decided not to include it as the graphic pic included with this blog entry because that would be kind of weird. Huh? Well, I think it would be so there.

From Paper to Pixels

2009-10-05T20:19:00.005+11:00

Having recently become an owner of an iPod touch in a futile attempt to satiate my geek thing (I have been found drooling and incomprehensible in the Apple store in George Street once or twice before), I have happily wasted many an hour prodding and cooing said device. I won't go into the details of what the little package of joy can and can't do as I fear that would probably lull any readers of this blog into a coma induced state they may very well never recover from. Instead, there is something else worth a bit of a think about.

When one takes stock of their lives, I think it's a good idea to consider the gifts they have received. No, I'm not talking about the birthday and Christmas gifts, I'm talking about things that were received that have been and will be invaluable every day of one's life. For me one gift stands out, that of being taught to read and write. Ofcourse, I didn't properly recognise it at the time but the years of work that were invested in me simply so I could take part in written communication are now cherished, and I couldn't imagine life without it. I think of the books I've read, the instructions I've been given, the letters I've received (joyous and with the occasional heartbreak), and the crap I've written and it's clear to me that written words are like a symphony. Beautiful, ugly, uplifting, depressing, hopeful and discouraging.

Where's all this going? Well, one function of my little iPod is that of an e-book reader. This is not groundbreaking as there are many such devices (including the computer I write this on) that can handle such a task. I find it interesting though the possibility of now moving away from paper books to an electronic version. The experiment has already been proven a success with downloaded music, and although CD sales will probably continue, there is no doubt that the market segment is getting smaller as people discover the convenience. I think there is a strong possibility that e-books are going to gradually eat into the paperbook market if they haven't already taken a big chomp.

Is this a cause for concern? No. Regardless of the medium with which we receive our written words they are still as powerful. The importance is in what they mean to us, what emotions they stir and our personal interpretations of them not of what the paper feels like between our fingers or the aesthetics of the cover art. In fact, it represents an opportunity for us to access more great literature than any of us will ever be able to read in a lifetime, a sea of idea's and understandings we can plunge into just about whenever we like.

There is just one other thing. What about those folk who collect books that they read once and then "display" in cabinets in their homes to impress visitors? You don't quite get the same effect with a shiny iPod on the shelf, and a shelf full of shiny iPods is very expensive and kind of ridiculous. The extinction of snobbery in literature may be a pleasant fringe benefit!

Simple Simon Avoids a Slap

2009-09-29T22:25:00.002+10:00

The badminton match completed, Simon Egdar walked over to the service counter and returned the borrowed shuttlecock in return being refunded the gold watch he had handed over as security. He returned it to his wrist with a sharp snap and sat on the bench to change his dunlop volleys for the camel hair brogues he had bought in Morocco. As he adjusted the velcro on his left shoe, a menacing shadow spread on the ground before him and he looked up. It was an attractive lady, displaying an unattractive scowl on her face. Simon was unsure, but started to get an ominous feeling.

"Er uhm, hello Susan", he suggested more in hope than confidence.
"Sally!", said Sally scornfully.

With that one response, a key was turned in Simon's mind and his memory activated. Scenes of dancing with Sally at the Slug and Lettuce hotel, a candlelit dinner of Big Mac's, and innocent fumblings in the back seat of his Travant flooded back, along with the promise of a phone call that had not been executed.

"Oh yes Sally", he stammered, "So nice to see you again. Uhm, let me introduce you to my friend Stevens".

Stevens was Simons badminton opponent. He stood half an inch taller than five foot eleven and a half inches and was an almost perfect facsimile of the tennis player Bjorn Borg. From the moment Sally glanced towards him, a calmness and/or lack of tension decended on the scene.

"Stevens?", queried Sally sweetly, "Why does Simon call you by your surname?"
"Actually, Stevens is my first name. My parents only wanted a single child but were afraid that I would experience single child syndrome. They decided to give me a non-singular name in the hope it could be avoided. They were kind of strange", explained Stevens, straightening his headband and adjusting the strings on his wooden tennis racket.
"Interesting. Would you like to come for a drink?"
"I would love to", piped up Simon, misreading the situation abysmally.
"Not you, Simon, I'm speaking to your friend", she snapped.

The two strolled away towards the bar, leaving Simon to ponder the ability of men who possessed the looks of attractive tennis players from the 1970's to diffuse the wrath of women scorned. He committed to the idea of growing a large McEnroe like hairstyle and foolishly considered his problems solved.

The End

Body Slam Sham

2009-09-27T22:49:00.004+10:00

Body image problems have been quite an issue for a while now. It seems it doesn't matter how many times we are told we should be happy with what we've got, many people just can't get past the shame of the extra pounds, the lack of cup size or the inches that are suggested to make one the complete package.

Why is this? What's going on here that even intelligent and well educated people are experiencing this rather ridiculous problem. Putting mental health issues aside (for they are issues that I cannot possibly discuss with any authority), I think we are faced with a rather powerful force that is keeping the problem fresh in our minds. I would refer to it as the "Denigration of Individualism" industry, commercial enterprises that have discovered that it is lucrative to crush peoples belief in themselves, and then sell them a cure. I would go even further and say that this is not only commercial, but cultural.

Who's to blame for this? Is it the media? The capitalists? Society? No, it's us, we are to blame for the predicament we find ourselves in. We listen when we should ignore. We accept when we should reject. We overly concern ourseves with the opinions of people we don't even know and don't care for. In many ways it's understandable as this appears to be an easier way to live. We keep wanting to be part of "community", to be accepted into the groups that make up the human race. But at what cost? We keep undermining one of the gifts of being human, that of independant thought, the ability to identify what is important and what is fucking bullshit. We lack responsibility, by that I mean to ourselves.

I'm certainly not innocent of this crime against myself, that's for sure. It's a war, where each day I'm confronted by another barrage of suggestions telling me I'm not all I should be. I'm not sure the armistace will ever come completely, but I'm getting better at fighting the battles.

Long Gone, Not Forgotten

2009-09-20T20:22:00.005+10:00

Yesterday I strolled into the Australian Museum here in Sydney ostensibly to view the recently opened exhibition "Egyptian Treasures: art of the pharaohs". Ofcourse as the entrance fee included general admission to the rest of the museum, I decided to browse the other exhibits contained therein.

Since a young age I've always had a curiosity regarding egyptian artifacts and history. Ofcourse the curiosity is not quite strong enough to stir a desire to visit modern day Egypt, so when a travelling exhibition appears in my town the train ride into the city seems of little sacrifice. It may be worthwhile mentioning that even though the title of the exhibition mentions "pharaohs" there seemed to be a dramatic shortage of artifacts with direct connections to the pharaohs. Instead the displays appeared to have belonged to people who held fairly lofty social positions at the time. No matter, it was still quite an interesting experience to take a close look at these items and if a little marketing is required to get punters to support these shows, I'm all for it.

I can't remember the last time I actually saw a real mummy, but I saw one yesterday. I've plum forgotten it's name (I'm not very good with names) but in some ways it was rather unspectacular as it was fully wrapped. Of more interest was a mummified cat that peculiarly had it's nose sticking out from the bandages, clear for everyone to see. Perhaps not best viewed by cat lovers.

For people who have an interest in jewellery and other items of body decoration, there is quite a good display of these to give an insight into what was worn during the time. Others will appreciate it I'm sure, but for me the items looked fairly similar to the things people wear today. In fact, some information text on the display made the comment that much of the jewellery of the time wouldn't look out of place today. Well, maybe some of the more extravagant pieces might.

My favourite displays were the large stoneworks that thankfully are part of the exhibition, as I bet they are a bitch to transport. Many of these would have come from the ancient temples, and the workmanship on them is stunning. Considering the technology of the day, I find it amazing that such detailed and precise work was possible. Perhaps it's my strange imagination, but there is one item that is the size of a large coffee table, rather weather beaten but you can clearly make out that it is a carving of a fingernail. According to the information plate, they believe it is a piece from a full size carving at a temple. My mind runs wild with just how big that carving must have been when intact.

The other exhibits of the museum deal mainly with the natural world (animal/vegetable/mineral) and are quite extensive. Perhaps a little too detailed for a general browse, but it's actually comforting knowing that there is some knowledge and expertise of these subjects that can be accessed by the general public. Ofcourse, no visit to the Australian Museum is complete without a visit to the dinosaur exhibition. Everyone knows that they were big creatures, but it's only when you stand beside the cast skeletons that you get an idea of just how big. Amazing and terrifying.

I've written before about how historical buildings in Sydney are important because they provide "beacons of history" and "anchor points" for the stories of our past. Exhibitions such as the above serve the same purpose. I hope they can keep travelling the world so people can experience them

By the way, the entrance fee is $22, which considering the artifacts are priceless seems a pretty good deal to me.

All Aboard, and I mean ALL

2009-09-13T22:39:00.004+10:00

Donning the dark sunglasses (for it was sunny and warm that day), he of the Dale that Rocks wandered down to his local station of the government provided transit system. Dressed in jeans, t-shirt, and newly acquired brown leather casual shoes (shoelaceless, cleverly) he had his beaten up shoulder bag slung diagonally across, containing all he required to sustain himself on his journey. Yes, it was a day in the city to be a "tourist in your own town" as the infernal jingle goes. But first, the joys of the journey.

He had always cursed the need for small change currency to purchase a ticket on the cityrail system. Cash had become an archaic form of payment in his opinion, and so was delighted to discover the ticket machine now accepting a mere swipe of a credit card and some depressing of buttons with his digits to award him the little paper pass to passage.

A colleague had once enlightened he of a detest of public transport. But he of the Dale always enjoyed his journeys, for it was his opportunity to see close up the ingredients that make up society and the many interesting folk he wish he were like if he were brave enough. The dark glasses performed admirally the role of one way viewers, allowing him to look upon the people, without them being able to detect his enquiring glances. He frequently felt unsure of this, perhaps it was an unseemly practice, but he knew that many people were unsettled by a staring stranger, and he wished them no unease.

Boarding the nearly empty train, he sat as usual upon the benches near the doors as it afforded greater legroom. In the same area was a couple with their young child and a rather extraordinarily heavy duty pram with three rugged looking wheels and stuffed with a considerable amount of equipment. They were a pleasant looking family, obviously venturing into the city also.

Stopping first at the Creek of Wolli, stepped aboard a most spectacular creature. Dressed in black leather, he sported a collection of tattoo's of dubious artistic distinction, a studded piercing for every exposed extremity (including a chain from nose to ear), and an enourmous green mohawk. He took his place next to the family, and an interesting dynamic evolved. Silence was the first result of the cultural melting pot occurring in the carriage that day, until he of the Dale noticed the young child's curiosity peaking. Since the Wolli creature had stepped aboard, the child had not set its eyes on anything else. The silence was soon broken by the child enquiring, "How do you get your hair to stick up like that?", and a collectively held breath awaited the reply. In a concise and learned voice the Wolli creature said, "I use hair gel. While it's wet I can style it like this, and when it dries it holds". "Can I touch your hair?", asked the child. "Ofcourse!", cried the creature and proceeded to lower his head so the child could carefully touch the exquisitely styled strands.

He of the Dale thanked the gods of cityrail that he had witnessed such an event, a connection between two very different parts of society that were willing in a small way to share part of what makes them who they are. The parents of the child, now having been given an indirect introduction to the creature proceeded to have a fascinating converation with him, discovering that he is studying for a doctorate, and plays an electric violin in a ska band.

He of the Dale wished he could have taken a photograph of the group, as he felt that moments like this should be captured as reminders of how vastly different people can co-exist. Perhaps, he thought, the key was to think with a child's mind upon the issue, allowing curiosity to exceed pre-conceived opinions. He of the Dale pondered for the remaining journey.

Tacky Sea Tale

2009-09-07T20:29:00.004+10:00

Part One

Captain Maximillian Phebes looked despondantly out to sea, studying the anvil shaped storm clouds that were gathering on the horizon. He stroked his greying beard with concerned strokes and puffed away on an inch long cheroot. Ever since his days on the sub hunter HMS Undertow chasing nazi u-boats, the ocean was part of him. He turned to look at his vessel, painted in a peculiar shade of lavender, it was christened the "Speedy Raj", named after the owners tortoise, Harold. It was an iron hulled freighter and was again being used to transport a shipment of sugared plums from Port Dennessen to England.

The captain's mind soon turned to his unusual encounter with the ships owner over a year ago. Doctor Percy Quebec was a wealthy and influential eccentric who had married his parrot (named "peanuts") courtesy of a special act of parliament. He then left London to live in a cave in the Lakes District where he intended to cultivate a pineapple plantation. The Captains journey to the Doctors unusual abode was through rugged territory, but after a mornings hike he spotted the cave and the resident. The Doctor was discovered standing in front of the cave, dressed from head to ankle in the full regalia of an eighteenth century French aristocrat. However, on his feet were two hollowed out pumpkins acting as rudimentary footwear.

"Excuse me, Doctor Quebec?", enquired the captain.
"Yes my good man, and you must be Captain Phebes. Pleased to make your acquaintence", responded he with charm.

With introductions extinguished, the two men entered the cave which was adorned with expensive furniture and even more expensive artwork that consisted almost entirely of oil paintings of nudes.

"This is quite a place you have here Doctor", proclaimed the captain, "But quite out of the way, I must say".
"Close enough", exclaimed the Doctor, adjusting his powdered wig, "for important people to find me. But where are my manners, would you like a cup of tea?"
"Yes, thankyou".

With that, the doctor reached down into the lower left leg of his britches, and extracted a small silk purse that contained fine tea leaves which he emptied into a china teacup.

"Milk?", asked the doctor.
"Er, yes please", responded the baffled captain.

From nowhere the doctor produced a live goat, and proceeded to milk the animal directly into the teacup.

"There you go, my boy, enjoy"

It hadn't missed the attentions of the captain that his cup of tea had in fact been missing a crucial ingredient, that of hot water, however before he managed to broach the subject, he was interrupted by the doctor, "Well, it's been a pleasure to meet you old chap, do look after my ship now", and with that the captain was escorted from the cave and began his treck back to civilisation. Looking over his shoulder as he walked, he could see the doctor performing a morris dance in front of the cave, for no-one in particular.

Part Two

"Captain!", boomed a voice with enough power to surprise the captains cheroot from his lips and topple over the railings into the sea. It was Miles Small, the captains second in charge. He was a bulky man of inderterminate North African origin and stood at the surprising height of six feet tall, surprising because he usually stood at a height of five feet nine inches.

"Small, for goodness sake don't creep up on me like that", spluttered the captain. And then identifying the rather sudden gain in height of his number two man, he glanced down to see that he was wearing a pair of ladies high heeled shoes, silver in colour.

"What on earth are you wearing man?"
"Heels captain!"
"Why are you wearing heels?"
"To maintain a look of excellence captain"

Sensing the possibility of discovering an uncomfortable truth, the captain ceased his line of questioning and turned his attention to the important matters at hand.

"Set sail, Small, set sail for Southampton. A storm is set to strike!"
"Sorry sir, we are a steamship. We have no sails"
"Very well, set steam, Small, steam to Southampton"
"Certainly sir!"

With that the captains deputy strode away with commensurate skill in the high heels considering the pitching and rolling deck of the ship. The captain gazed mournfully at the deep green ocean, and longed for the years upon HMS Undertow hunting the nazi u-boats.

The End.

Next Stop, The Beginning

2009-08-31T22:12:00.005+10:00

As expected, my hope to make at least one entry per week in this blog has been dashed. I was back in A-town last week on my annual pilgrimage to see those responsible for yours truly (yes still, the blame can't end after 35 years so easily) and to see the old stomping ground. Therefore blogging was put on the backburner for want of a better excuse of which I have none.

Whenever I go back home I make an extra special effort to see some of the old haunts that hold special significance in my life. I usually time this by arranging to meet an old friend somewhere and turn up especially early in order to have a nose about before the appointment. It is usually the city, as this is where most of the significant events occurred.

A-town has the dubious distinction of being rather bereft of development. The advantage of this is that it acts as a time capsule that can be unlocked on subsequent visits. I spent an enjoyable hour wandering down the east end of the city peering into bars where I had my first proper drink, first proper night out, first proper chat to girls, and first proper all sorts of things. As can be deduced in my early years everything was done with proper decorum as befits a gentleman albeit a young, naive, inexperienced one.

Some people get nostalgic about these sorts of experiences, and bemoan the passing of the years since they feel life would be better if they could go back to those carefree days. I don't. I'm glad they happened and I enjoyed them enormously, but the past is for our memories, the present is for our attentions, and the future is for our imaginations.

I kind of like being back here now.

The AFL Grass is NOT Greener

2009-08-15T22:32:00.001+10:00

It seems the Australian Football League needs to be applauded for this weekends "Green Round" whereby the issues of climate change are being neatly linked with a few games of kickabout.

The kudo's I bestow upon them are for their efforts to display the true issues surrounding the climate change topic and environmentalism generally, a selection of some as follows:

1 - How to make a totally bazarre connection between two completely unrelated enterprises.
2 - How to exploit a fashionable cause for little effort.
3 - How to be a complete bunch of hypocritical bastards, yet give the impression of promoting an ethical cause.
4 - Promote a "message" but not participate in any "solutions".

Time for a gripe in the numerical order of the above:

1. What on earth has footy got to do with environmental issues? This is totally ridiculous. What fucking arrogance do these people have taking it upon themselves to bleat the green message to us? When their players misbehave they don't give a toss, so why do they suddenly have a concern over the health of the planet? Fix your own problems first, then worry about the rest of the world.

2. What a completely bullshit effort anyway. Putting a splash of green on your website, and getting Toyota to advertise Prius' cars (which in my opinion is the masturbatory icon of the green movement) at the games doesn't exactly say much. The lazy turds thought this was an easy way to get on the green bandwagon.

3. What appalling hypocrisy they are demonstrating. On their website they have some "hints" for us to live greener. I mean, who the fuck hasn't heard it all by now? We're not that fucking stupid (even most of the Collingwood supporters), we are aware and have been for a long time. Why are they telling us to turn our lights off when they have enourmously powerful floodlights burning away at the night games? Why are they telling us to carpool when their players are jetting all over the country in fuel guzzling aircraft? Do fuck off.

4. Its' always easy to promote a message. Actively participating in the solutions, well thats a bit more difficult and something the AFL has conveniently ignored.

This is just a typically easy way for people and organisations to exploit this fashionable issue. It costs practically nothing, it accomplishes even less, but don't we all get a nice warm fuzzy feeling from it. Just like the ETS the government is busy screwing up at the moment, I am well and truly over this shit.

A Beautifully Dark Inheritance

2009-08-04T19:55:00.005+10:00

When we think about the ingredients that make up our personalities, it is usually discovered that there are certain people that have had a large part in forming our character. Parents are certainly prominent here, as expected, but strangely for myself I keep coming to the conclusion that someone else had an even more pronounced influence. When I mention it was my Grandpa it seems even more odd because this was a man that I didn't spend a considerable amount of time with and perhaps was not even very close to.

When I was a kid, there's no doubt that I was rather unsure about Grandpa. He never really had the typical grandparent ways about him and I really only remember sitting in his kitchen while he drank sherry or beer and smoked hand rolled cigarettes with no filters. He never got excited when you visited, and never really made a fuss over you like grandparents usually do with the grandkiddies. He was well known to frequent the local pubs and it wasn't unusual for him to arrive home in some pretty sozzled states after work. Rarely did he issue compliments to anyone.

Now, it may seem I'm painting a picture of a rather dissappointing man, but it was only when I got a bit older that I started to appreciate what he had to offer. You see, I have a sense of humour that baffled my parents. It's dark, cynical, and sarcastic and they never really got it. But Grandpa did, because he had the very same. He was very working class, preferred the company of misfits and rascals and understood the bullshit of the world and made fun of it. As can be expected, my development of the dark skills as I got older made me an increasingly more interesting person in his eyes. As a result he found it suitable to issue more details of his life, predominantly around his drinking exploits which were incredibly funny, rebellious and exciting.

When he passed away several years ago, I can say without shame that I wasn't sad. His health was badly deteriorating and he gave the impression of a man who had enjoyed himself (mostly) but was ready to call time. I was certainly pleased to have known him, and am kind of glad that there was at least one other member of the family that was as odd as myself.

I still can't quite figure how the traits jumped a generation though.

The Rule of the Fool

2009-07-28T21:39:00.003+10:00

As it is now 16 years in the past, I feel I can now recount an experience inflicted upon me. At the time the humiliation was fairly intense but perhaps it was one of those things that breeds some character in a chap. Anyway, if I was to get diagnosed with some sort of mental disorder then perhaps this can be used as one of the pieces of the puzzle.

As a 19 year old weedy sporn, I found myself in my first full time job. If the requirements were to be scared of everything then it was clear I was highly qualified. One day while busying myself with activities that gave the impression that I had some idea what I was doing I was summoned to my bosses office. He was a peculiar fellow, wise of the world and approachable with a peculiar sense of humour:

"Take this", he commanded waving a sealed envelope in the air, "to the office of Mrs. G, ensure she reads the letter inside and bring it back. DO NOT read the letter as it is confidential!".
"Yes Sir", I stammered with fragile confidence.

The office of Mrs G, which was located across town, was a legend of my workplace. I had been warned to brace myself for my first visit. I drove carefully but quickly that day, as if I was carrying precious cargo.

Upon arriving at the office of Mrs. G I was immediately struck with a sight of heaven. In the office working behind desks were at least seven of the most stunningly attractive ladies I had ever seen. My 19 year old brain began activating caveman mode, as 19 year old brains do.

"Hello there", chirped the ugliest of the seven who ofcourse was still stunning, "can I help you?"
"I have an envelope for Mrs G", I said, although with questionable comprehensibility.
"Oh, she's just through that door. Go through".

I wandered through the doorway and met Mrs G, a pleasant middle aged lady who greeted me cheerfully. I handed her the envelope informing that I had instructions to wait and return the contents. She read the letter, looked at me intensely, and beckoned for me to follow as she walked out towards the heavenly seven. She proceeded to show each of them in turn the letter onto which they wrote comments. After each had completed this task, Mrs G wrote a quick comment, sealed the letter in the envelope and handed it back to me to be returned.

Feeling pleased that I had completed the task so efficiently, I rushed it back to my boss. Peculiarly, on my return he seemed rather disinterested, instead calling in my fellow coworkers and then giving me the blunt instruction, "you read it!"

This is what the letter contained in original print when I handed it to Mrs G:

Hello Mrs G, My name is (my name) and I am the new boy working for (my bosses name). I am 19 years old and have very little experience with girls. Can you please give me some advice?

Under this were the comments that Mrs G and her seven coworkers wrote, ranging from very practical advice which has been useful albeit infrequently, to downright disgraceful suggestions that wouldn't be out of place in a Kevin Bloody Wilson tune.

Zooming back to the here and now, I can say that I look back upon experiences like this with a kind of fondness. Although rather painful at the time, it serves as a reminder that taking yourself and life too seriously is a mistake. Sometimes, we all need to feel a little humiliated and have our self esteem roughed up a bit if we are going to be human. We keep getting told to get better and be all you can be, but I wonder if being a little incomplete, a rough edged work in progress is actually a good thing. Perhaps, being a fool every now and again is the smartest thing you can do.

Now if only I can summon the courage to look pretty ladies in the eye.

Just One More POV on Poverty

2009-07-21T20:27:00.004+10:00

There is much that has been said by many learned folk about the issue of poverty. Forty years after the technological achievement of putting man on the moon, highly developed agricultural techniques that make famine non-existent in Western countries, and comfortable living for millions of people has us asking the question, why does poverty still exist?

It seems there are gazillions of different answers, from government corruption to common greed, and most of them are valid, but there is one explanation that doesn't get widely broadcast I believe due to its unpalatability. Poverty exists because it benefits (some) people. I would express the argument in a mathematical equation thus:

Your quality of life = (The World's Financial Wealth) - (The Wealth of Everyone Other than Yourself)

To explain, your personal wealth has a huge effect on your quality of life and to think otherwise is foolish naivety. The worlds financial wealth is a finite amount (the "there's only so much to go around" theory) so the wealth of everyone else does have a big effect on each of us. I'm as dissappointed as anyone about this, but life isn't fair and it's probably a good idea to understand and get used to it.

The fact is, there are a lot of places in the world that have resources we want/need whether mineral, vegetable, intellectual, or simply labour based. We all check the price when we purchase anything, and who doesn't love a bargain? Well, the product needs to be produced cheaply for those bargains to exist, somethings gotta give, and it's usually an unlucky person along the supply chain.

Now at this point I have to mentally slap myself, a reminder that it's all well and good to point out a problem and carry on about how dreadful it is but pointless unless a suggestion of how to solve the problem exists.....

Well Dan??? What's the answer??

First of all, I believe we need to simplify the solutions. Frankly, does anyone know what the fuck Bono and his millionaire minstrels are on about with their "Make Poverty History" campaigns? I don't think the answer is in opening up trade. I don't think pumping cash into Africa will fix the problems either. These are comfortable solutions for the guilt of the bourgeois middle class which is why they are so popular. They do more harm than good.

The real solution rests in the basics of respect of human dignity. The fact that, even though you may not know someone, a lot of good can come from just treating them properly and not taking advantage of their situation. Don't get me wrong, I'm not advocating a society where everyone has to love each other, I leave that to the mindlessness of religion, but to break it down to it's simplest form we should all make every effort to not be.... well, jerks to one another.

Pessimistically, I don't like the chances as I have occasionally been just such a jerk as have many others.

The Write Stuff

2009-07-13T20:24:00.005+10:00

I would like to take this opportunity to express a mild fascination I have with a rather minor writing technique. Below is an extract from a column written by the comedian Dylan Moran in the Irish Times newspaper many years ago:

"Why," they say, "are you wearing pyjamas?"
"Pyjamas? These are my archery trousers."
"You don't do archery."
"Perhaps, but if we were suddenly called upon to man the crossbeam . . ."

What piqued my interest is contained in the first line of the extract, the way that the spoken sentence is split with the information concerning who is speaking. Now usually this information is positioned before or after the spoken sentence, but by splitting the sentence in this way something curious occurs. It seems to create a rather delicious interruption by putting the word "Why" first (probably one of the most important words in the English language), distracting the reader with some not necessarily important information, and then completing the sentence. For some reason, I just can't put my finger on why this is more interesting than:

"Why are you wearing pyjamas?", they say.

But to me, it clearly is. Perhaps it is a personal thing, an interest in seeing things done effectively yet unconventionally. I think there's something in this, the idea that although the written word needs to be done correctly (grammar, spelling etc.), that there is a flexibility with the English language that allows a writer to try a few oddball stunts every now and again. Now if only I could get my speling and gramar righted.

For those interested in Mr Moran's writing technique, go here.

The Cost of Conformity

2009-07-06T20:44:00.006+10:00

Now I'm aggravated.

I wrote in this very blog back on 27 April 2009 this and it doesn't seem to have made a jot of difference as we once again are faced with our government and an interest group meddling with the way that people choose to live their lives, as detailed here.

So they think that by increasing cigarettes to $20 they will save us?? One word "ALCOPOPS!" springs to mind and what a huge success that was. How is it reasonable for increased taxes to be placed on something that people decide to do to themselves, that effects only them, and is legal? Is there confusion out there on what smoking can do to you? With all the information that people have been confronted with, wouldn't you think that they are well aware of the risks associated with smoking? Ofcourse they are, but they choose to do it anyway because it's THEIR BLOODY CHOICE.

I applaud the Cancer Councils work on prevention, detection and treatment of cancer. It is important work. But do they really have a right to insist the government make it more expensive for people to make a personal decision to smoke? I don't think so. People still have a right to disregard their guidance if they want to, and should not be financially penalised for doing just that.

An argument recently put to me was that people requiring treatment for smoking related illnesses are a drain on our health system. I'm not so sure about that, as the tax on cigarettes is quite hefty already and so I believe the nations smokers are already covering their medical expenses (I haven't done the sums, maybe I should).

I'm a non-smoker, but I'm concerned that the taxation system is being used as a control mechanism to force people to make personal decisions deemed desirable by the government. This practice threatens individualism. What price do we put on that?

He Thrilled

2009-06-29T16:28:00.004+10:00

Much has been written and said in the last fews days about the life and death of Michael Jackson. Even I look upon his final years with a mocking attitude as I saw his physical appearance and "reported" behaviours slide into ridiculousness. But maybe there is something we are forgetting.

There are few people with any understanding of the arts who will deny that the only way to forge ahead and create magnificence in this field is experimentation and a healthy dose of eccentricity. Michael Jackson did just this from outlandish costumes, dance moves never seen before, a stage presence that captivated his audiences, and most importantly amazing music. Much modern day pop music owes a debt of gratitude to his creations. He chose to work in a field that has no roadmaps, no distinct plan or recipe for success. Like all great artists, he simply tried what he thought would work.... and it worked.

Was Jackson a terribly flawed person? You betcha, but he is part of an enourmous list of just such famous people.

Today's shout out goes to Michael Jackson. I still don't know how someone can be so right, yet so wrong at the same time.

Today's shout down goes to the monotonous media coverage we are getting on his death. One day after his death and I was already sick of their stupid, uncomfirmed allegations and frenzy.

(I've decided that my attempts at poetry published in previous emails will take a short hiatus. They may return).

Big Boys Toys

2009-06-15T21:24:00.005+10:00

Previously, I made mention of my interest in matters aviation related. I shall make mention of it again.

I've recently returned from a brief driving holiday that mostly involved me freezing my butt off as I journeyed south in a small campervan. Staying in caravan parks along the way, I managed to avoid a dose of tinea from showers of dubious cleanliness and miraculously caught nothing from unsettlingly warm toilet seats.

A highlight of the journey was without doubt a visit to the Temora Aviation Museum located around an hours drive north of Wagga Wagga. A disneyland for anyone interested in aircraft or engineering, the museum houses one of the finest collections of airworthy vintage aircraft outside of the USA/UK. Superbly operated, the flying days are a magnificent spectacle of what can be achieved when enthusiastic hobbyists come into contact with large amounts of disposable cash. For a very reasonable entrance fee, the visitor is treated to beautifully restored and maintained aircraft worth many millions of dollars, all running better than the day they rolled off the production line.

If you have any interest in such things, I suggest google it and go.

Today's shout out obviously goes to the folks at the Temora Aviation Museum. Brilliant!

Today's shout down goes to caravan parks that charge heaps for unpowered campsites. Gimme a break, only $2 less than a powered site??

"Blue Steel", by Dan the VespaMan.

Powering up the V12
Give it a little throttle,
The Merlin sings its song
Those guys must have had some bottle.

The heritage of the skies
Should be something we keep forever,
We owe a lot to it
And to forget it we should never.

MyTube

2009-06-01T20:35:00.005+10:00

Television is like plutonium. Vastly powerful, it has the capability of doing great things and genuinely helping the further development of the human race. However, when handled poorly or by people who disrespect it the results can be rather devastating. And it is always unstable.

I like television. The ability to switch on a portal to the world, to select whether I wish to be entertained or informed. Video has such advantages over other mediums mainly due to the fact that video encompasses them all. The arts of theatre, writing, music and photography are all covered and need to exist in unison to create a quality product. There's something that sends a shiver up the spine when this is done right.

But it isn't all beer and skittles. There is a disturbing amount of total crap on our televisions, dreadfully produced and mind numbing in its ability to transfix people on their couches with a seeming inability to say "no, no more of this!". The antidote however has been invented, and it is now up to the intelligent television viewer to take a stand. The white knight is the PVR, a box of electronic gadgetry that returns the power to the viewer. With practice, the viewer can decide what is good television, what is total shit and remove the latter forever. Advertisements, the bane of the television viewer can now be sent packing with a few mere clicks of a remote.

I can assure you, with sensible use of the PVR and practice the magnificent 5% of television that is worth watching is within your reach.

Todays shout out goes to the magnificent 5%. An island of pleasure in a sea of pain.

Todays shout down goes to advertisements played at annoyingly loud volumes. Be gone you annoying devils *Dan wields his remote like a sword*

"The Channel of Champions", by Dan the VespaMan.

I switch on the box
And assume the pose,
It's a night on the couch
and anything goes.

Thank goodness for choice
The magical box,
It removes all the crud
And just leaves what rocks.

Me, Me, Me

2009-05-25T22:02:00.002+10:00

I've written about a few things so far in this blog. Mostly things that are happening around me that spark my interest. But, I certainly have been a bit slack when it has come to discussing me. So without further ado...

Life, frankly, is pretty peachy for Dan the VespaMan. Employed in an industry he enjoys, albeit one that doesn't always stir his interest as vividly as he would hope (yep I do get a bit bored and frustrated at times) he picks up a comfortably proportioned pay check each fortnight that allows him to keep a decent roof over his head, grub in his tummy, and the odd toy to keep him amused.

Socially, not an animal at all. He enjoys his privacy, a bit of a homebody and loves to venture out solo on his "excursions" into the hurly burly of Sydney. Since his move to Sydney near enough on 7 years ago, he has experienced only one bout of homesickness and frankly doesn't really understand what loneliness is.

Ah but the question continually arises, a constant curiosity in the minds of those who seem to have f*ck all else to do with their days, what of love in the world of the VespaMan. Sadly, the answer is dissappointing and the life of the bachelor is his. "Why", rings the chorus, "What are you doing about it??". The issue of love has always been a tricky beast in his world. He certainly finds the ladies of the world intriguing, and there is no doubt that he would adore the right woman, but who on earth is the right woman? He recently was told to stop being so picky, to give up hope of the RIGHT woman. He has heard many people told this "advice" and is disgusted that it would be considered valid. Why shouldn't people wait until they find the right person. Isn't singledom preferable to a loveless relationship?

Well thats enough of this third person nonsense, I may write a little more about this before long. It's strange how difficult it is writing about myself. Maybe I need to practice more.

Todays shout out goes to me. You ol' royster doyster you.

Todays shout down goes to people who say you HAVE to get married. Listen you bunch of knobheads, all in good time allright, when the time is right it will be done, not before.

"Life Adds Up", by Dan the VespaMan.

One, Two, Three,
This was all about me.
Four, Five, Six,
My blog needs pics.

Seven, Eight, Nine,
I'm doing fine.
Ten, Eleven, Twelve,
Into my life I delve.

Lord of the Manor

2009-05-18T21:34:00.001+10:00

I am an apartment dweller. It is in an apartment that I do my dwelling.

Where people live has always been viewed as very important for good reason. Our homes are our sanctuaries, our places where we keep the things that are important to us, our territories where we are the lord and master. There were several things going through my mind when I decided to live in an apartment rather than a house (yep, the $$$ were a factor) and I must say that the longer I have been an apartmentaphile the more I have appreciated the benefits that this type of abode has over a house.

Honestly, why does anyone NEED to live in a house? Mowing grass, fixing leaking roofs, painting gutters. No thanks. Oh yes, there will be those that say apartments have no sense of community, but what's so community minded about fencing off your property and getting narkey when someone you don't know dares set foot inside the boundary. I love the fact that the people I share my building with keep to themselves. It's great to have a brief chat while in the elevator or at the mailboxes, but otherwise I would rather they didn't try to make themselves an integral part of my life. It's nice to have a choice who you want to spend your time with rather than some pain in the arse who keeps looking through their curtains to see who may be visiting your home.

Security is ofcourse an important factor in anyone's home, and apartments are usually better here as well. My building has security swipes, camera's, and being up on the third floor you would need to be spiderman to gain entrance in any non-conventional way. It is a nice feeling that I can leave my home in the morning and be confident that it will be intact on my return. Many houses here in Sydney seem to have rather vulgar bars across their windows and doors, uhm which is a pretty similar setup to a prison maybe?

Did I mention the environmental benefits of being an apartment dweller. No, I didn't because I'm not completely full of shit, but suffice it to say I may be greener than some.

Todays shout out goes to my fellow apartment dwellers. I'll see you in the lift.

Todays shout down goes to the "Australian Dream". It's a con.

"Heart Headquarters", by Dan the VespaMan.

I keep thinking
My home is a wonderful place,
It is neat and tidy
It keeps a smile on my face.

I don't need a house
A grotesque palace,
Because I've got what I need
This home is my chalice.

Spending in 2011 Makes Cents

2009-05-11T20:28:00.003+10:00

Oh dear, this darned economic crises is starting to make our desire to create a happy world just a little more difficult, isn't it.

For an example, much discussion has been circulating for a while now with regards to paid maternity leave and the necessity for such a program. Here we are on budget eve awaiting the government to reveal all, yet snippets of information are already doing the rounds. According to the Daily Telegraph (so yes it may be total crap) a paid maternity leave scheme will be put in place, but not until 2011 which may be rather disheartening for those wishing to "have one for the country" before then.

I don't think there is much doubt that the government not doing anything radical this year or next year is a result of the economic situation. And I wonder just what this shows about us. After all, the decisions a people's government takes are usually reflective of the concerns of the people.

We seem to always have great philanthropic idea's to better the world, to give people better lives, to clean up the planet. We always carry on about how important it is with our "WE MUST ACT NOW!" determination. But as soon as things start getting tough, and real sacrifice may be required, we suddenly become a tad more selfish. I have always thought that no-one is going to give a toss about issues such as the environment if they haven't got a job which helps provide them with a reasonably decent quality of life for them and their family. Am I wrong in saying that philanthropy is a luxury that only the wealthy can afford to indulge in?

Roll on 2011.

Todays shout out goes to Bill Gates, the most philanthropic philanthropist that ever philanthropied (eeck is that even a word).

Todays shout down goes to people who use mobile phones while driving. How bloody stupid can a person be?

"He Means Well", by Dan the VespaMan.

I want to be a good man
and never harm a soul,
In fact to help the world
is a desire that is my goal.

But a man has got to eat
and have somewhere to lay his head,
Without these things
One feels a powerful dread.

Comedy in the C Key

2009-05-04T20:58:00.003+10:00

The other day I watched a documentary about the comedic musician Tim Minchin. I had only seen snippets of Minchin's work and a few interviews in the past and hadn't to that point actually delved into his works. It was a pleasant and also rather sad experience.

There's no doubt that Tim Minchin has a magnificent grasp of what is required to make an audience laugh. His music is pleasant to the ear, well written and performed beautifully on piano. This provides a wonderful foundation to deliver the lyrical delights that would tickle the funnybone of most, if not all, people who are in possession of anything approaching a sense of humour. Yes, he dabbles in the crass subjects like most comedians of today, but he ensures that the material is always witty, clever, and slightly unpredictable. He is an immensely likeable performer on stage, with a haircut that wouldn't be out of place at a goth convention, black eyeliner to help the audience see his wonderfully timed facial expressions (clever!) and a slight confusion of his characters place in the world.

As I mentioned, this was all revealed in a documentary recently broadcast on the the ABC, and so Minchin's private life was also laid bare for us to see. And this is where things got rather emotional. During his time establishing himself as a performer, he and his wife experienced the heartbreak of a lost pregnancy. Surprisingly, the camera's still rolled on Minchin as he dealt with his grief from the UK where he was performing while his wife was in Australia. I do wonder just how he managed to get back on stage and create laughter and jollyness during a time of incredible sadness. Delightfully, the documentary ends with the couple eventually having the joy of a successful pregnancy. Very. Beautiful.

There is certainly more to the man than meets the eye and ear.

Todays shout out ofcourse goes to Tim Minchin. He makes you wish you had learnt how to play the piano.

Todays shout down goes to swine flu. Pigs arse to that I say.

"Piano Nerd", by Dan the VespaMan.

He twinkles the ivories
and sings his songs,
It's another packed crowd
amused by Tim's wrongs.

It's the hardest job
making people laugh,
But the rock 'n' roll nerd can do it
Not half !

A Happy Glutton

2009-04-27T21:26:00.002+10:00

I think that personal vices get a lot of unjust bad press these days. Whether you like sculling a brew, lighting up a durry, scoffing a burger with the lot (beetroot yes, yes, YES!) or tripping out on something a little more obscure, I say to blazes with the nanny-no no's and giddy up on the good times.

The true meaning of life is an elusive query, one which has never been adequately cleared up. But there is one thing that I believe is a NECESSITY to lead a rich and complete life.... pleasure! Oh yes, the enjoyment of the tipple of your choice creating that wonderful warm sensation in your belly, the cigarette smoke that tastes smooth and refined immediately after a meal, the reckless devil may care of "junk" food that reminds us every time of just how good salt, sugar and fat tastes. The illicit substances that amazingly remove the boredom's, confusions, and concerns that plague the human condition albeit temporarily. This is living by choice, true independance of the individual to make their own decisions contrary to the myriad of doomsayers who mistakenly believe they have a right to convince us that these vices are hollow, destructive, and without meaning.

Why are these do-gooding, annoying people appearing on my television screen and in my newspapers? Why should they care what I do with my body and mind? If they believe these substances are so vile, then as long as they don't consume them they are doing their duty to themselves. I commend the efforts of organisations and people who make verifiable information concerning these substances freely available, but detest those that feel they must save everyone from themselves.

Myself, I don't smoke because on the three occasions I've been offered a ciggie I didn't enjoy it. Actually, I love the smell of unsmoked cigerettes (not sure if that is unusual or not). I drink very moderately, but will have a binge YES BINGE FOR THE STATS on occasion and enjoy it. The harder stuff is also a no for the same reason as the smokes. This leaves me only with unhealthy food, and there goes the neighbourhood. I love tasty food, and couldn't imagine life without it. Do you ever notice how good roasts are when it is cold and raining outside? Why are roasted potatoes so good? How on earth does eating a steak when cooked to a perfect medium (red inside but no running blood) become almost like a religious experience with each mouthful. How can stuffing one's face with slices of heaven be anything other than good for the soul?

Be gone, the preachers of the anti-enjoyment movement. Take your messages of dread, roll them up into a massive doobie and bong on, grab a bite, and have a brew. Cheers!

Todays shout out goes to "binge" drinkers. If you want to do it, do it and enjoy. Hey it's your liver.

Todays shout down goes to the alcopops tax. Gee it made all the difference, didn't it ? No better example of a government policy of "being seen to be doing something" rather than actually "doing something" currently exists.

"A Side Order of Pleasure", by Dan the VespaMan.

On the road to self destruction
We are told we must alter course,
A bland diet, no smokes, no booze
And no bloody fun ofcourse.

Yes the stuff will probably kill me
Cholesterol in the arteries has no place,
But make my serve a large one
To the end with a smile on my face.

It's a Bust for the B-List

2009-04-20T20:55:00.002+10:00

I'm always intrigued by the extents people will go for their career, and even more intrigued by what people will do to resurrect their seemingly extinguished career. Recently, I was relieved to hear that one of the princesses of children's entertainment, Kellie Crawford, had decided that the show must go on after her career with the group "Hi5" and had shed her kit for a raunchy photo-shoot with lads mag "Ralph". Yes, dear reader, I dialled up the pictures on the internet to see what the fuss was all about. (no really, research and reference only)

Some of Kellie's comments for the "article" that accompanies the photo's were rather interesting:

"I felt people weren’t seeing me as a woman" - Phew, that fixes that problem.

"But this is actually a personal thing. It’s really for myself." - and we all make sure when we do something personal that the pictures and details are widely distributed through the newsstands, don't we dear reader?

"...I just forgot I was a woman..." - Breasts and a vagina not enough of a hint eh? Maybe they're easily overlooked as I don't have said bodyparts.

Being of the male species, I can't say that the pictures were unattractive. Like most blokes, the primitive cave man in me still stirs when I come across pictures of a scantily clad, sexy female who has a look on her face that suggests she wishes to conduct horizontal folk dancing lessons. But, before the blood drains completely from my brain, I read the article (or what was available on the website) and the illusion was shattered.

A picture may say a thousand words, but the written article's of these photo-shoots always seem to say something else entirely.

Today's shout out ofcourse goes to Kellie Crawford. It's a brave move to jump back into the circus of B-list celebrity but if you keep at it I'm sure you could be hawking skincare products on breakfast television before long. Or doing one of those bloody awful home renovation shows.

Today's shout down goes to the "Family Groups" criticizing Kellie's actions. You really don't understand how all this works do you? The best thing you can do to attract attention to the photo's is publicly condemn Kellie. By doing this you create a curiosity around the issue and MORE people will check it out. You are providing "Ralph" magazine with free publicity for something you oppose. That is negligence on your part. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

"Come hither, Mr. Cameraman", by Dan the VespaMan.

With every flash of the bulb
The illusion is born,
With every silly comment
Another man gets the horn.

It sells magazines
and saves her career,
Because the greatest fear she has
Is that she will disappear.

The Temples of Memories

2009-04-13T16:18:00.003+10:00

About two years ago I attended a lecture by the well known author of books and television programs Alain de Botton. The lecture dealt basically with the question of architecture's role in our lives, fundamentally the question of which is more important "form" or "function".

Attached is a picture of a small building on the corner of George and Hunter Street here in Sydney. A plaque on the wall explains that it is one of Sydney's oldest buildings and was originally a hotel. There are beautiful examples throughout Sydney of the cities early years still standing, with many (perhaps most!) in outstanding condition. Fine examples are the Queen Victoria Building, The Strand, and Government House. However, I chose the modest building on George Street for it's simplicity, small size and subtlety.

I've always been a practical person, perhaps in some ways a minimalist and you will find in my apartment all objects have a purpose and function. Aesthetic form has never been a priority as I have usually considered it wasteful and difficult to maintain. But the unusual thing is I adore these old and beautiful buildings. They are impractical, costly to maintain, occasionally out of place in a modern city, and take up space where we could build something much more useful. The thing is though, as Sydney evolves into goodness knows what in the future, these structures represent beacons of history, anchor points from which the stories of our development and the people involved are tethered making it easier for us today to understand our past. They are not just brick and mortar, they store the attitude of their days and keep reminding me that "the more things change, the more they stay the same".

Many questions about our future, were answered in our past.

Todays shout out goes to the visionaries that fight for the conservation of historic buildings. They are not only visionaries, they are also futurists as they can see how important these buildings will be.

Todays shout down goes to attempts to demolish such buildings - "Historical Vandalism".

"Time Capsules, Aboveground", by Dan the VespaMan.

Built by hand
Restored with grace,
Our historic resources
Bring a smile to my face.

We strive for progress
Which is a relentless tide,
Lets give our memories
A place to reside.

Stop Holding Your Folding

2009-04-06T20:14:00.004+10:00

Well, there's no doubt that we are all finding it a little more nerve wracking these days when it comes to paying the bills. I like most others cringe a little when I find that little envelope from the electricity/water/gas people in my letterbox. They are rarely sending me fond wishes sadly. But is it really something we should worry about?

Just recently, I received my quarterly strata levy notice. Being an apartment dweller, this is the contribution I make along with the other apartment owners in my building. Gasping for breath I read the invitation to deposit $752.20 into the strata account and had the usual post notice distress of the thought that I shall soon be minus dollars 752 plus some change. But consider these points and suddenly I realise that I need to be smacked in the back of the head, because my payment does this:

- Pays for the insurance on the building (in case some dumb shit burns it down)
- Pays for the electricity to light the common area's
- Pays for the upkeep of the pool
- Pays for maintenance of the building and the fairly extensive garden/shrubbery area
- Pays for the cleaning of the building hallways and lifts
- Pays for the upkeep of the security system
- Pays for 2 staff who take care of all the above and a mountain of paperwork
- Pays for things I don't even know about.
- Pays for me to not have to worry about any of the above.

I may not hand over the cash with gleeful enthusiasm, but sometimes we don't see just how good the value is of the things we have to pay for. Taxation is the other thing people squirm about when it is time to fork over the readies. Oh yes, I'm sure too much of it gets wasted on nonsense but a huge portion of it gets pumped into essential services such as police forces, education, infrastructure and other things we demand in our lives.

So my advice is this, pay your bills and enjoy the quality of life that results. Alternatively, have a whinge and don't pay your bills to discover just how difficult life can become.

Today's shout out goes to decent quality goods and service providers. Even when they are expensive, they are good value.

Today's shout down goes to penny pinchers. What a miserable way to live.

"Money can make you happy", by Dan the VespaMan.

I'm not a wealthy man
I don't have tastes of high class,
But I know a good deal when I see it
Which means I don't waste the brass.

It's true that life is pricey
Well, a good one is for sure,
But if that is what is needed
Then why not pay a little more?

Solving the World's Problems by the Hour

2009-03-29T19:58:00.002+11:00

We certainly do live in convenient times. With remote's for our televisions, microwaves for our cooking and the internet for our information, getting things done has never been so easy. So too it seems for our participation in important social issues with the conclusion of last nights "earth hour".

I've written previously about what I call the "green hypocrisy" that seems to be running rampant these days, and I guess this is somewhat of an extension on that idea. Last night's earth hour has been receiving a few mild rumblings about its relevance to the real issue of global warming, a few digs in the ribs about whether the activity of turning some lights off for an hour really has any siginificant impact on the problem at all. The defence has been that the event is a "symbolic gesture" to put the issue into peoples minds. I find this concept of symbolic gesture's rather intriguing.

It seems to me that if you don't want to put your heart into something and accept the true sacrifice that is required, the next best thing to do is make a symbolic gesture as a demonstration of your support for an issue. These are great, because you don't really have to do anything particularly difficult, and you can accept all the kudo's. I was speaking to someone yesterday who was going to be attending an earth hour dinner party and when I asked how he was going to be travelling to the event he answered "driving my car there ofcourse". This is a clear indication of a person who has no real understanding of the issue, but wants to jump on the bandwagon and wave the fashionable flag.

I always have felt symbolic gestures are a dangerous thing. You either support an issue by adjusting your lifestyle to accommodate it, or you do not. Taking this easy option to be part of the "in" crowd is a perversion of what the problem is all about, and the message is as lost as your breadknife at a dinner party in darkness.

Todays shout out goes to the true conservationists. These people are focused on finding real solutions to the real problems.

Todays shout down goes to earth hour. A fine example of popular nonsense.

"The lightbulb in our heads", by Dan the VespaMan.

The lights went out last night
And we were in the dark,
But when they came back on
It seemed we had missed our mark.

I have no doubt we need to change
The world cannot handle our gas,
But to keep dodging the point like this
Well, it's just crass !

A War on Progress

2009-03-22T20:14:00.002+11:00

I have been rather slack, missing a post due for last weekend. The reason was that I attended the Avalon Airshow near Melbourne and so wasn't near a 'puter to make the post. Yes I could have done it any time during the week, but as I said I have been slack.

I've always had a bit of a moral dilemma attending these airshows that exhibit some rather terrifying military hardware. The thing is, I am HUGELY impressed with the engineering feat that has been accomplished with some of this hardware. The incredible speed, noise, and power that these machines have has me in awe. BUT, lets not forget that these are weapons designed to kill and destroy, and as I find war to be an example of the worst kind of human nature, you can see my problem.

The main point I want to make in today's blog though is regarding technological advancement as a result of war. The thing is if you look around the modern world, most of the technology we enjoy today is as a result of military endeavours:

- The Jet Engine - developed during World War II to power military aircraft, now used on almost all commercial aircraft that take us on our holidays.
- Global Positioning System - developed by the US military to provide navigation for their troops and equipment. Now used by many people to navigate their cars.
- The Internet - at least partly developed to provide digital communications between US military departments.
- Satellite communications - only possible because the Americans and Soviets conducted a race for control of space as part of cold war activities.
- Radar - developed around World War II to detect hostile aerial forces, now essential to control busy air traffic.

And the list goes on.

We always say quite rightly that we never want the horror of war, and I add my voice to that. But where would we be without it ?

Todays shout out goes to modern science. Useful, truthful, proven and the key to the resolution of the problems that plague the human race.

Todays shout down goes to aviation enthusiasts who think they know what they're talking about but have never sat behind the controls of an aircraft in flight. Keep to trainspotting for cripes sake.

"The Truthful Faith", by Dan the VespaMan.

To continually push the boundaries
that we know are never there,
We seek the answers and solutions
of questions if we dare.

The advantage of science over religion
is that religion lacks evidence,
But science is accountable
It has a truthful eminence.

The Happy Wanderer

2009-03-08T20:18:00.003+11:00

One of the things that interest me about the world is the industry of transport. Even in the electronic age with video conferencing and plentiful internet access, we still need to move ourselves outside our homes and travel. So too do the myriad of products that we consume every day.

I have included a snapshot I took today of an intersection on George Street in Sydney showing four very important methods of transportation. Walking, personal vehicle, bus and monorail (this last one may be not quite as useful in this city, and may be more for the tourists). There's no doubt that in a city the size and population of Sydney, transport is a critical issue. It is difficult to provide the perfect solution, however there are also some great opportunities.

The thing is, the personal motor vehicle is a ridiculous form of transport in these congested streets. I can certainly understand why people choose this option, being convenient for the commencement of one's journey, comfortable, and ofcourse private. Todays motor vehicles in essence have become an extension of people's living rooms. However, it is not efficient and frequently is not quick. I can assure you the train ride into the city from my suburb is completed in less time than if I were to drive a car on the journey.

My favourite forms of transport are firstly walking (convenient, all terrain, cheap, environmentally friendly, enjoyable), train/tram (relatively cheap, comfortable, fast once the train arrives), bicycle (convenient, cheap, environmentally friendly, enjoyable), and aeroplane (the only way to go for long distance travel).

But hang on Dan, you've forgotten something. What about the Vespa ?? Ah yes, this represents my daily commute to work. It is great fun to ride, somewhat inexpensive, and convenient. The problem is I have to ride it on the roads..... near those vile cars !

Todays shout out goes to investment in transport infrastructure. Where would be without it ? (not far would be my guess).

Todays shout down goes to traffic jams. You have options other than driving a car, use them !

"Happy Trails", by Dan the VespaMan.

We all need to move,
We all need to groove,
We all need to see,
Different places with glee.

I like to make tracks,
Travel to the max,
The world is your tutor,
And you can be a thinking commuter.

The Federal Financiers

2009-03-01T20:35:00.002+11:00

Recently, I wrote a comment to a blog I read on a newspaper website. Essentially, my comment discussed the way that taxpayers money is spent by the government and as I have my own blog hey why don't I delve a little deeper.

It seems to me that you can ask any punter on the street about how the government is spending money and you will get a snort of derision at the way the public purse is spent. Better roads, more hospital beds, bigger pensions, bigger baby bonuses, less warplanes, more school teachers, and the list goes on...and on....and on. The thing is, no two people will ever be in total agreement on all the programs that should be financially supported from public monies, and this is because we live different lives with different priorities.

You will rarely hear me defend the government of Australia, but you will today. The fact is, the public funding pie is only so large. You can slice it into as many pieces as you like, but the government can only do just so much with it. I agree that the way they use OUR money must be closely scrutinised, but eventually a decision has to be made and we must live with it. We have entrusted our elected officials with the peoples funds, those who are unhappy with how it is being spent will have an opportunity to express this at the next election. Until then, the money will be spent and we must make the best of it.

Ofcourse, I can't bear to leave my blog without taking a potshot at the current government. For goodness sake, they are not fixing any problems by putting cold hard cash into people's pockets. I refer to baby bonuses, paid parental leave, one-off payments as part of the economic stimulus package etc. By doing this they are losing control of what the funds are supposed to achieve. How can we be sure that the cash is going to be spent wisely? It is a short term feel good action by the current government. Don't give me the $1000, spend it on something that everyone can benefit from. Example from history, the Sydney Harbour Bridge, built during the depression years this structure was referred to as "The Iron Lung" as it was one of the few projects that the many unemployed could earn an income from and that income breathed life into Sydney during some dark times. The project helped develop useful skills (metalworks, rivetting, workforce management, financial management etc) and to this day provides us with a valuable infrastructure asset. I really think the Rudd government missed an opportunity to invest the finances for the long term. Perhaps they are only interested in the next two to three years ?

Todays shout out goes to the Epping to Chatswood rail link. Costly, behind schedule and heavily criticised, it will be a valuable transportation passage for many years to come.

Todays shout down goes to people who spend the governments one-off payment on a new television or overseas trip. Think about what your doing with it, please spend it wisely.

"Fools Gold", by Dan the VespaMan.

As our leaders disperse,
the riches of the public purse,
I wonder when,
The good times will end.

I feel so rich,
with palms that itch,
One thousand smackers,
Our leaders are crackers!