Change of Season

Ssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.......chip, chip, chip, chip, chip, CHIP, CHIP, CHIP!

Ssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.......chip, chip, chip, chip, chip, CHIP, CHIP, CHIP!

There’s a message going out on the cicada telegraph; that message is that summer is coming. At only 9.30am the temperature is 27°C and climbing. Mt Gravatt is merely a soft silhouette through the smoky haze that’s dirtying a pale, dry sky. It looks hotter than it really is. Sleeveless, we shuffle around the verandah chasing the shade. The cricket commentary burbles away in the background, a soothing ever-present tonic; you can’t rush around with that idle chatter setting the beat to a summery Sunday. Some people meditate to so-called relaxation music, but for my money you can’t beat the cricket for slowing the heart rate.

I had my first surf swim of the season yesterday, and, as it is every time this year, I underestimated the fierceness of the sun and came home with sunburn. I was alert enough to save my shoulders, face and arms with sunscreen, but my big round belly is now a big round RED belly. Naked I look like one of those strawberry and cream lollies. And with scorched knees, of all things. Sun dodging seems to be a lesson I need to learn afresh each year.

Tanya brought baby Thomas into the world this morning. His life is beginning at this very Queensland time of year, a time of mangoes, watermelon, hammocks, swimming, siestas. It seems just right: change of season for all of us, and change of life seasons for Mike and Tan. It’s all beginnings right now. Our bambinos are due at the other end of the heat madness, so they’ll come into a world of... what? I can’t even remember what the end of summer’s like right now. In just the way that avoiding the sun seemed foreign yesterday, so I’ll make the same mistakes as the weather cools: forgetting to take a jumper when I go out, remembering to shut windows against the cool... Every year it seems that I’m encountering these things for the first time. And then, I’ll be encountering parenthood along with the rest of it.

Congratulations, Mike and Tan. You’ll be great parents.

Everything's Just Swell

Have you ever grown tomatoes? If you have you may know the phenomenon where a plant suddenly gets a whole lot more water than it’s used to, and so the fruit swells so much that it splits: that’s how I feel right now. When it’s quiet you can hear my seams creaking. Seriously, if I stand still long enough and watch my belly I swear I can see it growing. Lofty is adamant that on awaking each morning he notices a difference. And I’m not even half way there yet! Surely something has to give soon. How embarrassing to be in a meeting or on the bus when—rip!—and my innards cascade out onto the floor like a dropped bucket of wet snags.

What’s the etiquette in that situation?

Holy Holey

I do love a Face-of-Jesus/Mary-on-Everyday-Object. I really do. Some of you may recall my own good fortune with the blessed Gummy Virgin, and my excitement over the Holy Mother of Cheeses toasted sandwich. Well, my friends, I do believe they've both been surpassed: I received this in the mail today... I'm sure you'll be as awe-struck as I was.

Peace be with you.

Tagged

Well, something had to be done to get this blog a-rollin' again. I've been tagged by the lovely Debra. So. Five little-known things about your correspondent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1. The first one is well-known to many, but perhaps not to all who read here. I'm pregnant. With twins. Their due date is a source of contention, but all seem to be agreed that it's late April or early May.

2. In 2001 I won the Garden Gnome painting competition during Canberra's spring festival, Floriade. So I am a prize-winning artist. I won a book on Frida Kahlo and tickets to see an exhibition of her work that was showing at the National Gallery at the time. It was a good prize.

3. My first real job after leaving home was as a best boy. A best boy means leading workshop hand and trainee, in a hot glass studio in this case. The traineeship came to a halt when the blower's arch enemy was promoted within the college and locked our studio. Permanently. I took away with me a greater understanding of petty politics, an enhanced love of very, very hot things, and a fondness for Santana.

4. I've had one genuine act of chivalry done in my cause: a boy on my school bus spit in another boy's face (OK, in his mouth) as punishment for a vile infraction upon my character. I was nearly sick, but deeply moved. The cad in this story was a scurvy dog, to be sure, and he deserved every last thick drop of it. I'm sure one reader will know who my deranged hero was if I say "P.Q.".

5. I've always wanted to learn tap dancing. Maybe it's the outfits.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

OK, time to tag. I nominate Fatuous One, Tim, and Cheryl. I'm not going to tell them, just to see if they're still reading. I would have tagged Chris, but, at a guess, she'd never get around to doing it.

Kitlers

...cats that look like Hitler. But of course.

The Election Campaign Gets Serious

Less than a fortnight to go until we drag the blunt pencil over our ballot papers, the sorting of the sheep from the goats has begun in earnest. The issue at hand: the baking abilities of Premiers' wives. Wicked Witch of the West, Flo Bjelke-Petersen, has come out swinging at the incumbent wife, Dr Heather Beattie, over her supposed lack of prowess in the kitchen. Heather recently drew public attention with her white chocolate and macadamia biscuits, but Flo's not impressed:

I think my scones would be better as far as I'm concerned. I really feel as far as that recipe's concerned, I think if she concentrated more on helping Peter Beattie to get things fixed up in the health department it'd be a jolly lot better.

Well, that's Heather put in her place, and as eloquently as ever.

Much as I hate to say it, I'd have a pumpkin scone over a white chocolate and macadamia bikkie any day, but if Flo's fingers had been in the dough I may reconsider.

Maybe This Year

In comparison to others in my socio-economic niche I suppose I don't have a lot of stuff, but even still, I have too much. Too much stuff. I don't need any more stuff. Despite that, on my birthday later on this month and then at Christmas time several well-meaning loved ones will likely give me a bit more of it. It will be nice stuff, given with love and thought, but essentially surplus to my affluent Western lifestyle. How much better to give something to someone who needs it.

Oh look! Here's an opportunity to do just that! It's Oxfam Unwrapped, a scheme whereby you purchase something for someone in genuine need, but you can do so in the name of the person whose birthday (or whatever) it is. You give them the gift of giving.

As much as I'd love another piece of kitschy clutter this year, how about a goat instead?

The Rain in Spain....

Hello. Professor Henry Higgins here. Today I'd like to draw your attention to this vegetable:



This vegetable is an onion. Pronounced "UN-jən". NOT bloody pronounced "UNG-jən". I just thought I needed to say that as the owner of this blog, Zézette, tells me that she has to tolerate not one, but two people in her household saying it in the second, hick and rather embarrassing fashion. Lord, but that woman puts up with a lot, but "UNG-jən" is really just a step too far. It's "UN-jən". Please do what you can to remember that, for decency's sake.

Fond regards,

H.H.

We're Off To The Polls

Queensland Premier Peter Beattie has called a general election, and voters will head to the polls on September 9.

Mr Beattie was forced to choose between an early election and a by-election, after the Member for Bundaberg, Nita Cunningham, announced her resignation due to ill health.

He visited the Governor this morning to notify her of his intention to hold an election.

"I would much have preferred to have gone through to February for a general election," he said.

"What was clearly in the best interests of Queensland was to have a general election so we could deliver the water grid."

The ABC's election analyst, Antony Green, predicts the pendulum will swing back to the middle in this election.

"I think the real interesting thing is to see if there's a bit of a swing back towards normality - the last two elections have been landslides," he said.

Mr Beattie will be seeking a fourth term, while it is Opposition Leader Lawrence Springborg's second election as leader.

Health will be a major election issue, with Mr Springborg seizing on the latest medical scandal, the employment of a convicted rapist in the public hospital system.

"I think it goes to show that things are getting worse in Queensland not better under this Labor Government," he said.

-From ABC News Online

Things are hardly certain for the incumbent Labor party this time around. As a diehard lefty, and someone who lived to tell of life under Joh, it galls me to think of the Coalition in power in this state again, but, jeez.... anyone in power for too long is a bad thing, and our Pete is showing us why.

Love and Marriage

On the 26th of this month I will be a part of the wedding of two friends of mine. I’ve actually known her longer—she was a couple of years below me at school—but the male half of the couple is my closer friend. He’s happier than I’ve seen him in a very long time. In fact, I don’t recall seeing him so consistantly relaxed and open. It’s a beautiful thing.

I’ve been lucky to have known the group of friends that he—Christian—is a part of for fourteen years now. I’ve drifted away from them at times, but the tide always seems to wash me back to this comfortable and comforting social attol. I'm extremely fortunate to have them. With these people I don’t need to explain myself, and I understand complexity of meaning in the smallest of their statements. We know each other pretty well.

Although many of the group have established, and in some cases maintained, committed relationships before, the round of weddings has only begun recently. The wave of child-bearing began almost a decade ago, but somehow the weddings have a little more gravity for me. A pregnancy can happen quite unexpectedly, but, short of a paralytic lapse of judgement in Los Vegas, weddings are deliberate and intentional. These people have thought deeply about their commitment to their partners and decided to bare their tender feelings in public and give their unions that greater strength. It’s a wonderful thing to watch people you’ve seen behave shamefully, rant in delusion, be crushed under the wreckage of shattered romances, drag themselves through grey, debilitating ruts, flail along the cliff edge of hair-curling excess, relax, mature and bloom into balanced and satisfied adulthood. I’m quite humbled to witness these people I love so much have the courage and depth of feeling to take such a step as marriage. I couldn’t be happier for them.

It’s inspiring to see these two together. Christian just seems to have come such a long way, which is remarkably uplifting after seeing him so unhappy for so long. He seemed utterly closed to the world, his shell ready to snap shut at any moment; now he’s open and radiating for all to see. But I’m not quite as removed from all of this as I’m making out: I’ve had a bit of loving myself recently. Although it’s just in its teetering infancy, it’s pointed out to me just how closed I’ve been to the world over the past few years, and how settling and confidence-building it is to have someone choose to be with you over anyone else. I’m more patient. More at ease with myself. Kinder. Happier. It’s making me a better person all round. And who doesn’t wish those things for their friends? On the beach at Noosa on the 26th I’ll be raising a glass to all those things, and wishing them for not only my friends, but for everyone. Because wouldn’t there be so much less crap to deal with in this world if everyone had someone who genuinely adored them?

Curry: The Food of Geniuses

Call it yellow ginger, haldi, turmeric or E100, the yellow root of Curcuma longa, a staple ingredient in curry, is turning out to be gratifyingly healthy. Now Tze-Pin Ng and colleagues at the National University of Singapore have discovered that curry eating seems to boost brain power in elderly people.

Curcumin, a constituent of turmeric, is an antioxidant, and reports have suggested that it inhibits the build-up of amyloid plaques in people with Alzheimer's. Ng's team looked at the curry-eating habits of 1010 Asian people unaffected by Alzheimer's and aged between 60 and 93, and compared their performance in a standard test of cognitive function, the Mini Mental State Examination. Those people who consumed curry "occasionally" (once or more in 6 months but less than once a month) and "often" (more than once a month) had better MMSE results than those who only ate curry "never or rarely" (American Journal of Epidemiology, DOI: 10.1093/aje/kwj267).

"What is remarkable is that apparently one needs only to consume curry once in a while for the better cognitive performance to be evidenced," says Ng, who says he wants to confirm the results, possibly in a controlled clinical trial comparing curcumin and a placebo.

From New Scientist, the magazine of geniuses.

University just gets better and better. We spent an hour in a lecture today debating whether or not Santa Claus exists. The answer is that he does. And he doesn't.

John Hinde Dies

One of the ABC's first foreign correspondents and well-known TV presenter, John Hinde, has died.

Mr Hinde began his career at the ABC in the news department and was a correspondent in the Pacific during World War II.

He later furthered his passion in film, presenting a weekly review on Radio National and presenting films on TV.

Mr Hinde died at a nursing home in Sydney aged 92.

Tributes are being paid to veteran Mr Hinde.

Margaret Pomeranz of ABC TV's At the Movies program says he was a legend who inspired her passion for film.

"It's really upset me, I've only just found out about it now," she said.

"For us growing up his radio program on ABC at 7.15pm on Monday night was like a religious quarter-of-an-hour because it was about the only film commentary we had.

"It was like meeting a legend when I finally did go to screenings where John was and it was such a pleasure meeting him."

David Stratton, also of At the Movies, says Mr Hinde was a lovely man who was a pleasure to talk to.

He says he had a roguish look on TV and always presented with wit, perception and style.

"It was something to do with his innate good humour and wit I think, and he would always focus on very often on small details, on whimsical little things that appealed to him, and convey them so beautifully to the listener or the viewer in his television introductions," he said.

From ABC News Online

Oddly enough, I was wondering just recently if fabulous old John was still kicking; at uni most mornings I walk past the John Hines building, so I'm sure you can see what prompted the thought.

This news article doesn't do him nearly enough justice. It's been some years since he graced our screens with his lilting voice and wicked humour, but he was always a firm favorite of mine. I was saddened to hear of his death, but then again, at 92 I guess you've got to expect these things.

The Horizontality

No posts for a while for good reason: I've wrenched a few ligaments in my back. If I were more adept at typing while lying down this wouldn't be a problem--in fact, I would have been at work this past week--but for the timebeing it's a quickly dulling diet of DVDs and reading, with the odd merciful dash of World Cup spice.

I've reread Riders To The Midnight Sun during my horizontality. The travel story is fast becoming an overdone genre, but a good one is still hard to beat. This one follows a 30-ish couple who ride cheap, crappy bicycles from the Black Sea to Murmansk in the former Soviet Union. For me, it has it all: the former Eastern Bloc; cycling; ill-advised trips; the angst of "growing up" (ie turning 30); an emerging writer; the creepy, compulsive draw of nuclear power stations; strange food; and vodka. He writes well, so it's worth a look for his crafting alone.

The DVD list is a little hazier. Many of them passed by in a pain-and-codeine fog, but I do remember:

• Stepford Wives (thin and unsatisfying, although mildly amusing in parts),
• The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (despite a cast of favorites, never really got going for me),
• Around the World in 80 Days (not even Jackie Chan could save this one),
• Withnail and I (the world is just so much better with Richard E Grant aboard, don't you think?)
• Cassanova (nice costumes)
• The Brothers Grimm (nice costumes)

All in all, a mostly poor selection. I think there were around 16 more, but my usually-agreeable brain just won't cooperate. I'm sure you'll cope.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

But in news far more exciting, to me at least, is that university results for semester 1 are released tomorrow. Will she make High Distinction? Or will Distinction have to suffice? Will she get enough to land a few of those juicy merit-based scholarships for next year? Or will she have to keep hacking away at her unloved day job?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You'd think that having leisure to loll about would be an opportunity for some quality writing, but sadly, no. Pain is distracting. How bloody annoying.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Edited to add: High Distinction for Writing, but only Credit for French. Bugger! If I'd studied harder I'd know how to say that with a Gallic shrug.

Trouble With Internal Mozzie Bites?

Spotted in Elizabeth Arcade, Brisbane.

For further amusement in this vein visit Engrish.com.

Centrebet Time

Time to check in on our old friend, Centrebet. For the Australia v Japan World Cup match tonight, the Centrebet oracle has Australia down to pay $2.25 for a win, and Japan at $3.20. This surprised me, as I felt that Japan were more likely to take it tonight, but I'm sure these people know better than I in this case.

In other World Cup wagering news, Croatia's not looking too optimistic against Brazil, at $9.00 vs $1.38. Those keen for a shot at a few easy dollars could consider Trinidad & Tobago in their upcoming match against England: a T&T win will see you with $17.00 for every dollar you invest, as opposed to a miserly $1.15 for England.

The real money, of course, is in picking the winner of the Cup itself. Good returns on Togo, Saudi Arabia and Angola ($1001). Australia is sitting on $81 at the time of writing, the same as Croatia but ahead of USA, Japan, Korea, Paraguay (not likely to hear their lovely anthem many more times, it seems), and others.

It'll be interesting to see how the Australian team fare. I'm not too concerned one way or another; international sporting events just don't bring out the flamboyant patriot in me. But I do hope that they make it into the next round for the benefit the publicity and excitement will lend the local game.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On a related note, the lovely Les Murray (the soccer broadcaster, not the poet) made it onto the Queen's Birthday Honours List today, along with Bert Newton; the guy who created Humphey B Bear; Greg Combet; Shane Stone, who deserves one on the strength of his astonishing euthanasia law alone; and Margaret Olley.

One of the aspects of international sporting events I enjoy is hearing the national anthems of the competing countries. Tonight's World Cup match: England v Paraguay. First anthem was England's, God Save The Queen. Urgh. What a dirge. We had to sing it in Queensland of the 1950s, which was the era in which I did my schooling in the 1980s. The English really should consider taking on Rule Britannia officially. Yes, I know it's about Britain rather than England, but in the context of the song it's the same thing. It's full of pomp and bravado, just as an anthem should be.

The atmosphere changed utterly when the Paraguayan anthem started up. Paraguayos, Républica o muerte! translates as Paraguayans, The Republic or Death! and in contrast to the title, was jaunty and fun. The Paraguayans in the crowd were jumping around, belting it out with gusto. Leaves Advance Australia Fair exposed as the shameful, limp, written-for-recorder music that it is. I have anthem envy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Six minutes in to the match and England has scored already. That David Beckham, for all his silly tabloid courting, really can play football. He's come out onto the field with his hair all styled, and I can't help but worry about him. I have on several occasions raised a sweat in summer only to have any hair product I'm wearing run into my eyes and sting like all hell. Maybe he has a No Tears formula product?

Wrong Dam Question

So much to write about: World Cup, nuclear "debate" hotting up, my recent movie fiesta, why the queen has so many birthdays and what she might make of it all, the Suburban Safari re-design ... but let's chat tonight instead about water.

We're having our first modest rain here in, I'm guessing, a couple of months. At 9.4mm, it's hardly a drought-breaker, but it will make a difference to the lawns and gardens around town. Being south-facing, our place hasn't done too badly; the lawns on our side of the street are still green, whereas our north-facing neighbours across the street have been kicking up dust for a couple of weeks now. The dams are at between 30-35% of their capacity, and soon we'll be stepping up to the next level of restrictions. The topic is a hot barbecue stopper at the moment.

There are a number of solutions being suggested to alleviate the current "crisis" and secure a wet and splashy future for south east Queensland: a new dam on the Mary River, desalination, and *gasp!!* recycling water. I think we're asking the wrong question. Rather than asking, how can we get more water, we need to be asking, how can we get people to start thinking about water differently?

We are very indulged in this country.I see a lot of water wastage going on in my travels around the city. So often I see toilets with a half-flush button that doesn't work. In fact, it's so frequent that I can only guess that it's consciously done as a concession to the delicate sensibilities of shoppers who may not recover from finding a small shred of paper in the bowl. Before the last round of watering restrictions, commercial buildings with inbuilt watering systems often had them running through the hottest part of the day, with spraying risers putting their fine mist up into the air, to be whisked away by the wind, or watering the footpath, pedestrians and gutters.

I have never had to rely on tank water anywhere I've lived, but I have spent time in many places that do. The approach to water usage is completely different. Toilets are flushed only if Mr Hanky pays a visit. Showers are brief: if using soap or hair washing, the water goes on to soap up, then is turned off while you scrub. It's then flicked on again to rinse. That's it. None but the most hardy plants make it into the garden, and watering is done with a watering can. Taps are never left running while teeth cleaning, vegetable washing, or hand washing. When doing laundry, the rinse water from the last load is put back into the machine for the wash cycle of the next, and all of it goes into the garden once it's been used. It's not that hard, really. How much difference would the population converting to this behaviour make to the Brisbane region?

I don't know how much water the average household uses per week, but I would imagine that doing some of the above and installing a rain water tank would make a significant difference. But we're extremely addicted to convenience, and often won't countenance the idea of making a small effort that makes the lot of everyone that bit better. As the Dead Kennedys once said, give me convenience or give me death. But the fact is, no matter how tough the water situation becomes here, we're doing a hell of a lot better than people in many parts of the world. We need to take some responsibility for our water use. But are the people of Brisbane likely to put up with the cold-sweat terror of pee sitting in their toilet bowls?

666, The Number of the Clothing Crisis

Well, to all of you who've been reading Suburban Safari over the past eighteen months or so, thank you and goodbye. Tomorrow, being 06.06.06, is Armageddon, so I guess that's about it for all of us. Personally, I'm at a loss for what to wear: is Armageddon the hellfire-and-brimstone one, or the flood one, or the freezing over one? I can never remember. I'd always thought being raised agnostic was pretty right on, but now my lack of biblical knowledge might be doing me a disservice. I wonder if Mrs Beeton has anything to say on the subject?


Father Bob's take on the matter.

...and Peter Beattie's take.

Age is a State of... Enrolment

It’s a funny thing: often the reality of a situation is very different to how you imagine it to be before you get there. This situation I’m referring to today is university.

Before I started I’d imagined it to be a very serious pursuit. Very adult. Contrast that impression with my day on campus today: I spent the morning in a lecture discussing internet abbreviations, online chat, and then the lecturer projected her computer screen onto the wall and we put a few of those "I feel lucky" gags through Google. This counts towards my attendance and participation mark.

Then, into the library to finish up my essay on Blade Runner (of all things). Keeping in the spirit of childishness, I gave a silent “yippee!” when I managed to squeeze the word “androcentric” in to the text. Given the topic, it wasn’t too hard.

Over lunch, with two other students, I finished writing the little play we have to perform for our French assessment tomorrow, in which we play make believe at an imaginary birthday party. It is for Benoît. He is a travel agent. He is very nice. The conversation covers pressing topics as the size of the host’s cat, and the weather. “Il fait froid ici!” “Oui, il fait mauvais aujourd’hui!” And all this time I'd thought that academia was for grown ups. No wonder I'm getting good marks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Speaking of the weather, we came within 0.9°C of hitting the lowest ever recorded temperature for May last night. 1.5°C. –3°C at Ipswich. You Canadians will scoff, but I challenge you to do 1.5 in a draughty house with windows that won’t close, no heating, and clothes that don’t tuck in properly. “Il fait froid” indeed! The non-closing window is right next to the PC, so I’m having to relearn the art of typing with gloves on, a trick I developed in Canberra. And it’s not even officially winter yet.

We're Out of Tissues

And my brain keeps on humming,
And my nose keeps on running,
And my body keeps on aching,
And my voice keeps on breaking,
And my throat keeps on itching,
And yes I will keep on bitching...

...when I can draw a decent breath.

You know this could end in my death!

Yes, I know it's just a cold
but it's really taken hold!

Why, yes, I'd love a cup of tea!

(How did you know?)

My Nanna's Turkish Neighbours

I just read a lovely story by Paul Chandler on Father Bob's site. I hope you enjoy it, too.

Expanding the Nucular Family

Prime Minister John Howard says he expects an intense debate about nuclear energy in the next 12 months.

Mr Howard is in Canada, where he says he will discuss issues such as uranium mining and nuclear energy with Prime Minister Stephen Harper.

Mr Howard has repeated his assertion that a domestic nuclear power industry is inevitable, but that it must be economically viable to proceed.

He has also told Southern Cross Radio that high oil prices are changing the way people and governments think about the issue of nuclear power.

"It could be closer than some people would've thought a short while ago," he said.

"I hope we have an intense debate on the subject over the months ahead."

- story from ABC News Online

Yes, I think "a domestic nuclear power industry is inevitable" too, but only because if Johnno has decided it's going to happen, then the opinions of any of the people he "represents" count for sweet fuck all.

Quite what high oil prices have to do with anything I'm not sure. Australia's electricity production is coal-based. Perhaps Johnno is talking about nuclear powered cars.




*sigh* I find this very depressing. The "closer ties" with the US that the PM is banging on about at the moment likely mean that we'll be obliged to start calling it "nucular*" as part of some kind of treaty.

I was discussing John Howard's North American brown-nosing trip with a friend on the phone last night and he said, "That bastard is chaining us to a sinking ship". I agree. I think history will judge the man very poorly, but that's little compensation to those of us resident in the Australia of the present.

*Thanks to Little Sister for conveying the happy and frankly eyebrow-raising news that "nucular" warrants an entry in Wikipedia.

If It's Not Cyclones or Tsunamis....

...it's volcanoes! Merapi is doing her thing.


Gunung Merapi on Java has the distinction of being one of the more dangerous volcanoes in the world. And it's located at a convenient distance of only 30km away for any Yogyakartans who fancy a bit of sight seeing.

The alert status for Indonesia's most active volcano is now at its highest.

Vulcanology experts say 30 blazing lava flows have been streaming towards rivers 1.5 kilometres from the volcano's peak along the south-western slopes of the mountain.

Thousands of villagers have fled as officials raise Merapi's alert warning to the highest - red - as the "mountain of fire" shoots thick white smoke 400 metres into the air.

A lava dome atop Mount Merapi has grown 75 metres in the past two weeks.

Scientists say its collapse will release lava as well as deadly nuees ardentes, a geological term for clouds of volcanic gases, ash, and dust reaching temperatures up to 500 degrees Celsius.

-from ABC News Online

Merapi is one of sixteen Decade volcanoes, mountains with a history of particularly violent eruptions and close proximity to populated areas. Merapi is placed at number 6, which is―for the benefit of the Victoria BC readers―just two ahead of Mt Rainer in Washington (probably one of the peaks I liked to look at when I was in BC).

Report from Indonesia's National News Agency, Antara.

ABC News report.

Wiki on Merapi.

Wiki on Decade volcanoes.

Freedom from Choice

Freedom from choice is what I want when I purchase shampoo.

And cheese.

And toothbrushes.

I find these products difficult to choose; there are so many damn ones to pick from. There's the price, the packaging (i.e. excessive), quality of the product, suitability to my requirements, ethical considerations, and more. And I know that most of the products—"beauty" products, particularly—are a rip off, so that hinders my decision as well. I also find choosing clothes difficult, so as a consequence don't have many. Does this mean I'm a communist?

Bye Bye Grant

I recall a schoolboy coming home
through fields of cane
to a house of tin and timber
and in the sky
a rain of falling cinders*

- from Cattle and Cane

I remember when I first heard this song; I was at my home in the cane paddocks watching Countdown. It was 1983. In between the preening, mincing New Romantic acts Countdown was full of at the time, this video stood out; three uncool-looking people hunched in a tiny shed singing a beautiful melodic song about the things I could see out of my bedroom window. I wasn't sure what to make of it. It was my introduction to the Go-Betweens.

When you grow up in South East Queensland you understand, almost by instinct, that any song you hear on the radio will not refer to anywhere you know. The airwaves are peppered with plenty of place names like California, Berlin, London; Sudan, Japan, Milan and even Yucatan got a guernsey thanks to Ian Dury. Through pop music many of us know the streets and districts of cities we'll never visit. I know Rockaway Beach is in New York thanks to my Ramones records. That my part of the world was not important or interesting enough to inspire songwriters of any worth was for me always a given. This is one of the reasons The Go-Betweens captured my imagination. "Karen" in particular was a regular on the turntables of 4ZZZ when I first moved to the city, and aside from being clunky and quirky in a way I'd never even though music could be, it tells its very ordinary story within the familiar setting of... Brisbane. This might sound like a small thing; it was anything but. Recognising places and references in The Go-Betweens’ songs completely changed the way I saw my city, and therefore myself.

[...]

I just want some affection
I don't want no hoochie-coochie mama
No back door woman
No Queen Street sex thing

[...]

I know this girl
This very special girl
And she works in a library, yeah
Standing there behind the counter
Willing to help
With all the problems that I encounter

Helps me find Hemingway
Helps me find Genet
Helps me find Brecht
Helps me find Chandler
Helps me find James Joyce
She always makes the right choice

[...]

And she stands there in the library
Like a nun in a church does
Like a nun in a church does
She stands there all alone
'Cos she gets me something that I
Just can't get now anywhere else
[...]

- from Karen

The Go-Betweens made Brisbane seem romantic. Or sound romantic, at least. The summery sounds of "Streets of Your Town"... well, those streets are the hilly, tree-lined ones of Bardon or Paddington to me. Streets of verandahed, decorative Queenslanders with tin window hoods, and mango trees in the backyards. Maybe a bright bougainvillea out of control down the side path. Those songs make me sentimental for a Brisbane that only exists occasionally.

For me, the early music of The Go-Betweens will always remind me of my late teens. When I first started to discover a musical world Out There, they sounded different to everything else and refreshingly so. Australian music came in two flavours in the Eighties—rock (cock) or rock (indie)— but the Go-Betweens bravely made gorgeous, sweet songs and were basically run out of the country for it. But they paid no attention to the rest of the world, they just kept doing their lovely thing and their music is still standing today because of it.

Grant McLennan and Robert Forster formed the Go-Betweens in 1977 after meeting as Arts students at the University of Queensland. Grant McLennan died this weekend just gone, aged just 48. Writing this in the Humanities library at UQ―quite possibly where the desirable Karen worked―has a particular poignancy.


* The "rain of falling cinders" refers to the small twists of black gunk that drift about in the sky when sugar cane is burnt prior to harvesting. Also known as Bundaberg snow. It leaves marks on the laundry hanging on the line. It's a very, very evocative image for anyone who grew up around sugar cane.

Squealing Fangirl

I *heart* Steve Cannane.




If you really need to ask, this and this should be explanation enough.


I also *heart* John Clarke, but that's another story.

Caution: Roadworks

I'll apologise in advance for the upcoming ugliness on Suburban Safari. I'm a little tired of this template, so I'm going to be fiddling around with a new one. To say that I'm not much of an expert at HTML is putting it very gently indeed, so I'll ask for your patience while I tinker with it over the next few weeks. Feedback more than welcome.

Theft and Criminal Damage

I almost forgot to follow up on this post.

I -- and Little Sister -- did indeed go along to see Peter Carey introduce his latest book to the literary folk of The Vegas, but it was not, as I reported, in the big auditorium with the diverting dome. That's the Main Auditorium. Forgive me.

The evening's proceedings gave me a good deal to reflect on. It's not enough to just write. The term 'writer' is a tad misleading in this way. In contrast to the solitary, bookish pursuit I consider writing to be, a published author must be able to get up on stage and entertain an audience as well. Not the theoretical audience, the potential audience you're vaguely aware of as you sit late at night scratching your pen across the paper, but a vast, fidgeting carpet of expectant and responsive faces. An actual audience. The likelihood of their wallets opening at the end of the show is dependant on the pizzazz with which you sell them the idea. It's not enough to have excellent prose; your pose has to have sparkle as well.

If this busking routine seems less than appealing to the writers out there -- and I know there's a few of you -- the dilemma is one that none of us here are likely to confront. While listening to first-time author, Nicholas Kyriacos, speak on Radio National last night, I learned that publishers only print one out of every thousand manuscripts of fiction they receive. For those who didn't quite catch that: one out of every thousand. So statistically, you only have a 0.1% of having the opportunity to gag with stage fright, trip over the microphone cable or have a joke fall flat at a reading of your own book. Quite comforting, in a way.

But let's return from that frankly disheartening digression to the reading of Theft - A Love Story. Peter Carey is hilarious. His reading of excerpts was so entertaining that it made me wonder why he's never recorded the audio versions himself. He seems to be that engaging mix of intelligent, well read, and down-to-earth. But of course he is. You can see it in his writing. Everyone else there could see it too -- the queue to purchase books snaked right down the aisle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On to other matters. I've missed a few worthwhile photo opportunities of late, one of the more gripping ones yesterday. The image might have given valuable service as a caution to the fertile and libidinous among us. You see, I've always imagined that when someone starts to think that parenthood might be a good thing; this is the type of image that drifts, in soft focus, in their mind. The picture that I was too shocked/enraged/filled with dread to capture for eternity and beyond was that of two children frolicking merrily in the contents of an entire beanbag. In my lounge room. They'd ripped the bag open and had poured it all out, then set about kicking it into every cranny of the house. I defy anyone to come in after a day's work to find that and still think that a batch of cherry-cheeked cherubs could be in anyway a good thing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Edited to add: thanks to my financial advisor for exemplary numerical guidance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Edited again to add: thanks to my financial adviser for exemplary orthographical guidance.

Top Dogs

A selection from Media Watch's Dogs of the Week.

Hauyagahn?

I had an experience today that made me take stock. We dropped in on some friends in Beaudesert; I say 'friends', but actually they're more friends of Little Sister. I don't know them that well. As we sat drinking our coffee, the brother of the two gave us directions to where we might find something we were looking for. His accent was so thick I could only pick out every other word, making the instructions totally useless. Australia being a nation of migrants, this was not an unfamiliar experience. What made it novel was that the accent was Australian.

It's been so long since I've been around hardcore bogans that my ear is obviously well out of tune. It's an accent I more or less grew up with, having spent a good slice of my upbringing in a flan-shirted bogan/farming patch of dirt. I've been mixing with well-educated nouveau-snob inner-city folk for longer than I realised.

La Cuisine de Zézette

I enjoy cooking. I have been fairly absent from the kitchen over the past few months, but when I do shove the dirty dishes aside and sharpen the knife I perk up. We had a dish tonight that is quite simple, but puts a smile on the faces of the adults in the house every time it's served.*

There are two variations, appropriate for what's in the fridge and how much time you have to potter about. First, the faster one: chicken.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

- About half a kilo of chicken, diced. (I used thigh fillets tonight, which I think are better in a casserole like this than breast meat. You could use portions with the bones still in, too.)
- Onion
- Garlic
- Fresh rosemary (About a three inch stem)
- Fresh parsley (A good, big handful. Don't be stingey, now. No, dried won't do. Go and buy some seeds and grow some.)
- A bay leaf or two. Dried is OK here, fresh even better.
- A variety of vegetables; tonight's selection was mushrooms, zucchini and red capsicum.
- Chicken stock, just enough to almost cover the chicken and veg. (Do I need to tell you? Not that radioactive powdered shit.)

- Cook the onion and garlic (gently!) in an unfashionably decent slosh of olive oil. (Tip the bottle up a bit! It won't kill you! Give those onions a bit of room to swim.) Allow it to cook slowly so that the flavour develops.

- Crank up the heat a little and throw the chicken in on top to brown a bit.

- Vegies in next. Just saute them a little.

- Stock in (to three quarters of the way over the ingredients), then the herbs.

- Simmer gently, covered, until the chicken's cooked and the vegetables look to be done to your taste. For me, I think it was about 20 minutes or so. Maybe less.

- Serve with cous cous.

So easy, so yummy. Even better when you substitute some of the stock with white wine.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The slower version involves beef and red wine (and new potatoes when I can get them), and takes several hours to simmer.

- Cook onion and garlic as before. (Still no meanness with the oil, you fashion slave, you.)

- Brown the beef.

- Add the stock (beef or vegetable, or a combination of the two), wine and herbs, put the lid on and turn the heat right down to simmer very gently. The liquid should fully cover the meat in this variation.

- Tie a bib around your neck; it'd be embarrassing to be caught with all that drool down your front as the house fills with delicious aromas. Do your best not to "sample" all the meat out of it before you serve it.

- After an hour or so, you can add the new potatoes if you're using them.

- Only when the meat and potatoes are starting to show signs of becoming tender, add the vegetables; harder ones first, softer ones later.

- Don't take the pot off the heat until the meat is really tender. Every time I make this I check the meat every half hour or so, and begin to wonder if it's ever going to be edible. Don't sweat it. It seems to stay tough for ages, then after a couple of hours suddenly relents and becomes pliable. Just be patient.

I've served this with cous cous, or if I don't add potatoes to the pot, steamed, baked or mashed potato. Or really nice fresh bread. And any of the wine I haven't swilled over the afternoon while checking the pot's progress.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As I said, it's very simple. It's hardly ground-breaking. It's just something that's evolved since I've been a herb grower. I enjoyed it so much tonight that I thought I'd share it.

Next week: another treat from La Cuisine de Zézette: saggy, rubbery orange cake with a god-awful crack in the top. Don't miss it.


*The four-year-old spat it down her front tonight in a tantrum. At least she didn't puke, as she has done previously.

Office Guns

Stress. I've got it in big, drippy chunks. I had considered your usual array of stress-reduction strategies like yoga, good diet, indiscriminate drunken sex, meditation and so on, but my friend Magoo has kindly let me into a secret which renders such efforts unnecessary: Office guns.

It started in a meeting. We were playing bullshit bingo, and on the third round I thought to myself: "Oh my God! Can't someone just shoot that bastard?" I was getting tired of bullshit bingo and was fingering with some office supplies. As a sworn Lego-fan, I always try to connect things together. I was connecting two Maulies, then suddenly one of them flew across the room and hit the boring speaker right on the nose. He got a nose-bleed and had to stop the presentation early.

Later that week, people came in to thank me. Some even brought chocolate. But most of them wanted to know where I had bought that fabulous gun. I showed them how it was made. They were thrilled and from that day on, we haven't had a single boring presentation.

Someone said to me that I could patent the use of the Maulies and sell the ideas. But I told him: "There is enough greed in the world. I want to help people. I want their life to be a better life. I want them to have what I have. A whole range of guns. Made from office supplies."

Oh yeah! Screw that mediation I've got scheduled for next week -- my workplace irritant is copping a Super Maul first thing Monday morning, then I'm heading out for an early four-hour lunch.

(To Do List: sharpen pencils.)

**Insert Bad Egg Pun Here**

If you don't worship our saviour, why celebrate our holiday?

The Christian groups are pretty active on the St Lucia campus, and over the past week I've seen the above sentence on several of their sandwich boards. Beyond the vaguest irritation, I have no particular issue with them doing their thing. I'm the life-and-let-live type. But I do take exception to that statement.

You, being the well-read type that you are, don't need telling that Easter has its origins in pre-Christian culture. No less an eminence than the Venerable Bede wrote that the name derives from the name of the Anglo-Saxon goddess of fertility, rebirth and spring, Eostre. Accounts vary on just what characteristics Eostre had; some say she had hare's ears; others say she carried a basket of eggs around; yet others have it that she had a rabbit pal who hid eggs in amongst the greenery to bring new life to them. Most seem to agree that she was a playful lass who everyone was pleased to be welcoming, along with the warm weather and all that that meant after a long, dark winter.

It's autumn here, so the rituals associated with Easter make as much sense as the other European cultural imports do. We have no breaking of frost to celebrate, no garlands of flowers to gather. Despite that, I like it as a cultural connection to my European roots. Easter to me is a big sigh of relief that summer -- not winter -- is over, and the sanity of cool weather is on the way. For the first time in months, we can hide chocolate eggs in the backyard and be fairly certain that they won't be an ant-infested puddle within the hour. That's worth a Super-Size serve of whoopee, for sure.

So it's not your bloody holiday, thanks very much. I'm happy enough to share it with you, but when you start snatching and grabbing I get a bit cranky. Now have an Easter bilby and be nice.

Brad Pitt is Australian

The cafe that gives me my morning brew has a rack of magazines that I stare at blankly as I wait for my cup to be handed over. The covers are populated by "beautiful" people whose names are only vaguely familiar, and faces even less so. I often wonder in those idle, morning-bleary moments who the hell these people are, and why they're so damned interesting. At least now I have a little background on one regular visitor to the rag wrappers: Brad Pitt.

Turns out Brad's Australian. Our Brad. Not only that, he's a painter-turned-boxer. Since Ali stopped making the news several decades ago, I hadn't thought pugilists were terribly feited by the press, but it turns out I'm wrong. He's watching me from the magazine stand every damn day! Who'd have thought an Aussie tradesman would make into the red carpet brigade? Then again, there is the Melbourne plumber*, Eric Bana, as well. It could be the front of a trend. Maybe I should start being friendlier to the bastard carpenter who wakes us up from next door at 6:30am every Saturday morning.

Congratulations on your gold medal, Brad. Angelina must be very proud.


*I'd always thought that Eric Bana had been a plumber, but I did a bit of a search to confirm it, only to find he wasn't a tradie at all. But why let so-called "facts" change my story?


A more sensible view on the Commonwealth Games from The Age, thanks to my curly-headed pal at Wandering at Large.

Whither you, Wati?

What the hell is Wati doing? She's wandering all over the place, indecisive and aimless. Quite unlike her brother Larry.



They say she's heading south, but who knows where she'll end up?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The the more I browse the Bureau of Meteorology site, the more intriguing things I find. As well as radar images which show you exactly when you should be getting the washing in, there are looped satellite images (particularly good for cyclone watching) and an archive of static ones of significant events. The Cyclone Inigo shot is well worth a look, as well as the pictures of the bushfires that swept through Canberra and many other places in 2003.

There's even an educational module which explains weather concepts, interpreting weather maps and forecasts, how forecasts are made and so on. And have you ever wondered what a grazier's alert is? You can either find the answer here, or email them the question and receive the informative and courteous reply that I did when I asked.

Paint Me Pink and Colour Me Wriggly!

An exciting email just arrived: I won a double pass to see Peter Carey speak. Just as distracting as the fact that it's an unexpected chance to see a writing demi-god is that it's in City Hall's Ithaca Auditorium. The one with the cool dome and neoclassical twiddly bits. Put me down for two serves of beside myself!

It Wawms My Haht

Good old Macquarie Dictionary. I'd never paid much attention to the phonetic details after each of its entries before, but just minutes ago I noticed that it lists only the Australian pronounciations. Hardly surprising for the national dictionary, I suppose, but no less gratifying for that. Barbecue is listed as being pronounced bahbəkyū. Note, no "rrrrr" sound to be seen. Not sure how to say c-a-r-t-o-n? I have it here in black and white that the correct way is kahtən.

I love you, Macquarie.

For Cheryl's Benefit

In the spirit of keeping lunches intact, a post to shift the doughnut burger.

I've been meaning to post these pictures for a while. With the exception of the people pile (which is near the Victoria Markets), they're all taken in a lane in Melbourne, across Flinders Street from Federation Square. Hosier Lane, I think it's called. The whole lane is covered in an amazing array of stencilling, like the frenzied work of an acid-damaged decorator who just inherited a paint factory. As I enjoyed a nice cup of tea and sit down in the Fed Square foyer that afternoon, I watched as a steady stream of photographers browsed up and down marvelling at the show.

The authorities, in their wisdom, spoke of painting all of this over to nice-ify the city for the Commonwealth Games. Silly authorities. This lane illustrates much of what makes Melbourne so appealing: colour, culture, grottiness, visual interest, a lack of sterility. A quirky sense of fun and a comforting sense of confidence. This is a very good thing. Brisbane once had a hint of it, but swept it aside in favour of shiny steel and glass, clean surfaces and a cultural lobotomy. Clean places like Hosier Lane up and all you have left is shitty weather, traffic congestion and Moomba.





There were a great deal more than those I've shown here; these are just the ones I've gotten around to running through Photoshop. Perhaps finishing the effort will be a worthwhile study avoidance exercise.

Hosier Lane links

State of Flux
More images of the lane

Our Colourful Underbelly
Article from The Age. Melbourne is the stencil art capital of the world, apparently.

CLEAN
Installation in Hosier Lane for the duration of the Games

Geoff Crompton
Hosier Lane contributor

Baconicide

Cheryl posted this on her Live Journal, and it was so impressive I just had to share it.

What the hell is it, I hear you shriek? Why, it's a doughnut burger, of course. A meat patty, cheese, two slices of bacon, but not on one of those dull old bread buns, no, no!.... it's on a glazed doughnut. I'm sure I don't need to tell you its country of origin. The manufacturer says that it's a bargain, because it's a meal and dessert all in one. Genius.

This gourmet delight comes in at 1000 calories; to put that into perspective, that's equivalent to ten tablespoons of butter. It's a less messy form of suicide than a shotgun and cheaper too, not to mention being much more enjoyable because it involves bacon.

If they'd been around one hundred years ago the history of Antarctic exploration would read very differently; Scott may have made it to the pole, for one.

Miss Thropy, First Name "Anne"

I don’t doubt that you—you babe in the woods, you—think it would be a splendid thing indeed to be so engaging as to acquire yourself a twitter of eager admirers. I’m loath to callously swat away such quaintly misguided notions but I believe it will be kinder in the long run.

The Suburban Safari Glee Club* rebuked me yesterday—rebuked, if you please!—for my inattention to the betterment of their lives of late. And so it is my obligation to put the world right. (See what a vexed blessing this renown is?)

As attentive readers will have deduced, my absence from your screens has been a result of my having commenced study. It’s been quite taxing, far more so than I’d anticipated. Annoyingly, I seem to be something of a delicate flower, and come over with an attack of the vapours whenever I’m called upon to leave the house more than a couple of times a week. My corporeal self appears programmed for regular nana naps and general leisure. Not that university has interrupted this habit entirely; I indulged in a little horizontality by the lake on campus yesterday. Sadly, I had inadvertently stretched out in the path of spray from the fountain in the middle—I could just feel the cryptosporidium burrowing into my skin—and so didn’t actually manage any quality zeds. Some of the vile lake water landed on my lips, for heaven’s sake!

Yesterday marked the beginning of the writing subject. It was a welcome relief because, just between you and I, I’ve been finding the French a little tiresome, so have been concerned that the whole “Hey! Let’s go get a degree!” trip was ill considered. I knew I was on solid ground when the lecturer quoted Don Watson, Stephen Fry and William Lutz. I sat even higher in my nylon-covered chair as she served a rich smorgasbord of the style of bureaucratese I have rammed down my throat every day at work, and labelled them “Wank Words”. Alright! As the minutes skipped on she sliced and diced word crime upon word crime, many of which have had my fingers itching for the red pen over the years; I wriggled in my seat, silently gasping yes! Yes! YES!! There may well be a place for me in the world after all.

Following the lecture I laid eyes on my tutorial group for the first time. This brought an unwelcome fact to my attention once again: when forced to view people at close range I feel a strong surge of misanthropy. I don’t much like them. Camels are lovely at a distance: graceful, noble, endearing. Altogether very nice. Up close they’re ugly, bristly, threatening, have big yellow teeth and give off a foul stench. So too, humanity from afar wells my heart with fellow feeling and compassion, but once within earshot the majority of people give me the screeching irrits within around half an hour. It shames me to admit it, but it is so. (Says a lot about my suitability for working in human services, eh?) People, like communism, are a superb concept, one I support whole-heartedly… just so long as they stay Over There.

As I say, I take no joy in seeing this in myself, but as our tutorial wore on I felt my heart grow leaden at the thought of having to interact with these people for an entire semester. My chest tightened. My jaw clenched. My eyes flicked involuntarily towards the door.

Some salvation came in the form of the tutor. I’d heard tell of the unrestrained dottiness of academics, and I’m delighted to find some truth in it. What an interesting man! 5 words, stand up, try to open window, sit down. Stand up. Sit down. Shift plastic bag one inch to the left. 12 words. Stand up. Sit down. Shift bag. 6 words. Stand up, go to door, discuss whether or not to shut it, sit down, leaving door open. Stand up, attempt to open window, shut door, attempt to open window, sit down. Shift bag. Explain that language can never be reality because, by its nature, it can only ever convey via metaphor. A tree is not a tree, that is to say, “tree” is not “a tree” because “tree” is a word and not a tree. Does everyone understand? Blank looks all round. Shifts bag. Opens door.

I suppose I’m not painting a very flattering picture, but in fact I liked him very much. I did understand that “tree” is not a tree; I‘ve got a print of Magritte’s pipe, y'know. I was just too tired and too full of disdain for the class to be arsed saying so. I was hot. I wanted my lunch. I wanted the window open. I shouldn’t have worn jeans on a 32-degree day. Maybe if I wear a cool, breezy skirt next week my heart will open, I’ll embrace the other hungry minds in the group and together we can gorge ourselves on knowledge along this next exciting leg of our life journeys, growing as writers, flourishing as people and forging unbreakable bonds of friendship along the way. But I fucking doubt it.

Lost in Translation -- Once Again

I've discussed here before how some foreign words just don't work in English. The offenders du jour are menu items.

We're fickle creatures when it comes to food. No matter how tasty and satisfying, if a dish isn't named well we're considerably less tempted by it. Just a minute ago I had cause to read the following words off a fax:

1. Goulash
2. Stroganoff

Do these terms sound descriptive of vomit to anyone else? As I read them, their straining heave-iness and splatteriness just struck me. I'm happy enough to eat these meals, but please, if my name is on your guest list, humour me and call them casserole.

The Moggy and The Foggy

The weather is still rather hot. Perishables spoil when left out of the fridge for even short periods, let alone being left to bake in the sun by the side of the road for a few days. Consequently, whoever left the dead cat at my bus stop is going to be very upset when they come back to get it.

Man! Usually when I step off the bus of an afternoon my nostrils are caressed by the fragrant tang of Toohey Forest, but today they were whalloped by funky kitty simmering on the footpath. And the damn thing's going to be humming for a while yet. I'm going to have to get off at another stop for a few days, there's no question. It was way too far gone to fling it into the forest or some other tactic that would see me arriving home with my lunch intact for the rest of the week; I don't know that the cat would actually have held together. Why don't people teach their pets road sense?

The worst thing (actually, the stench was the worst thing, but we'll just run with the concept for convenience) was that it was obviously a cared-for pet, with its glossy white coat and little belled collar. How hideous to be out searching for Tinkerbell and find the festive little fly community I was greeted with. MegaKitty got some extra attention when I arrived home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In news slightly less distressing to the nose, today was Brendan day. As with all such events, I was disproportionally anxious prior to the rendezvous. Can't quite explain that, but there you go.

In short, the meeting was a very fine way to spend a morning indeed. News was caught up on, gossip about people not seen for decades exchanged, thoughts bounced about. The odd crime raised to atone for. Lots of laughing. Even a couple of hugs. It all kept me buoyantly distracted right through until the perfumed bus stop, and then a bit.

I don't think of my school days with misty-eyed sentimentality, but I'm starting to realise just how strong the bond can be with those we endured it with. Like all adversity, it's a very bonding thing. Adolesence is a Very Big Time, so some of our most formative and trying times -- certainly some of our most shameful and humiliating -- happen in front of these people. But the thing is you've seen their laughable fashions, hormone-driven outburts and angsty teen tragedies, too, so we all hold a very privileged place in each others' histories. We're privy to some of each other's classified information.

I will note that Brendan had no hesitation in reminding me of some of the above, and I was pleased that he did, despite my shrieking and squirming. Several high school musical predilections of mine (among other things) came down with no softening whatsoever; most ungentelmanly, I might say.

In chewing it all over, my memories of various times were reinforced, details corrected, dormant information reactivated, adolescent prejudices dropped. As time rolls on and our memories become less reliable, this is one of the reasons it's so valuable to catch up with those from the long-distant past: if we don't it fades and fades until it's gone forever.

Saudara Saudara...

Hari ini saya akan menulis di dalam bahasa Indonesia. Mengapa? Karena saya masih bisa. Tetapi tidak untuk panjang.

Saya mulai belajar bahasa Prancis segera, dan saya mencurigai saya akan lupa semua bahasa Indonesia. Sudah lama saya tidak berlatih. Ini membuat saya sedih, karena saya bekerja dengan keras untuk memperlajarinya. Sangat keras memang. Tapi saya mungkin tidak akan kembali ke Indonesia lagi, jadi mungkin tidak apa-apa. Tetapi seluruh kerga itu!! Apa pemborosan! *sigh*

Good Godot!

Apropos of nothing in particular, I have been gathering all my textbooks for university over the past couple of weeks and was intrigued to note the first literary text we'll be studying for French. A primary-school-aged reader, the Gallic answer to Dick and Jane? Non. A classic work by a revered French figure, like, say, Victor Hugo or Marcel Proust? Non. Would your eyebrows raise if I told you that the first work of literature I'll be dissecting this semester will be En Attendant Godot, the original version of Samuel Beckett's best-known work? If you're anything like me, your answer will be yes. Waiting for Freakin' Godot? Really?! I don't know. It was the last thing I was expecting, that's all. And I'd forgotten that it was originally written in French.

I'm a big fan of Monsieur Beckett, so it's not that I'm bitching about it. I mean, the language is pretty simple, which is perfect for novice Francophones. Let's face it, it could have been a French translation of anything by Bryce Courtenay, so this little Vegemite's not complaining.

He was an interesting figure, Samuel Beckett. Lectured in French at Trinity College, was stabbed in the street by a stranger, then went on to work for the French Resistance, managing to escape the Gestapo along the way. As if that didn't make for a colourful enough existance, he worked for the Red Cross for a couple of years as the war ended. Then he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in the late Sixties. Then finished his life at 83 not only still producing art of the highest quality, but with one of the most interesting faces you're likely to see anywhere.

Incidentally, if the devil ever offers you a chance to own the Beckett on Film series in exchange for your mortal soul, my advice would be to consider taking it. It's jaw-droppingly, life-changingly superb.

New World Order

Having been raised in a democracy I had long been of the unshakeable belief that it was The Only Way. The Right Way. This conviction has been substantially eroded over recent years and so now, if it's all the same to you, I've overthrown the goverment and installed myself as benevolent dictator. I'm sure you'll be much happier for it.

There will, of course, be a few minor adjustments to be made. You should receive in the mail a handy fridge magnet outlining the changes within the next week. Please keep your magnet in a prominent place where all members of your household can see it -- ignorance of the new laws will not protect you from prosecution, I'm afraid.

Below is the first section of new laws, with more to follow.

1. Anyone using powertools on weekends will have one digit sawn off for each hour before 10am that noise commenced. Should powertools cause dust to blow across a neighbouring yard, particularly if that neighbour has washing on the line, the perpetrator shall be required to injest one cup of dust. No drinks shall be issued.

2. Anyone found in possession of a leafblower shall be shot on site. No discussion shall be entered into on this matter.

3. If a person has a door held open for them, or an elevator held, and they fail to acknowledge or thank the person affording them this courtesy, the perpetrator shall be required to present themselves for tattooing. The words RUDE IGNORANT BASTARD shall be tattooed on their forehead with the compasses from a Kent set and a biro ink/vinegar mix. Their head shall then be shaved.

4. Ambient music in public places such as shopping centres or outdoor malls is as banned as banned can be. Playing of music by a list of proscribed "artists" shall be punished by removal of teeth by pliers. This list is available upon application. In addition, any establishment playing music at a volume prohibiting conversation at a normal level shall be required to issue their patrons with unlimited food and drinks, free of charge. The manager shall then be forced to listen to 8 hours of loud polka music, with hourly flogging with electrical cables for the duration.

5. Any passengers left waiting for a bus for more than ten minutes past the timetabled arrival shall be issued with a voucher for lunch to the value of $25, redeemable at the venue of their choosing. The driver shall apologise to each passenger for the inconvenience as they board.

6. Any shoe designer producing footwear that is painful, uncomfortable, dangerous or in any other way decreed by me to be silly shall have emotionally disturbed dogs set upon them. The perpetrator shall have the opportunity to evade these dogs, but must do so in the offending shoes on a slippery sloping surface whilst wearing a tight knee-length skirt.

7. Atmospheric temperatures exceeding 30'C shall no longer be permitted.