Well.
Movan' did not turn out to be be quite the joi i had been expecting. That Beatnik thang about the journey being more than the arrival: that's bollocks. And, to introduce a historical perspective, let me say that when i write my 'History of the Real Estate industry' it will be a one-word affair. And that word? A noun; plural.
Here's a thing: Though it grieves me, as a very competent historian, to do this, i must. I read this mos' excellent book one time and now i forget the source. So i can't tell y'all... I can't cite, and that's upsetting. And unprofessional. But it's such a great story.
So here's what happened: This guy, from the Ravensthorpe district on the south coast of Western Australia, goes off to fight in the First World War. He goes through a bunch of shit, but survives, and comes back a changed man (no surprises there). In the early 1920s he self-publishes a book about his experiences, in which he, firstly, shreds the British officer he had served under (the aphorism that WWI Tommies were bulldogs under the command of rabbits comes to mind). Thus far, standard fare, very popular in Aust. But then he lays into the Aust Army - critical of their lack of organisation and rationale on the Western Front. The Aust Army tries to ban the book but people are having too much fun.
So this guy has, in time-honoured style, upset the authorities, including his assault on the Aust Army at a time when pride in our fighting guys was at its peak (didja know we started celebrating Gallipoli in 1916 - just twelves months after the landing took place). And i like that. But it gets better. In a fit of pique the guy returns to the Ravensthorpe district, takes up a returned soldier's land grant some miles out of town and stop there the rest of his life, doing the minimum amount of farming to keep himself alive. And he strips off. He spends the rest of his life out there on his block, naked. The locals joke about how you have to sound your car horn when you go visit, so he can put a shirt on (1920s car horn - toot, toot!!). It's a great story, and when i relocate the book i'll tell more.
I completely endorse the notion that we are pygmies, standing on the shoulders of giants. It just gets a little ick when one realises some of those giants were starkers.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
movan!
Movan'!!!
Inquilinate no longer.
Above and beyond, I am concerned by Corinthians II:14 "If a man has long hair, he is an abomination unto nature." I entirely agree, but there is a fine line. What constitutes long hair? Collar-length? Shoulder-length? Arse-length? I mean, you might be thinking to yourself, 'I really do need to get a hair cut,' but you don't have time all week, leave it to Saturday etc etc, but at the three mm per week normal growth rate, by Saturday, voila, Y're an abomination. Meanwhile, nature (whether or not equated w/ god is up to the individual's conscience) is giggling, and preparing an especially heavy tree branch to teeter just thus, a block down the road from your house on the route y normally take to the newsagent.
Or: some fucker takes intrusive photographs of you and sells them to A Current Affair, and you are = the new yeti
Congratulations.
Inquilinate no longer.
Above and beyond, I am concerned by Corinthians II:14 "If a man has long hair, he is an abomination unto nature." I entirely agree, but there is a fine line. What constitutes long hair? Collar-length? Shoulder-length? Arse-length? I mean, you might be thinking to yourself, 'I really do need to get a hair cut,' but you don't have time all week, leave it to Saturday etc etc, but at the three mm per week normal growth rate, by Saturday, voila, Y're an abomination. Meanwhile, nature (whether or not equated w/ god is up to the individual's conscience) is giggling, and preparing an especially heavy tree branch to teeter just thus, a block down the road from your house on the route y normally take to the newsagent.
Or: some fucker takes intrusive photographs of you and sells them to A Current Affair, and you are = the new yeti
Congratulations.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
BEWARE! IT'S OPUS DEI!
So at five the next morning I’m woken by a loud banging on the door. This irks me somewhat, but I have a golden rule. Always answer the front door.
It’s two men – dressed from head to toe in black; only not in the Johnny Cash cool kind of way. They speak with heavy accents.
“Did you go and see Steve Poltz last night?”
“Wha’ the fuck?”
“Did you go and see Steve Poltz last night?”
“Who the fuck are you?” I ask.
“We are, ahem…” They look at each other. “Representatives of Opus Dei.”
“Oh, right,” I say, “the shadowy ultra-right wing Catholic organisation founded by Josemaria Escriva in Spain in the 1930s. Why didn’t you say so?”
“How do you know about us,” one scowls.
“Ah, c’mon. Everyone around here has heard of you guys. Anyway, what the fuck do you want?”
“We want…” The one on the left pauses…
“Look, for fuck’s sake, it’s five in the morning. If I hadn’t been drinking last night and subsequently had the alcohol in my body convert to sugar while I slept giving me a strange energy boost, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Now, I repeat, what the fuck do you want?”
“We want to know if Mr. Poltz played the I got a handjob on the church bus song last night.”
That got me thinking. How I didn’t much like the look of these guys, and how I had no desire to accommodate them. How totally uncool it would be to rat on Steve Poltz. How morally bankrupt. How, let’s face it, un-Australian. And how, since I had really enjoyed the song, I was, as Mr. Poltz so correctly pointed out, complicit. No way was I telling them.
“Tell us, or we will be forced to take drastic and unpleasant measures.”
“Don’t threaten me, you cocksuckers.” So Deadwood. And I’m still thinking: morally bankrupt, un-Australian etc etc etc. And anyway, I enjoyed the song immensely.
The one on the right, now clearly the ‘bad priest,’ says, “Unless you tell us, we will torture you, torture your family, behead your cat and stick its head on a pole in your front garden so it’s the first thing you see each morning when you leave the house.”
This seems a little extreme, but I tell them, “Look my friends, I am not revealing anything. It would be immoral and cowardly. And this song you mention sounds like something I might have (theoretically) enjoyed very much.
Under no circumstances will I rat.”
“Well, this is our last offer. We are prepared to replace your scratched vinyl copy of Let It Bleed with a brand new shiny CD.”
“Ahhh,” I say, “One of the recently-released ABKCO remastered versions?”
They look at each other, one whispers something, and then after a pause, says, “Yes, all right.”
“Well, sure,” I say, “He played the I got a handjob on the church bus song. And, frankly, I found it to be quite disgusting.”
It’s two men – dressed from head to toe in black; only not in the Johnny Cash cool kind of way. They speak with heavy accents.
“Did you go and see Steve Poltz last night?”
“Wha’ the fuck?”
“Did you go and see Steve Poltz last night?”
“Who the fuck are you?” I ask.
“We are, ahem…” They look at each other. “Representatives of Opus Dei.”
“Oh, right,” I say, “the shadowy ultra-right wing Catholic organisation founded by Josemaria Escriva in Spain in the 1930s. Why didn’t you say so?”
“How do you know about us,” one scowls.
“Ah, c’mon. Everyone around here has heard of you guys. Anyway, what the fuck do you want?”
“We want…” The one on the left pauses…
“Look, for fuck’s sake, it’s five in the morning. If I hadn’t been drinking last night and subsequently had the alcohol in my body convert to sugar while I slept giving me a strange energy boost, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Now, I repeat, what the fuck do you want?”
“We want to know if Mr. Poltz played the I got a handjob on the church bus song last night.”
That got me thinking. How I didn’t much like the look of these guys, and how I had no desire to accommodate them. How totally uncool it would be to rat on Steve Poltz. How morally bankrupt. How, let’s face it, un-Australian. And how, since I had really enjoyed the song, I was, as Mr. Poltz so correctly pointed out, complicit. No way was I telling them.
“Tell us, or we will be forced to take drastic and unpleasant measures.”
“Don’t threaten me, you cocksuckers.” So Deadwood. And I’m still thinking: morally bankrupt, un-Australian etc etc etc. And anyway, I enjoyed the song immensely.
The one on the right, now clearly the ‘bad priest,’ says, “Unless you tell us, we will torture you, torture your family, behead your cat and stick its head on a pole in your front garden so it’s the first thing you see each morning when you leave the house.”
This seems a little extreme, but I tell them, “Look my friends, I am not revealing anything. It would be immoral and cowardly. And this song you mention sounds like something I might have (theoretically) enjoyed very much.
Under no circumstances will I rat.”
“Well, this is our last offer. We are prepared to replace your scratched vinyl copy of Let It Bleed with a brand new shiny CD.”
“Ahhh,” I say, “One of the recently-released ABKCO remastered versions?”
They look at each other, one whispers something, and then after a pause, says, “Yes, all right.”
“Well, sure,” I say, “He played the I got a handjob on the church bus song. And, frankly, I found it to be quite disgusting.”
Thursday, August 27, 2009
I mean to have it; even if it must be burglary
Now this aroused me from my afternoon torpor.
Ah, memories, and none of them mine.
I think i'll raise a toast in honour. Something even the wankers in the street wouldn't drink.
Ah, memories, and none of them mine.
I think i'll raise a toast in honour. Something even the wankers in the street wouldn't drink.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Hildebrandts!
Oh, my: there’s more to this Hildebrandt thing than first meets the eye. Sometime in the northern summer of 1904 (yes, kiddies, happier times - the signing of the Entente Cordiale) Karl Hildebrand set off to walk around the world.
Why?
Well, it could have been because this was the olden days, and most everyone back then was seriously fucking lulu, or;
He was “sent by a committee in London, the members of which were anxious to find out whether a man can possibly accomplish the tour on foot around the world without asking for any help on the way.”
People, I wouldn’t make this shit up. Well, I would, but I’d cough to it if I did.
On reflection, I think reasons 1 and 2 apply.
Seven and a half years later, he had reached Jerusalem. OK so far, except by then he had been across Europe, Africa and America. America? Between London and Jerusalem? How do you get that fucking lost? Karl, mate, you should have asked for help on the way. Your stupid fucking pride cost you three years of your life and an unnecessary side trip to the U.S. Particularly unfortunate as at that time it was mandatory, under the Ninth Amendment, that any person entering the United States allow the president teabagging rights.
That’s not all: Karl Hildebrand had two masters. He was also reporting back to the German Labour party (remember them?) “with descriptions of foreign labour conditions as to housing, pay, and hours.”
Don’t laugh, you bastards; two of his fourteen companions had died by the time they reached the big J. According to the account I read, this was from “their strenuous pedestrianism and the hardships they encountered.” I say it was more likely they reached a level of boredom where self-inflicted death was a gratifying alternative to Hildebrand’s endless recital of how much Nigerian workers were paid, how many hours Canadian abattoir workers put in each week and how small were the houses in Liechtenstein.
Little more than a century later, two of his great-great-great-great grandchildren are marrying each other.
Now, I’m prepared to call it: CONSPIRACY
Why?
Well, it could have been because this was the olden days, and most everyone back then was seriously fucking lulu, or;
He was “sent by a committee in London, the members of which were anxious to find out whether a man can possibly accomplish the tour on foot around the world without asking for any help on the way.”
People, I wouldn’t make this shit up. Well, I would, but I’d cough to it if I did.
On reflection, I think reasons 1 and 2 apply.
Seven and a half years later, he had reached Jerusalem. OK so far, except by then he had been across Europe, Africa and America. America? Between London and Jerusalem? How do you get that fucking lost? Karl, mate, you should have asked for help on the way. Your stupid fucking pride cost you three years of your life and an unnecessary side trip to the U.S. Particularly unfortunate as at that time it was mandatory, under the Ninth Amendment, that any person entering the United States allow the president teabagging rights.
That’s not all: Karl Hildebrand had two masters. He was also reporting back to the German Labour party (remember them?) “with descriptions of foreign labour conditions as to housing, pay, and hours.”
Don’t laugh, you bastards; two of his fourteen companions had died by the time they reached the big J. According to the account I read, this was from “their strenuous pedestrianism and the hardships they encountered.” I say it was more likely they reached a level of boredom where self-inflicted death was a gratifying alternative to Hildebrand’s endless recital of how much Nigerian workers were paid, how many hours Canadian abattoir workers put in each week and how small were the houses in Liechtenstein.
Little more than a century later, two of his great-great-great-great grandchildren are marrying each other.
Now, I’m prepared to call it: CONSPIRACY
Sunday, July 26, 2009
don't ask; don't tell
According to an article in the Australian Journal of Popular Culture, there existed a homosexual sub-culture among Australian servicemen, particularly in Newcastle, during World War Two. And – this is now seared in my mind – one of the markers, one of the little signs they gave one another - to say “psst, Barry, I’m one of the under-the-streetlight-brigade too” - was wearing certain articles of clothing subtly different from what was then the norm. Yes, my friends, the love that dare not speak its name dared to wear argyle socks! Now, I read this in an article published c. late 1990s. The author failed to outline his/her methodology (or I conveniently skipped over that bit) but source information on such matters would be hard to find; there would be no contemporary newspaper articles, memoirs etc. And I suspect that given the timing of publication of said article the original source material may well have been army documents declassified under the 50 year rule. With a nod to Python/Blackadder, and anyone else I may have ripped off, I suspect these documents read something like:
TOP SECRET: FOR COLONEL AND ABOVE EYES ONLY
MEMO: MEETING, 16th JULY 1943
PRESENT: Colonels Barnaby, Carruthers, Smyth-Forbes, Captain Larkins
Larkins: “Sirs, I have finished the report into the men’s off-duty activities that you requested.”
Carruthers: “Jolly good, Larkins. What’s the gist of it, man?”
Larkins: “Well, sir, I’ll come right out with it. One very disturbing fact came to light. There appears to be a spot of un-Army like behaviour going on among some of the men in the 4th Light.”
Smyth-Forbes: “Un-Army like behaviour? Whatever do you mean, man?”
Larkins: “Uh, yes, sir, some of the men are doing things….”
Barnaby: “Yes, yes, doing things?”
Larkins: “Yes, sir, that is, they’re indulging in, shall we say, certain, uh, French activities.”
Smyth-Forbes: “Ah, well, that’s not so bad. Good soldier the Froggy. Just the officers give them a bad name. Gunga Din’d on cheap plonk by lunch time, most of ‘em.”
Larkins: “Quite, sir. But what I mean is, some of our men are, um, doing things in the French way.”
Barnaby: “Well, yes, can’t have that, I suppose. Very disorganised, is old Pierre. So tell the men to sharpen up.”
Larkins: “Yes, but sir, that is to say, that this is an after dark sort of French thing.”
Carruthers: “Damn it man, stop with the French. Fought alongside some of ‘em at Breton Woods. Not bad in a stoush, Jean-Paul. Like to stick it right up the old Bosch.”
Larkins: “Yes, sir, that’s exactly it.”
Smyth-Forbes: “I still don’t see what your concern is Larkins.”
Larkins: “Sirs, it’s just that, well, some of the diggers are doing things that are a little less than manly. Not wholesome, if you see what I mean.”
Carruthers: “Well, damn it Larkins, what are you implying? Less that manly? Not wholesome? You know I lost my leg at Villeneuve. Stepped on one of Jerry’s exploding tin cans. I suppose I’m less than less than manly, am I?”
Larkins: “No sir, that’s not it. Let me explain…”
&c.
TOP SECRET: FOR COLONEL AND ABOVE EYES ONLY
MEMO: MEETING, 16th JULY 1943
PRESENT: Colonels Barnaby, Carruthers, Smyth-Forbes, Captain Larkins
Larkins: “Sirs, I have finished the report into the men’s off-duty activities that you requested.”
Carruthers: “Jolly good, Larkins. What’s the gist of it, man?”
Larkins: “Well, sir, I’ll come right out with it. One very disturbing fact came to light. There appears to be a spot of un-Army like behaviour going on among some of the men in the 4th Light.”
Smyth-Forbes: “Un-Army like behaviour? Whatever do you mean, man?”
Larkins: “Uh, yes, sir, some of the men are doing things….”
Barnaby: “Yes, yes, doing things?”
Larkins: “Yes, sir, that is, they’re indulging in, shall we say, certain, uh, French activities.”
Smyth-Forbes: “Ah, well, that’s not so bad. Good soldier the Froggy. Just the officers give them a bad name. Gunga Din’d on cheap plonk by lunch time, most of ‘em.”
Larkins: “Quite, sir. But what I mean is, some of our men are, um, doing things in the French way.”
Barnaby: “Well, yes, can’t have that, I suppose. Very disorganised, is old Pierre. So tell the men to sharpen up.”
Larkins: “Yes, but sir, that is to say, that this is an after dark sort of French thing.”
Carruthers: “Damn it man, stop with the French. Fought alongside some of ‘em at Breton Woods. Not bad in a stoush, Jean-Paul. Like to stick it right up the old Bosch.”
Larkins: “Yes, sir, that’s exactly it.”
Smyth-Forbes: “I still don’t see what your concern is Larkins.”
Larkins: “Sirs, it’s just that, well, some of the diggers are doing things that are a little less than manly. Not wholesome, if you see what I mean.”
Carruthers: “Well, damn it Larkins, what are you implying? Less that manly? Not wholesome? You know I lost my leg at Villeneuve. Stepped on one of Jerry’s exploding tin cans. I suppose I’m less than less than manly, am I?”
Larkins: “No sir, that’s not it. Let me explain…”
&c.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
*******
Gentle readers, I did not want to turn this into one of them conspiracy sites, but I’d like to draw your attention to a news item I espied today:
Kelly Katrina Hildebrandt of Florida is marrying Kelly Carl Hildebrandt of Texas.
Here’s the happy couple:
They met after she googled her own name, found Kelly Carl and began corresponding. Cupid took it from there.
“I totally think that it's all God’s timing,” says Kelly Katrina Hildebrandt said. “He planned it out just perfect.”
FUCK!!!
I totally don’t know about this. Can it be right? God’s plans for his flock include us marrying people with the same name? Where does it say this in the Bible? Did Thomas Aquinas know this shit? And how can I be expected to find – let alone marry – someone called a very competent historian?
Is Kelly Katrina some kinda holy mystic 33rd level Kabala priestess? Maybe she knows the secret names of Ya HoWa? Maybe she knows a whole lotta stuff and she aint tellin.’
Kellys [is that the plural?], give it up for the people.
Totally.
Kelly Katrina Hildebrandt of Florida is marrying Kelly Carl Hildebrandt of Texas.
Here’s the happy couple:
They met after she googled her own name, found Kelly Carl and began corresponding. Cupid took it from there.
“I totally think that it's all God’s timing,” says Kelly Katrina Hildebrandt said. “He planned it out just perfect.”
FUCK!!!
I totally don’t know about this. Can it be right? God’s plans for his flock include us marrying people with the same name? Where does it say this in the Bible? Did Thomas Aquinas know this shit? And how can I be expected to find – let alone marry – someone called a very competent historian?
Is Kelly Katrina some kinda holy mystic 33rd level Kabala priestess? Maybe she knows the secret names of Ya HoWa? Maybe she knows a whole lotta stuff and she aint tellin.’
Kellys [is that the plural?], give it up for the people.
Totally.
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