Satisfaction with Factions

‘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

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'!

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

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

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

An Image per Day #3

An Image per Day #2

An Image per Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

'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.