After Grog Blog

AN ACQUIRED WASTE

"There are no pockets in a shroud," laughed Steve. When not laughing at his own jokes, Steve works in my local record store and was responding to my suggestion I just maaay spend too much money on CDs. But he would say that, wouldn't he? Last year I spent at least $2,698 on CDs, vinyl and music DVDs; a lot of it in his shop. It's actually much less than I thought. Next year I'll probably spend as much again; maybe more. The rest of my money, I'll just waste.

CDs	Artist	Title
1	The A-Bones	The Life Of Riley
2	American Music Club	Love Songs For Patriots
3	The Arcade Fire	Funeral
4	Davendra Banhart	Rejoicing In The Hands
5	Basement Jaxx	Kish Kash
6	The Bees	Free The Bees
7	Belle And Sebastian	Dear Catastrophe Waitress
8	The Beta Band	Heroes To Zeroes
9	Castanets	Cathedral
10	Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds	Abbatoir Blues / The Lyre Of Orpheus
11	The Clinic	Internal Wrangler
12	Comets On Fire	Blue Cathedral
13	The Concretes	The Concretes
14	The Czars	Goodbye
15	The Dears	No Cities Left
16	Dungen	Ta Det Lungt
17	Bob Dylan	Live 1964
18	The Exploding Hearts	Guitar Romantic
19	The Fiery Furnaces	Blueberry Boat
20	The Foreign Exchange	Connected
21	Jason Forrest	The Unrelenting Songs Of The 1979 Post Disco Crash
22	Franz Ferdinand	Franz Ferdinand
23	The Futureheads	The Futureheads
24	The Go! Team	Thunder Lightning Strike
25	Grandaddy	Sumday
26	Grandpaboy	Dead Man Shake
27	Hush	Extradition
28	Junior Boys	No Exit
29	The Killers	Hot Fuss
30	Kings Of Leon	Aha Shake Heartbreak
31	Lambchop	Aw Cmon / No You Cmon
32	Les Savy Fav	Inches
33	Liars	They Were Wrong So We Drowned Them
34	The Libertines	The Libertines
35	The Libertines	Up The Bracket
36	Loretta Lynn	Van Lear Rose
37	Madvillain	Madvillainy
38	Jesse Malin	The Heat
39	Buddy Miller	Universal United House Of Prayer
40	Mogwai	Songs For Happy People
41	The Mountain Goats	We Shall Be Healed
42	The National	Cherry Tree
43	AC Newman	The Slow Wonder
44	The Now Time Delegation	Watch For Today
45	Iron And Wine	Our Endless Days Are Numbered
46	Outkast	Speakerbox/The Love Below
47	Panda Bear	Young Prayer
48	Radiohead	Hail To The Thief
49	Reigning Sound	Too Much Guitar
50	Richmond Fontaine	Post To Wire
51	Todd Rundgren	Liars
52	Tom Russell	Indians Cowboys Horses Dogs
53	The Sand Pebbles	Ghost Transmissions
54	Scissor Sisters	Scissor Sisters
55	Secret Machines	Now Here Is Nowhere
56	William Shatner	Has Been
57	The Shins	Chutes Too Narrow
58	Paul Siebel	Woodsmoke And Oranges / Jack-Knife Gypsy
59	Sigur Ros	()
60	The Singles	Better Than Before
61	The Sleepy Jackson	Lovers
62	Soundtrack	Dudes
63	Soundtrack	Gott Mitt Uns
64	Soundtrack	Kill Bill Vol.1
65	Soundtrack	Kill Bill Vol.2
66	The Streets	A Grand Don't Come For Free
67	Tears For Fears	Everybody Loves A Happy Ending
68	The Thrills	Let's Bottle Bohemia
69	TV On The Radio	Desperate Youth, Bloodthirsty Babes
70	The Unites States Of America	The United States Of America
71	The Von Bondies	Pawn Shoppe Heart
72	Paul Westerberg	Come Feel Me Tremble
73	The White Stripes	Elephant
74	Bergin White	For Women Only
75	Jim White	Drill A Hole In The Substrate And Tell Me What You See
76	Wilco	A Ghost Is Born
77	Brian Wilson	Smile
78	Yeah Yeah Yeahs	Fever To Tell
DVDs	Artist	Title
1	The Rolling Stones	Cocksucker Blues
2	The Who	The Kids Are Alright

"I CAN STALK!"

Ok, so in Lost the plane crashes on the beach and this guy, Locke, a paraplegic, nutso, phone-sex, wannabe big-game-hunter with toy soldiers wiggles his toes and can suddenly walk again. Run, even. When called he gingerly gets to his feet then happily bounces off down the beach like cheesecake in a Coke commercial. No problem here, though. It's sci-fi so naturally, plane crashes cure paraplegia. It would be perfectly acceptable were the explanation to be that they are back in time, back before cars and car crashes, so Locke couldn't have been hurt in a car accident.

That's all big-time fiction, though; and like I said, I'm an engineer, not a doctor. Plane crash therapy is out of my purview. Although it's something of a stretch to believe that no one has noticed the guy who got onto the plane in a wheelchair is suddenly up and about and making like Obelix on a boar rampage.

No, I'm more interested in the wheelchair itself. You see, all the passengers are off collecting wood to cremate the fusilage. Back and forth they tramp, each toting armloads of logs. Very neatly cut logs, by the way. Except for one person. Every now and then this one person is in shot tipping a couple of logs off the wheelchair, less than can be carried by any one person, as it happens, and you don't see him actually struggling to push the chair through the sand. When was the last time you saw a wheelchair moving along sand? That's right, never.

Once again, this is the kind of careless slipshoddery that makes perfectly believable science fiction seem like a more than usually bogus episode of It's About Time.

Just two notes about last week's episode. One, Australians do not do "chores"; we do jobs around the house, farm, whatever. And two, criminals here are not identified because someone "saw their picture on the wall in the post office".

JUSTICE THE TICKET

"Talk sense to a fool and he calls you foolish."

-- Euripides Pants: Greek Fool Expert, circa 407 B.C.

The students here are very stupid. This is how stupid; hoon stupid.

Today I rocked up to work at about 10:30. Don't get lippy; it's when I start on Thursdays. Anyhoo, because there was a fair bit of traffic around I had to park down the road and leg it back to my office. Just as I approached it, one of the students drove up in his hypercharged ADHD Tomcat Road-Muncher V8. Wog-box doof-doof blaring, he stopped in a no parking zone, jumped out, locked the car and waltzed into the building. "You'll get a ticket if you park there," I advised in a friendly, yet couldn't give a shit manner. "Naaa, didn't get one yesterday," he blithely replied and walked on. Just shrugged, I did.

Note to readers: White. Guy. With. Dreadlocks.

Not ten minutes later I looked out the window and don'tcha know it; the parking officer was slapping a ticket on Dreadies' windscreen. "Serves him right," I chortled with genuine heartfelt schadenfreude. "Hope he rips off the wiper." Just then Dreadlocks came steaming out of the building and started arguing with the parking officer. This had been going on for some time when, wouldn't you know it, the cops suddenly appeared. Who said there's never one around when you need one? Knowing Dreadies, I'm tipping he said something stupid like "Why aren't you out arresting REAL criminals?" He's that kind of fuck-wit. The upshot was the cops took control of the situation and soon after Dreadies jumped in his Tar-Hoover, tore off down the road and disappeared into the distance.

About half an hour later he was back; slowly cruising along the road looking for another park. His mummy had probably given him a good thumping. Not good enough, as it happens. Dreadies, boom-box still thumpa-thumpa, parked in another no parking spot. This one about twenty feet further down the road. Probably thought he was being cute, but the poor dumb shlub just didn't get it. Didn't realise he was being hopelessly, mindlessly, boneheadedly stupid.

And you guessed it. Not long after the cops were back. This time, though, they played the waiting game; leaning on their car until Dick-Head reappeared. No sooner than you can say "two donuts and a black coffee with four sugars", out came Dread-Head: arms a-flutter, dreadlocks bouncing, all little-man attitude. The cops, cool as you like and looking like a Texas border patrol (I bet they've watched a few movies), smirked to each other and the big one slowly and deliberately planted a ticket on the shlub's windscreen. THEN, just for good measure, they gave him a canary; a road-worthy sticker*.

That will teach him to ignore me; his wise and mature role-model.

Good times.

HIP HIP ROUÉ

The new football season is finally ... thankfully ... about bloody time upon us.

I know, I know this is very stupid reaction. Spectator sports are vicarious pursuits unfit for serious consideration by logical men. There's a very good chance I've wasted more than half my life reading, watching, talking and thinking about a childish pastime played by oafs and which has virtually no direct impact on my existence. But what are you gonna do? I love it; I'm addicted.

In the spirit of this critical reflection, then, let's step it up a gear. Let's inject that little bit of class that only refined and well bread Melbourne supporters can provide. Rather than celebrate the new season with yet another tedious post about umpires, coaches, injuries, tactics, Tiff's tits or why the other teams are rancid stinking scum (they are, you know), let's just ask this; what is Melbourne? Or rather, WHO is Melbourne?

Well, let's do both. Situated on the Yarra River and originally briefly called Batmania and Bearbrass, Melbourne is now one of the biggest cities in the world (area-wise). That's the what. Melbourne was named after Viscount Lord Melbourne. Born William Lamb of Brocket Hall*, Melbourne was Prime Minister of England in the times when women lusted after Hugh Grant. That's the who.

And that's all you get. Apart from this: the Dean of St Pauls (ironically named, Sydney Smith) on our man Lamby.

"If the truth must be told, our Viscount is something of an impostor. Everything about him seems to betoken careless desolation; anyone would suppose from his manner that he was playing at chuck-farthing with human happiness; that he would giggle away the great charter, and decide by the method of teetotum whether my lords the bishops should or should not retain their seats in the House Of Lords. I am sorry to hurt any man's feelings, and to brush away the magnificent fabric of levity and gaiety that he has reared; but I accuse our minister of honsety and diligence; I deny that he is careless of rash. He is nothing more than a man of good understanding and good principle, disguised in the eternal and somewhat wearisome affectation of a political roué."

Go 'Mons!

SOLIDARITY FOR FLAVOUR

WA: the nation's strike capital*

"DAYS lost because of industrial action in the booming West Australian economy have jumped to more than double the national average, with unions striking over issues such as poor TV reception and a construction site management refusing to fly the Eureka flag."

Western Australia has always been a very strikey place; not just lately.

For five years (1980 to 1985) I worked at a mine up in The Pilbara; Robe River, to be precise.

We once went on strike insisting Neapolitan icecream be included in out demands. At the meeting to ratify the action I was roundly chastised. "We should call it our tub of claims," I'd proposed.**

BLOCKHEAD

We had a test today. "What's an obstruction, Sir?" It wasn't an English test, you understand.

OFF THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL

Hunter.S.Thompson was a hero of mine.

Yeah, ok, just for the record: He hadn't written a good book in thirty years, had done too many drugs and become a crank.

But he could still bang out a tidy article and will always be highly regarded by me despite his faults.

Eerily, at what must have been about the time he offed himself I was watching a documentary in which he was talking about The Great Gatsby. He hadn't been well for some time and didn't look so sharp; "How long's he got?" I wondered.

UPDATE: There don't seem to be too many great headlines out there. I'd thought of THE HEMINGWAY OUT, but figured that redirected the sentiment. My other option, OW! FARM, seemed a little severe; although, I'm sure Thompson would have approved. I still might change it. Anyway, has anyone spotted a corker? I haven't seen anything in The Sun, for instance.

We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like "I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive...." And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Las Vegas. And a voice was screaming "Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn animals?"

Then it was quiet again. My attorney had taken his shirt off and was pouring beer on his chest, to facilitate the tanning process. "What the hell are you yelling about?" he muttered, staring up at the sun with his eyes closed and covered with wraparound Spanish sunglasses. "Never mind," I said. "It's your turn to drive." I hit the brakes and aimed the Great Red Shark toward the shoulder of the highway. No point mentioning those bats, I thought. The poor bastard will see them soon enough.

CHERRY GRIPE

"The ripe juicy cherries and moist coconut smothered in rich 'Old Gold' Dark Chocolate ensures a unique taste experience."

-- Cadbury

"Absolutely FREEZING," brrrrrrrrred Tiffany Cherry from Cairns' Cazaly cool-room. "Three degrees, it is."

In fact, three degrees it isn't.

Granted Fox Footy's boundary cheesecake had slipped into the vernacular, but as far as contradictions go, that one's just a little too elemental to let pass un-challenged. Freezing is zero, not three.

We'll give her the benefit of the doubt, though. It could be she was distracted by the possibility of a ticklish visual incident; vis-a-vis chest and chiller.

Anyhoo, good to see the Demons get up last night. Bad to listen to Alastair Lynch rabbit on about Brizroy all night. And Clinton Grybas is a nightmare. Even if you forgive the sucking up to his colleagues AND his relentless cross promotions, it can only be a matter of weeks before he starts giving time checks and "Rocky Roads" type traffic reports.

That's enough out of me. More rigorous, incisive and deeply thought out analysis may be found here; Every Day Is Like Sunday. May be.

NB: Any inferred sexism is purely inten ... err ... accidental. Boundary riders are an unnecessary gimmick whether they be boy, girl or somewhere in between. Mmmm, juicy, moist, smothered.

JUSTE THE TICKET

Before we get down to business; an announcement.

It needs to be pointed out that when a joke has had all it's humour tortured out, it is no longer funny. Joke minus humour equals stupid words. Thus using poor spelling to bag teachers in so-called gags is officially no longer funny. I have deemed it so.

Thank yu.

****

Unpleasantries out of the way, thanks must go to fellowette (not sure of the precise protocol regarding fellows who aren't fellows) educationalist, vague, for pointing out an excellent blog from yet another educationalist. Another American, mind you, but we shant hold that against her. (Jokes about Americans are back in, don't you know.)

"Things have gotten pretty bad when you find yourself trying to model your life after that of a cartoon cat, it's true, but that's just the world we're living in."

-- Zerlesen

She, in turn, points to an excellent Queenan piece in The NYT. Note the initials; Times readers do that.

"SOME time ago, A. J. Jacobs, a senior editor at Esquire, set out to become the smartest man in the world, an ambition that meshed poorly with his skills set."

-- Joe Queenan

THAT is the most generous part. Queenan starts out harsh and doesn't let up. His caustic mot justes* making Jacobs out to be one prize dickhead indeed.

* Mots juste, perhaps.

ALL SHOOK OPERA

"You could have knocked me down with a feather, Uncle Clavdivs, I wasn't a god afterall."

-- Caligula (John Hurt)

To paraphrase: Fuck me, I was wrong!

For years I've thought opera absolute nonsense, yet all of a sudden I find myself addicted. It has acquired an almost evangelical appeal for me. A sense of "Holy Christ on a stick, I've seen the light." Mozart, to be precise. The Magic Flute, Cosi Fan Tuti, Don Giovanni and The Marriage of Figaro. When I'm not playing them, I'm humming them. When I'm not humming them, I'm reading about them. When I'm not reading about them, I'm doing something else. When I'm not doing something else, I'm ... err ...

Anyhoo, I must feed this habit, but I don't want to overdose on just Mozart. Can someone ... anyone ... point me in the direction of other good operas.

Fine

UPDATE: None of your "Five Star CLASSIC" babble accompanies the CDs either. "The performance is very good indeed" is what it says on the cover of The Magic Flute. The understatement speaks volumes, don't you think?

OPERATION ABJECT ENCOMIUM

This carries on from yesterday's reflections. I've been thinking lately about the nature of blogging, not mine specifically, but blogging in general. Is it always just going to be a bunch of internet types sitting around snorking on about politics and cats?

Tim Blair, being something of an expert in printed word, once told me that when it comes to blogging, any idiot can thump on a keyboard and churn out a sentence. Anything ranging from the startlingly good to the stunningly stupid. The key to good blogging, he said, is to try to keep it entertaining, informative and, most of all, keep it tight. His opinion, of course, but sound advice; naturally I took no notice whatsoever.

He also said that my style, "conversational", he called it, was difficult to pull off because it relies on getting everything spot-on correct. Getting it RIGHT. Not just the facts, mind you, most every blog has facts, but the style, the syntax, the rhythm, all the words sitting in exactly the right spots. Punctuation, too. And things like italics. Highlighting the wrong word can take A post from brilliant to COMPletely stupid. See what I MEAN?

It's here Chase Me Ladies is the king. It really is the best blog going around. No, really, when it comes to "getting it right", Harry gets it right. Entertaining, informative, conversational, tight and bloody funny. Commas and semi-colons in the right place, too. He knocks all those criteria firmly into a cocked hat.

That said, Australians are uncomfortable with compliments. We're not Americans, you understand. All hugs, closure and "Way to go, man! You the best!" So enough of the sucking up. Polite clap, good show, Harry; you can do better, though.

Anyhoo, codenames.

The other day, Harry was on about codenames. The American do great code names. There's Operation Desert Storm, of course. Grenada was Operation Urgent Fury and Panama, Operation Just Cause. Whatever you think of these engagements, it's hard to ignore the fact that the Yanks at least got the name right. The names have IT. You could release a CD of milk curdling, call it Operation Desert Storm, and it would sell. A reality TV show called Cheesecake: Just Cause would rate.

The Germans, on the other hand, well, their names lacked a certain, shall we say, resonance.

They had some good ones, mind you. Their Christmas offensive in Italy in 1944 was called Winter Thunder (Wintergewitter). Kursk in 1943 was Citadel (Zitadelle). Yugoslavia in 1941 was Punishment (Strafe).

Others, though. Well, the withdrawl from Norway was probably inspired by frostbite; Operation Blackcock (Birkhahn). And their 1945 offensive into Hungary was called Spring Awakening (Fruhlingserwachen). Spring Awakening? They may as well have poonced into Budapest distributing tulips. You'd think with their penchant for precision they'd call it Operation Synchromesh Gearbox, or something like that. Or was that too obvious?

Anyhoo, here is the full list.

On second thoughts; Operation Poundcake? Malaria? Bridge Throw? Maybe they were just taking the piss. Or "Gehen zur Toilette" as the roughnecks like to chortle on the Hamburg docks.

CONFLICT OF INTEREST

Is this blog interesting? Apparently it is; at first. Is it amusing? Or is it just plain annoying? Lynn makes a reasonable observation.

"Just surfing around a little while ago I found After Grog Blog. To be honest, I don't know yet whether, in the long run, I'm going to find this guy (Tony) amusing or annoying (or, as the tag line says, unintelligible) but at first glance it looks interesting."

Every now and again I'll look back at an old post and groan "What a load of utter rubbish!" There's not one post in my archives that makes me proud to have written it. Nor is there one that makes me chirp "Well, I'm a better person for having done that, then." I just wince and wonder what the fuck I'm doing churning out such crap. Seriously. Writing them is great fun, but reading them later is just embarrassing. Get a life, me! And I'm not just fishing for compliments.

So Lynn's probably onto something.

UPDATE: In comments Lynn asks "I hope you weren't offended by my remarks."

By way of clarification: No, no I wasn't offended; but what if I was? What then? Well, frankly, I would expect Lynn to do "the right thing". I would expect her to go to her fridge (Ice-Box, perhaps) and tip stale potato salad on her head.

The same goes for the rest of you odious clods who read here regularly.

SETTING THE STAGES

On seeing this paragraph the other day, I said to myself "Yes, that's right."

"The youngster [Michael Clarke] is at the first of the three stages of the sporting career. Cricketers start playing in their natural way, then discover the complications of the game and finally, if they make it, reach the simplicity that exists beyond complexity, whereupon they understand the things that are important to their game."

-- Peter Roebuck

Anyway, Andrew Strauss, here's looking at you, kid.

IT'S NEVER TOO LATE TO YEARN

Right, ladies?

MAUL THAT JAZZ

You know something, I've never heard Kenny G; not that I'm aware of, anyway. So it's unlikely I'll ever get this upset.

"When Kenny G decided that it was appropriate for him to defile the music of the man who is probably the greatest jazz musician that has ever lived by spewing his lame-ass, jive, pseudo bluesy, out-of-tune, noodling, wimped out, fucked up playing all over one of the great Louis's** tracks (even one of his lesser ones), he did something that I would not have imagined possible."

-- Pat Metheny

Richard Thompson agrees.

Jazz just doesn't do it for me, though, maan.

Don't get me wrong, I know many of the main players are fine musicians so I'm always up for convincing. By way of experimentation I even own a few jazz records. Very occasionally I'll put one on; Duke or Dozy or Satchel or Train (jazz dudes always have cool nicknames), but five minutes in I'm reaching for something else. Something vaguely listenable.

Jazz people are boring and go on about it like my dentist goes on about St Kilda Football Club. "What about the Saints this year, Tone?" He'll ask. "Mflgtglfffnnn," I reply through a mouthful of implements.

Coincidentally it's about the same reply I give jazz cats when they start droning on about Chet Worst Fuckin' Musician Ever Baker.

The scene's a wank, of course. What with the sitting around in clubs, the nodding heads, the French cigarettes, the clicking fingers, the "Wow, man".

It's just not my thang.

FAR CANAL

"The WA election will be tight," said slick-shirted hipster Matt Price on today's Insiders. "The Canal announcement ... I dunno ... it's too close to call."

Now sure, Matt's closer to the action than me, but I stand by my prediction; Labor safe in WA. Comfortably, too.

THE CONVERSATIONS

"My mother never saw the irony in calling me a son-of-a-bitch"

-- Jack Nicholson

Just now watching Easy Riders Raging Bulls; a documentary film about film-makers. In it a bunch of faces sit around snorking on about how they made it big in the movies. Coppola, Scorcese, Hopper, Bogdanovich, Dreyfuss, Superman's girlfriend. You know, serious heavy-hitters.

The irony of the thing is, though, the sound-track is out of sync with the visuals so that you get the effect of a poorly made spaghetti western.

Or Captain Pugwash.

EXTRACTING THE DIGITAL

Finally pulled my finger out (my credit card, too) and signed up for Foxtel Digital. On reflection, it's not before time. The clincher was Discovery Health.

1. Taming Toddlers.
2. Breast Cancer and Intimacy.
3. A Makeover Story: Birthday Buddies.
4. Cosmetic Surgery with Lynn Muffett.

Should I ever get tired of the Health Channel, which, I admit is a possibility, I'll switch over to the Crime Channel.

1. Rescue 911.
2. Cops.
3. Investigative Reports.
4. Arrest & Trial.

Do you think there's a connection? I mean, it's quite possible the people who watch self-help shows make up a large percentage of people who get arrested on TV.

THE NORMAN INQUEST

Ken Parish is running a Music Poll in reaction to a Norm Geras Music Poll. This is really quite a necessary idea. The results of Norm's poll were so vile I almost sent him an abusive email. I didn't, though, it's not his fault his readers are mush-heads.

Ken's poll has tossed up some fine stuff. Massive Attack, The White Stripes, New Order and The Pixies. Keef's solo gear totally eclipses The Stones' latter day dross. Bob Dylan is still churning out great music. Despite an excess of praise, The Stone Roses first album is first rate. Nirvana's Come As You Are is terrific. Blur and Pulp are fine by me. XTC made a brilliant comeback in the late nineties. The Go-Bees are certainly one of the best ten bands of the last twenty years.

On the other hand, Ken's poll also threw up more than it's fair share of rubbish.

For a start, Jeff Buckley is the most over-rated artist of the 90s. Drowned? Don't be fooled, he was murdered by a music lover; someone who had tired of all the moaning. I would have stood on the bank laughing. Eric Clapton has been a complete waste of space, post-smack. Pearl Jam are crap; always have been. REM boring. The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion merely embarrassing. Crowded House, Kylie, Madge, Sinead O'Connor and U2 are proof you can, indeed, polish a turd. Powderfinger, The Whitlams, Spiderbait, The Superjesus and Red Hot Chilli Peppers proof you can't. Bjork is just not music. And if someone came up to me at a party and raved about Beth Orton the way Mark Bahnisch does, I'd push a chicken wing in their face.

So here is my list*, preserved for posterior. It is quite obviously better than all the other lists compiled by you ignorant swine at Ken's.

1. New Mistake - Jellyfish (1993)
2. Hotel Illness - The Black Crowes (1992)
3. Let's Get Killed - David Holmes (1997)
4. High On A Hilltop - Nick Lowe (1998)
5. Wayfarin' Stranger - Spearhead (1997)
6. Monkey With A Gun - The Yayhoos (2001)
7. Now It's On - Grandaddy (2004)
8. White City Fighting - Peter Townshend (1985)
9. Swallowed By The Cracks - David & David (1986)
10. Spring Rain - The Go-Betweens (1985)

Note: This is my blog. I am right.

* Today, anyway.

CAT'S AMORE

Now isn't that just too nice? My friend Jim just texted me with the news he has a brand new cute baby kitten. His last one was run over; smooshed flat by a truck. The new cat is called Indi. I texted back suggesting he should have called it Hector. That's Hector on the left; our Road Safety Cat.

HALF-TIME AT THE FOOTBALL*

Yesterday in Melbourne two men with jackets off, ties loose, sleeve rolled up and brows furrowed were hunkered down over a coffee table compiling a list of "possibles" ...

1. Kids with streamers.
2. Kids with flags.
3. Kids with balls.
4. Kids with sticks.
5. Kids with kids.
6. Inflatable toys.
7. The Lloydy.
8. The Dipper.
9. The Hirdy.
10. The ... other one.
11. The sprint.
12. The Batmobile.
13. The Sun Kick.
14. The lady who didn't know the national anthem.
15. Slim Dusty.
16. The Batmobile.
17. Angry Anderson.
18. John Farnham.
19. Julie Anthony.
20. John Williamson.
21. The giant cigarette packet from the rugby.
22. The Grim Reaper Singers.
23. Billy Idol.
24. .... Millsy.
25. Guy Sebastian.
26. The Fat kid from Hey Dad.
27. Nudge.
28. Kath & Kim.
29. Piffy the bell ringer.
30. Lleyton and Bex.
31. Slim Dusty.
32. Peter Allen.
33. More kids.

"Phew. Let's have some lunch, Ben. And turn on the TV, I think that American gridiron Superbowl grand final is on today. Let's see what they do for entertainment."

Buckley turned it on just in time to watch Paul McCartney's rip through Drive My Car, Get Back, Live And Let Die and Hey Jude. Perfect for the format. Absolutely magnificent.

Demetriou and Buckley sat watching quietly, pensive, occasionally swapping glances. The show finished and Demetriou leant forward, scrunched up the list and threw it in the bin. "Fuck," he sighed, and sculled his Evian.

* Dave Warner song from 1981 with entirely appropriate lyrics. No, really.

WHAT A MAROONED!

So here's a promise: no Lord of the Flies gags, and definitely none about Gilligan's Island.

Saturday night saw me marooned - I didn't promise there wouldn't be any stupid jokes; I've got a reputation to live down to - in a house without Foxtel, watching Lost on Channel Seven.

I'd never previously heard of this affair, but apparently it's quite the thing. It's about a plane crash which strands a bunch of travellers on a remote island. That's fine, I can handle that. Nor did it bother me they crashed on Jurassic Park. I can handle that, too; I like science fiction. In fact, I liked Jurassic Park, and even though the sequels weren't up to much, they weren't totally dire. Not totally.

Nor did I mind the cast: as standard a cross-section of punters as ever graced our screens. Blacks, Asians, a fat guy, a dweeb, a geek, a clever kid, a coolster and a pregnant lady. Pregnant chicks have taken over from chicks with sprained ankles. There was also the stock quota of cheesecake. No doubt a couple of sleazoids will appear, maybe even a sabatour. No, all that was fine by me. Movie makers have their ways and a formula cast isn't something that's ever gotten up my nose.

Although when the fat guy spelt out "b  o  d  y  s" I implored the TV "please don't let the clever kid spell it right, aahhhhh, there he goes!"

Never. The. Less. Lost wasn't a total bust and I managed to watch the whole thing.

However, there was one thing that bugged me, I mean really bugged me. You see, I'm not just a very bad teacher; I'm also an engineer. A fully fledged man-of-things-that-work. Trained and stuff, with paperwork to prove it, a plastic pocket protector and even a slide rule. Well, the slide rule belonged to dad. But it works, and what's more, I know how to make it work.

I can take all sorts of convoluted and contrived plot-lines and bizarro science-faction, but as a person-of-gadgets, it aggravates me enormously when ordinary gadgets do extraordinary things. Lifts, for instance. Lifts do not plummet down - or up, for that matter - lift shafts. They have a million (I never exaggerate) safety devices. Brakes, overloads, spring catches, monitors and cut-outs that will prevent a lift full of punters from tumbling to a lifty death.

Lost, though, contained the bull-moose, master AND commander, Knight's Cross with oak leaves, swords and 150 mm howitzer of Gadgets Gone Extraordinary.

If you saw the show there is absolutely no doubt you already know what I'm on about. That's right, of course I'm taking about the jet engine whirring away on the beach.

Jet engines are finely tuned. They are amazingly robust within their operating parameters, but they are still finely tuned. Although it applied originally to radio-electronics, the term "fine-tuned" sits mighty comfortably as a description of the operational status of jet engines; they are about as fine-tuned as any mechanical device can be. Little things have a disconcerting habit of making them un-fine-tuned. There are even documented cases of tiny particles causing catastrophic structural failure of jet engines. Watch the Discovery Channel if you don't believe me - The Crash Files.

A plane crashing is neither a standard operating parameter, nor is it a tiny particle. It may surprise you to know that a plane crashing contains more than it's fair share of destructive tiny particles and is, in fact, the mother of all "catastrophic structural failures". When's the last time you saw a crash site where all the plane pieces were sat neatly across the ground? And there's the hanger where investigators try to piece together what went wrong. Looks like a giant jigsaw puzzle that's been chewed by a dog, doesn't it. A jet engine attached to a plane which has come into more that usually uncompromising aquaintance with the ground, as did the engine in Lost, would NOT have sat on the beach spinning away as if it were being tested in a NASA wind-tunnel.

The instant the rapid forward momentum of the crashing plane was halted, the momentum would have sent the engine crashing into the ground like the rest of the scattered wreckage.

You will also note I haven't even started on the fuel-filled wing which scraped along the sandy beach separate from the fusilage, all the while spraying fuel over the crash-site - AND NOT IGNITING. Fuel which, coincidentally, would have been needed to run the jet engine. These things don't run on complimentary bottles of alcohol.

And did anyone involved in the making of this film even bother to ask "Well, if the engine sucks in the fat guy, how come it doesn't suck in the sand? Or a pebble? Or a piece of paper; a stray lolly wrapper, for instance?" There were, in fact, a thousand things on the beach significantly lighter than the fat, dumb shlub who strolled across the front of the engine intake.

Because, believe you me, a spinning jet engine sitting on a beach and capable of sucking in a fat tourist would undoubtedly first suck in enough sand to fill a thousand pairs of speedos which would in turn cause it to either come to a grinding, juddering halt, or more likely, blow up.

Next Week: Movie plots that would fail catastrophically if a tap on the head didn't knock out a sentry.

TICKET TO DERIDE

Tomorrow's Superbowl will be played in Jacksonville, Florida. This year the half-time show will feature Paul McCartney rather than Janet Jackson's nork. To get a fix on this curious scheduling, try saying "Next year's Melbourne Cup will be run in Bathurst. Nork." You see, it doesn't quite work. Apart from the nork, that is.

Northern Florida has become one massive suburb. Similar in tone to the inland Gold Coast; only with no hills and bad beaches. It's hideous, really, but please, draw your own conclusions.

Jacksonville itself sits on the languid St Johns River. The St Johns flows north from central Florida and just manages to dribble into southern Georgia. Indeed, it's one of the few rivers in the US, if not the only one, that flows south-north. Florida people say it's because Georgia sucks. Georgia people retort the river is merely trying to escape Florida.

So with even the locals engaged in ritual bickering, imagine what it's been like for the rest of the country. Many have seen Jacksonville's Superbowl as a golden opportunity to mock "Red State" America.

Fortunately for us, of course. Mocking is a core component of our Mission Statement. More power to the caustic critics, I say. Robert Lusetich, for instance, who penned this pearler in The Australian.

"As well as the anti-terrorism squad, the NFL has brought in Paul McCartney to perform at half-time this year and ensure controversy is kept out.

The league took some flak when it opted for the very family friendly Sir Paul, some noting that he's hardly a relevant artist and hasn't had a hit in years. Of course in Jacksonville, they'll probably be wondering where the rest of The Beatles are."

TAFE A GOOD HARD LOOK AT YOURSELF

Some of the subjects I teach at TAFE are mind-numbingly easy, others can be quite difficult. Both for me to teach, and for the students to learn. Let's not kid ourselves, though, if you're a student at TAFE, it's unlikely you're Rhodes' Scholarship material. Chances are you'll never be "sent down" at the end of a debauched "hilary term"; more like you'll be "sacked" for being a "fat-head".

Cheating is rife, too. Last term there were two particular classes, one on Tuesday, the other on Thursday. I took the Thursday. It takes little in the way of imagination to realise the students doing the Thursday class were going to cop the questions off the students doing the Tuesday night class.

You should have seen the looks on their faces when they realised my test was different to the Tuesday test. Looking around, squirming, frantically turning pages; funniest thing I've seen in ages. Laugh? I chortled away like a half-wit; quietly, mind you. I didn't want to disturb their guilty writhing.

As it turned out the students in my class got the few questions from the other test almost %100 correct, and virtually NONE of the rest. Serves them right.

Also last term I taught one of the relatively difficult subjects. This subject is harder than Sesame Street ABCs, and largely without the muppets and singing, but not as difficult as rocket science. Coincidentally, I'm often heard cajoling a student (A student, mind you, with an IQ somewhere in the realm of Official Cretin) "Well, it's not rocket science, you know!" On a scale of one to ten, with one as Santa Claus Conquers the Martians and ten as Silent Running, I'm talking about a four. Somewhere around Battlestar Galactica (the TV version).

It's not in my interests to actively disadvantage the kids, though. Not the ones I like, anyway. So prior to the test I always scan the exam to make sure there are no nasty surprises. No questions that don't make sense. No questions with typos or incorrect maths. No questions that we haven't covered. This last is not as strange as it appears. Our tests are now set by a state board so there's a chance the central compiler, quite possibly a beauracrat working from a syllabus sheet and with no actual knowledge of the subject, could throw in a question completely unrelated to recent content. Quite often there ARE dodgy questions, which I'll then prompt to the kids in their last revision class.

You probably all know the drill. "Listen up, class! See this diagram here on Page 43?" ... blank looks ... "The one here." ... blank looks ... "In the middle of page 43." ... blank looks ... "HERE," I'll point ... blank looks ... "Well, THAT would be a good question to put in a test." ... blank looks ... "Next" ... "Week" ... "Test."

"Have we got a test next week, Sir?" Teacher bangs head on white-board.

It's quite stunning, and not a little discouraging, to find that more often than not, come the test, about half the class leave those questions blank. That's after I've told them NEVER to leave a space blank. Even the most absurd answers sometimes pick up a mark or two.

Then there are the smart-arse kids. "Sir, will you pass us if we buy you a slab each?" A slab is a box of beer, 24 cans.

Usually I play a straight bat. "No need, I've all but told you the answers. And, anyway, you'll find the test a piece-of-piss if you just do the work. And. Take. My. Hints."

"But I haven't done the work, Sir." As if I didn't already know that. As if I cared.

Time for the piss-take. "Well, guys, 24 cans each? That's only about $500 from the whole class. I don't come THAT cheap! Offer to pay my full salary for the rest of my working life and we'll talk."

I'm not completely stupid, you know. Not completely.

Which all makes David James Misell, 58 of Blackburn South and a teacher at Box Hill Tafe (Our opposition) a pathetic pin-head.

Top marks for cash

A TAFE teacher has admitted offering a student high marks in exchange for money.

In a case of "classic corruption", David James Misell, 58, told a student he would receive a 90 per cent grade for accounting in return for the money, the County Court heard yesterday.

Prosecutor Kevin Armstrong said the Colombian student approached Misell, a teacher at Box Hill TAFE, in February 2003 about missing an exam and asked how he could make up for it.

Misell told the student he was in financial trouble and said, "You help me and I'll forget the rest."

Mr Armstrong said the student was shocked and surprised by Misell's offer and contacted police.

The court heard police fitted the student with a recording device when he met Misell again a few days later.

Misell was recorded telling the student that for $800 he would receive a 90 per cent result on the subject, or 95 per cent for $900.

The pair arranged to meet again at the TAFE on February 20 where the money was to be exchanged.

Police arrested Misell as he waited for the money.

Dip Shit!

GROG BLOG

"Nothing pains some people more than having to drink ... errr ... think."

-- Martin Luther King, Jr

Nick Johnstone was a boozer, hitting the sauce bigtime from a young age. He's also a writer. Not sure he'll be the next Evelyn Waugh, Anthony Powell or George Orwell, he is a music critic, afterall. More likely he's got someone like Hunter Thompson in his sights. Or Fitzgerald, or Hemmingway. Anyhoo, he's written a book about life on the guzzle, A Head Full Of Blue; part of which immediately nabbed my attention.

Update

: The responses in italics below each question are me harking back to the days when I was still on the fuel. It's been almost two years now, and while it sure is good (inadequate word selection) to have my act together, it's not hard to miss the good old bad old days. I might do a deeper analysis some day, but not tonight. I'm yet to get my head around this being off the sauce business and besides, I've other things to do. Like watching some cheesy vampire flick.

* * * * * *

Alcoholism and the Facts caught my eye and I pulled it from the stack. There was a questionnaire on the back cover headed 'Are You An Alcoholic?'. I hurried through each question, answering yes or no.

1. Do you lose time from work due to drinking? No.
   Yes, of course I did. 'The Sickie' is an institution here.
   


2. Is drinking making your home life unhappy? No.
   Yes and No. I lived alone thinking up ways to kill public figures. Some guilt was involved. But only some.
   


3. Do you drink because you are shy with other people? Yes.
   Yes and No. I did it to put up with wankers I would normally ignore.


4. Is drinking affecting your reputation? Yes.
   Yes and No. What reputation?


5. Have You ever felt remorse after drinking? Yes.
   Yes. I'm dreadfully sorry, but yes, I have.


6. Have you ever gotten into financial difficulties as a result of drinking? No.
   No. I resent the implication I would ever associate with poor people.


7. Do you turn to lower companions and an inferior environment when drinking? No.
   Yes. Shit-kickers and low peasants made me look good by comparison.


8. Does your drinking make you careless of your family's welfare? No.
   Yes and No. Define careless.


9. Has your ambition decreased since drinking? Yes.
   Yes and No. What ambition?


10. Do you crave a drink at a definite time daily? Yes.
    Yes. It's was ALWAYS Beer O'Clock.


11. Do you want a drink the next morning? No.
    Yes. Who wants a hangover?


12. Does drinking cause you to have difficulty sleeping? Yes.
    Yes. Not counting that time in jail. That bed was bloody uncomfortable.
    


13. Has your efficiency decreased since drinking? Yes.
    Yes.


14. Is drinking jeopardizing your job or business? No.
    Yes. "Whoah! Big night AGAIN, Tony?"


15. Do you drink to escape from worries or trouble? Yes.
    Yes. No worries about that.


16. Do you drink alone? No.
    Yes. See Question 2. Contact police.
    


17. Have you ever had a complete loss of memory as a result of drinking? No.
    Yes and No. Maybe. Yes OR No; I can't remember.


18. Has your physician ever treated you for drinking? No.
    No. Although he often asked how much I drank. I lied.
    


19. Do you drink to build up your self-confidence? Yes.
    Yes. Me-Man was Master of the Universe!
    


20. Have you ever been to a hospital or institution on account of drinking? No.
    No, but I had my name down for The Warburton Clinic. Oh, unless you count getting stitched-up after a rumpus. Better make that Yes; four times.
    

I answered Yes to nine of the twenty questions. I was relieved and about to put the book back on the sale trolley when I saw the footnote at the end of the questionnaire: 'If you have answered Yes to any one of these questions, there is a definite warning you may be an alcoholic. If you have answered Yes to any two, the chances are that you are an alcoholic. If you have answered Yes to three or more, you are definitely an alcoholic.'

* * * * * *

As you can see, with around sixteen questions answered 'Yes', I slurped litres of laughing-lolly. And there weren't even any questions about throwing-up, drink-driving and general high-jinks.

My conclusion? With only nine, Johnstone just wasn't trying hard enough.

"I have been brought up and trained to have the utmost contempt for people who get drunk."

-- Winston Churchill

BLIGHT AUSTRALIA POLICY

"Jeebus! What's a man gotta do to get a meal around here?

-- Bobby Sands

Time to ban the bloody Irish; stop letting them in.

I'm sick to the back teeth of the Irish. Have you noticed how EVERYONE is Irish these days? Even people who aren't! It's become a vicious trend. To all you Aussies out there, your brains made of chewed spinach; stop saying "shite"!

These days every second bar has ricketty wooden farm implements dangling from the rafters. In ducking them you trip over and spill your drink. It didn't help you were also trying to read an Oscar Wilde quote on the wall. That's after bumping into a fiddle-dee-dee bastard quoting Van Morrison and pining for peat. To rub it in you must decypher a menu styled as a Gaelic street sign. And just try ordering food from a waitress who thinks Shane MacGowan is sexy. Especially his teeth.

Then there's that boring bloody Lord of the Dance! Who ever decided that monotonous nonsense was entertainment? I would rather watch a cake baking.

All this because their stupid clergy back in Ireland bickered over sick potatoes. Righteous blowhards such as the Protestant reverend, Edward Nangle who saw the Potato Famine as an opportunity to corral a congregation. He set up a school and soup kitchen at Achill in County Mayo; "no soul, no soup". Well, he never said that, I did, but his language was hardly diplomatic. Nangle's Catholic competitor was Archbishop John MacHale. MacHale would rather his flock went hungry than risk becoming loathed Protestants. Both raved about the wrath of spud.

Nangle

"To the Roman Catholics of Ireland in general, and of Achill in particular. Surely God is angry with this land. The potatoes wouldn't have rotted unless he sent his wrath into them. God is good. And because he never sends a scourge in his creatures unless they deserve it, your priests stand powerless before the divine judgement as did the magicians before the plagues with which God visited the lands of Egypt."

MacCale

"It would be better to cut your throat with a knife than to send them to such schools."

"There is no place out of Hell which more enrages the almighty than the Protestant colony. The people have no right to be in that colony. This island was like the garden of our saviour when those cursed people came to it. And I hope I shall have my prayer from our saviour and the blessed virgin that this island shall again be as it formerly was."

So, because a bunch of puffed-up, pugnacious priests engaged in a fight over blight, a conservative estimate of, ohh, about eight hundred and eigthy-three gazillion Irish farmers were forced to pinch a one-way loaf of bread to Australia. The upshot is, I now have to endure a tedious barrage of craic, green beer and assorted Irish relatives. Ahem ... hello to you Gerry, Tarragh, Patrick, Ronan and co. Ronan? Well, that's only VERY gay, isn't it?

All you Irish thinking of coming to Australia; don't! Please have the good graces to stay at home in Cork, Mayo, Dr Kildare or whatever muddy, windswept, un-sewered tenant farm you're reading this from. Take the lead of a stay-at-home Irishman who will end up justifiably famous for having one of the funniest blogs around. Language warning, though.

"I think the Irish are going through a major image change. I mean, the old image of Leprechauns, shamrock, Guinness, horses running through council estates, toothless simpletons, people with eyebrows on their cheeks, badly tarmacced drives – in this country, men in platform shoes being arrested for bombings, lots of rocks, and Beamish. I think people are saying "yes, there's more to Ireland than this". A good slogan for the tourist board – "Dere's more to Oireland dan dis."

-- Alan Partridge

JUST DESSERTS

Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed: for in the image of God made he man.

-- Genesis 9:6

Mormon Utah was proclaimed the 45th state in 1896.

Naturally, The Beehive State, in their zeal to embrace the many benefits offered by membership of The Union, quickly requested federal approval of the death penalty. It's a question of fitting-in, you understand; when in Rome, don't be a Christian.

This presented a dilemma, though. Being sticklers for detail religion-wise, Utah needed a method of execution commensurate with the crime. To avenge bloody murder, blood must be shed. Electrocution was therefore not an option, and anyway, it had recently been challenged in the Supreme Court as "unduly cruel and painful." Actually, I can see that. Hanging was out, too; no exsanguination (What a top word!) there either, just the odd pissy/poohy accident.

Utah were left with two options, decapitation and firing-squad. Keen on a statement of biblical essence, they of course applied for decapitation. Sadly, the devout burghers of Salt Lake City were disappointed; Washington knocked back their polite, but gory, request.

Poor Utah had to settle for the firing squad.

I believe the guillotine should be introduced into Australia. Not for execution, mind you; I'm not THAT barbaric. No, I would only ever use it for excessively vile crimes. Paper theft, for instance. Some low swine keeps pinching the paper from my front porch. Off with his hands, I say. That ought to teach him a lesson.

With any luck I'll spot him in the local newsagency; now buying his papers. "Just PICKING up the papers, are we?" I'll taunt. "Need a _ _ _ _ ?"