The Good Old Bad Old Days

The bad old days. They were good days. Being a young freaker in Brisbane in the Eighties was both wonderful and frightening, and I'm revisiting the highs and lows courtesy of a book I picked up from the library today: Pig City.


It's hard to describe to people who didn't experience the police state that was Bris Vegas at that time. I didn't have more than close shaves myself, such as being searched on the street for merely looking.... like whatever I was looking like, or being shoved up against a wall and threatened with the watch house for smiling at a plain clothes officer as he checked my ID at The Treasury. I did, however, know of people who had the phone book treatment at Roma Street or the CID building alongside the Gabba. The police were an ever-menacing presence, and ugly, ugly, ugly. I hasten to add that I wasn't particularly up to no good, it's just that as far as the constabulary were concerned, I simply looked it, which was more than enough to attract their unwelcome attention.

I flicked straight to the chapters dealing with the eviction of 4ZZZ from the UQ campus. I'd all but forgotten the morning* I woke to hear the "emergency signal" being broadcast telling of the early morning ousting and calling for all and sundry to rush to the studio to occupy the building. I was living in nearby Toowong at the time, so duly made my way over after a coffee or two. I don't remember a great deal about the day, just being crammed into the tiny basement studio with the most astonishing array of freaks, some just having fun, some deeply committed to seeing wrongs righted, some just deeply and violently disturbed. All screaming for all they were worth at "the fucking pigs". It turns out that John Birmingham was there reporting the whole debacle for Rolling Stone.

It's all a long time ago now, and both Brisbane and I have become more middle class and bland. The Treasury has been turned into a faux-Irish pub, ZZZ has a professional-looking website, police are polite and helpful on occasion, and I live in the 'burbs with two kids and sensible clothing. I'm looking forward to being reminded of a time when we were all a little more colourful. Now excuse me, I'm off to do some reading.

*Probably early afternoon, actually.

Captains Creep-out

We paid a visit to Reverse Garbage on the weekend to pick up a variety of junk for household projects. As I ferreted through the junk Lofty browsed the book pile, and picked up this:


I wasn't sure why it had caught his eye until I looked more closely later:


On the back cover it says: Harvey Cheyne went to sea as a boy and learned to be a man!

I can't believe that the graphic designer wasn't having a lend when it was decided that this would be the picture to grace the cover.

We've Started Solids

Literal Lesson

Readers of Suburban Safari are educated and intelligent, so have no need of this lesson in usage. Regardless, one of my favorite linguistic cock-ups has popped up several times over the last week so I feel moved to say something on the subject.

I speak of the word "literally". Here's what Bill Bryson has to say on the issue in Troublesome Words:

All too often used as a kind of disclaimer by writers who mean, generally, the opposite of what they are saying. The results are generally excruciating [...]

It should not need saying, but if you don't wish to be taken literally, don't use literally. The word means actually, not figuratively. It is acceptable only when it serves to show that an expression usually used figuratively is to be taken at its word, as in: "He literally died laughing."

I have ABC Local Radio on in the house most days, and have heard these gems over the past few weeks:

The shelves are literally groaning with diet products these days...

Geelong literally butchered the opposition...

He was really clingy after that. He was literally stuck to my leg all day, every day.

I literally flew through the door...

Choice.

I'm a Person, At Last

A remarkable decision was made by the Australian Anglican Church recently. It decided that women are people.

I've been arguing this point for some time, so it's nice to have some support in high places. The decision came in discussions on whether the church could allow women to become ordained as bishops.

Apparently, the church's constitution stated that a bishop needed to be a person 30 or older, baptised and a priest. The Diocese of Sydney argued that "person" in this context meant "man".

Bugger Rugger

For various reasons, I had a late night last night. Just as I was thinking of turning in -- finally -- I caught a little of the Rugby World Cup match between Australia and Canada. I had no intention of watching, but after five minutes or so I was sucked in. I just couldn't believe the size of the players.

They're impressive, in much the same way as the prize beef cattle at the Ekka are impressive. They're huge. And when they pack together into a scrum and butt heads: amazing. Two tons of hairy sweaty meat colliding. It's quite a sight.

Readers may not be aware of this fact: I took part in Rugby for a time. Let me tell you about it. It was a few years ago, and I was battling through a rather ugly and complicated industrial relations case. To relieve the resultant stress I decided that a bit of sport might be the ticket. But not the same old sports I'd played before; I wanted a bit of a change. I'd pondered for a few weeks which game I might pick when it came to me in a dream. I don't remember the main thread of the story, but what I do remember is John Eales driving past and waving. It was a sign. Rugby was the one.

So I researched which clubs offered places for women, and decided on Easts. I showed up for my first training session all twinkly-eyed; this was the beginning of a new pastime, new people, and new angle on life. Mustard-like, I was keen. I won't bother you with the full details, most of which are exceedingly dull. The upshot is that I was paired with an enormous woman (of course), handed a tackling pad, flattened, hit my head on the ground on what I swear was a small patch on concrete in the middle of the paddock, and lost vision momentarily. While I was down one of the pair next to us ran over my forearm at full tilt. For the next week that hand flopped on the end of my arm like a rubber glove, and I had concussion to boot. Shamed, I never went back.

Needless to say, I didn't watch last night's match with an expert eye. Nevertheless, the spectacle of the game doesn't need a great deal of knowledge to appreciate. In the pounding rain Australia wiped the floor with Canuckistan, as was to be expected from two such mismatched teams. Canada, though, did themselves credit, and didn't look like the schoolboys that the less accomplished team can in these draws. As I write this Lofty and his mate are sitting glued to the Rugby League final, hooting encouragement to Melbourne Storm. I'm not interested. The Ra-ra leaves League for dead in my book.

Divinely inspired

Nothing like a touch of the crankies and a bit of Cooper's Stout to get you inspired to post.

Tomatoes. They're red, they're round, they're tasty. I generally buy the "vine ripened" ones, simply because they actually taste like tomatoes. And you must admit we're spoiled for choice when it comes to the love apples.

The tomato market must be a tight one. You've got yer organic, you've got yer vine ripened, you've got yer cherries, egg, Roma, and so on. I don't doubt that it's tough for the tomato producer to keep ahead such a competitive pack. But tonight, when the shopping contingent returned with the makings of tonight's dinner, I realised just how tough it must be:

Jesus wept. This came off one of the tomatoes I'll be sinking my choppers into tonight. I just don't know what to say. Except that I'd prefer Iggy tomatoes next time.