Monthly Archives: February 2010

7.1 The End of Zog

16 Tuesday Feb 2010

Posted by in Mark

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Sandy and Belinda’s Wedding Cake

Digital Matrimony by Warrigal

We are currently on Zog staying with our host Ziggy McGurk, no relation. Zogarian culture is very advanced compared to Earth. See on Zog there are no nations, its just one nation, sorry Pauline. There hasn’t been a war for over 100,000 years. As there are no wars the Zogarians got on with solving all of the problems like poverty, homelessness and disease. Zog has been a member of the space community for about 5,000 years and are experienced in space exploration and most importantly welcoming aliens. When you land you are scanned for disease and cured so no more methicillin resistant staph. aureus for me. You know it on Earth as the super bug MRSA that infects every hospital on the planet.

The problem on Zog that I have been sent to fix is that Zogarians are so dammed polite no one seems to be able to win a cricket game. Oh yes, the Zogarians are cricket fanatics. Some of the crew have come down as well to watch a few plays and go to the cricket. Ziggy has arranged for me to meet the cricket coaches so that I can teach them how to sledge an opponent Aussie style so that the teams can start to win.

I’m taken to a meeting venue at the Grand Arena, the HQ for Zogarian cricket. The room holds about 200 people and it’s packed. I’m shitting myself but this is what Gordon O’Donnell, the creator of the universe, wants me to do. “Now listen up. The players are too polite” I lead off “So you have got to get the fielding side to get into the head of the batsmen. This upsets them and throws them off there game.” I inform. “So if a batsman comes out who’s a bit overweight the bowler has to yell out ‘Hey fatso, can you move over a bit I can’t see the stumps?’” I declare. Around the room gasps and cries are rising up. “That’s cheating” one coach says “Well mate, that’s how the Aussie’s have been winning games for years and we’re the best on our planet. Anyway there is nothing in the rules to prevent it.” I state rather sternly, not like me at all.

To balance it up I lunge on “So now the batman has to say ‘Mate the reason I’m so fat is that every time I make love to your wife she gives me a biscuit’”. Faces turn to horror and cries ring out around the room. “Out with this cad” cries one man. “Get rid of this scoundrel” says another. “Look I understand you don’t like it but you do want to win don’t you?” I ask. The room quietens down. Yes, I’ve hit a nerve. They obviously want to win but it seems it’s against their culture.

“So Father, do you have any others?” asks a man at the front. “Well, yes, a few. But look here’s the rules. Pick on their appearance, their parents and their batting and bowling technique. At the end of the game always shake hands and have a few beers and tell them you were only joking” I deflate knowing how pathetic this really is.

Just as I finish my phone rings “Lord Climate, its Henry here. Look Father there’s some good news and some bad news.” Don’t you just hate these types of conversations?  “Okay then, please don’t give me a choice, just tell me what’s up” I say rather forlornly. “Well” says Henry “The good news is that the ships drive is being defragged so it will perform better.” Nice one Henry I think to myself. “The bad news is that while this is in progress the teleport transponder won’t work and we’ve just detected 500 ICCB troops closing in on your position” says Henry.

From Here to Nairobi Chapter 4 – The Tale of the Bearded Stranger

14 Sunday Feb 2010

Posted by in Neville Cole, Travels

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By Neville Cole

“So my friend,” Wolfgang interrupts deliberately shifting the conversation.  “How is it you chose to end up here tonight?  How did you get here?”

“I’ve been wandering around this area for years,” the bearded stranger replied matter-of-factly.

“You walked here?” Wolfgang exclaimed.  “Now that’s a story!”  Justin sat up sharply as if he’d just remembered a really big secret and leaned over to Wolfgang.

El Moyo - early morning

“He has been living in one of the El Moyo huts for a week. We blew it down this morning so I invited him to come up to the lawn tonight.

“You really walked here?” Wolfgang repeated.

“Walked, rode, drove, flew…I’ve done it all,” the stranger replied.

“He came right across the Sudan.  It’s a miracle no one shot him.”

“I got shot at,” the stranger replied. “I just never got hit.”

The way our new friend told it, he’d had been a traveller from birth.  Here is an abbreviated version of his story as he leaked it out in dribs and drabs during the course of the entire meal.

He described riding across southern Europe as a child in a gypsy caravan. His father apparently doctored farm animals and traded horses. He described picking pockets while his mother told fortunes at fairs. He talked of moving to Paris and how his parents struggled to keep the family together working in a factory.  In Paris he said he first discovered Marxism, Existentialism, and Sartre.  Then as a well-read, seventeen year old, he struck out on his own.  Drifting first to Spain and then on to Morocco he said his travels thorough North Africa proved to him that, although Europe was his birthplace, his spiritual homeland was Africa.  This was the land of the nomad, he said.  His political leanings had faded somewhat over the years but he never tired of travelling.  Somehow he managed to get by, primarily because he was well trained on getting by with just about nothing.  He spoke English, French, Romany, and enough Swahili to trade for just about anything he needed.  He was currently undertaking a solo stroll generally along the length of the Rift Valley but was more than willing to accept any ride anywhere down as many unchartered paths as possible. He admitted that actually rode a good portion of the way across the Sudan aboard a World War Two MAN troop carrier with a bunch of Dutch evangelicals headed for Cape Town. His method of funding  this existential pilgrimage was unclear but he did at several points in the story offer up a number of blunts, which were summarily passed around. His story, which I believed to be about twenty percent accurate, seemed to have the desired affect on the models, one of them had moved so close to him she could have been sitting on his lap.  She either was very turned on by his tale or really liked grass. Of course, the girls had pretty much been limited to a small crew of workmates for the past few months, so they were probably more than normally interested in some fresh meat.

As our epic dinner ends I look over to John.  He has the stare of a Vegas gambler who’s been beaten by lousy bluff.  He is obviously used to being the centre of attention and riding in the back of the Bearded Wonder’s bus isn’t sitting well.  I can see him searching for a bone to pick.

Italian painter Pino Daeni’s "The Gypsy"

“So, my gypsy friend,” he smiles suspiciously.  “You must play guitar, don’t you? Isn’t that a required part of Romany education.

“Of course,” the stranger replies.  “I play a little guitar.”

“Wolfgang,” John raises to his feet with some difficulty.  “Do you still have the guitars Peter left here all those years ago?  We need some party music.  My friend wants to play us a gypsy song and I will see if I can play along.”

Peter Beard’s vintage guitars are summoned and after some brief tuning by both players the stranger strums a slow progression then picks out a simple melody line.  John joins in with a dramatic flourish.  The two play together for a short time but it is evident that each is trying to out do the other and take the lead; however, once they each realize that they were both pretty damn good, they settle down and we all get up to dance.  Just another night at the Oasis; dancing under the stars to dueling gypsy guitars. The wine, the warm, steady breeze off the lake, the delicious food, the company, the philosophy and the laughter quickly drain my dwindling energy and by twelve-thirty, when the rest of the group is just getting going, I excuse myself and drift back to my room to sleep.  I have made it.  This is what I’ve been longing for – peace at last.

Home of the Brave. Land of the Free.

13 Saturday Feb 2010

Posted by in Susan Merrell, The Public Bar, Travels

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The Loved One

The Loved One on the Los Angeles to San Francisco Train

By Susan Merrell

It was a year ago, almost to the day that I first travelled to the United States.  It was President’s Day weekend (third Monday in February) when the plane landed in Los Angeles. It was the first Presidents’ Day where the White House incumbent was black. So, did the election of Barack Obama to the most powerful position in the country, if not the world, signify that racial prejudice and the white superiority complex was a thing of the past in America?  Did it hell.

Not a cloud was in the sky the Saturday morning we left Los Angeles for San Francisco. From the warmth of our train carriage you could be forgiven for thinking it was summer. It wasn’t. The temperature was hovering around freezing. The weather in stark contrast to what it appeared to be – as, we found, were so many other things here.

It had taken only a few hours on US soil to ascertain certain vital things. Like ‘regular’ coffee is undrinkable. If you really want to drink the coffee rather than just use the cup for warming your hands, ask for ‘espresso’. Neither is there such a thing as a ‘small’ size. Small equates to large and the sheer volume of liquid in a ‘large’ could break the drought in country Victoria.

Having only one night in LA, the ‘loved one’ and I spent it at the theatre. Playing was a musical comedy, Minskys at the Ahmanson Theatre in downtown Los Angeles – just a pleasant stroll from our hotel. Pre-theatre, we’d dined at a charming French Bistro nearby.

In the theatre foyer during interval, we amused ourselves people watching. Americans speak English, but not as we know it.

“Where yer headed?” for instance, was a question that would stump my husband time and time again.

“He wants to know where you’re going,” I’d translate.

But, be that as it may, things in LA had a certain air of familiarity grace of our televisions and movie screens. And some of those television characters were right there in that foyer. I swear, if I’d only heard her voice and not seen her face to convince me otherwise, I could easily have believed that the actress who played Robert’s mother-in-law in Everybody Loves Raymond was in that theatre foyer. You know the one – she has a high-pitched, little girl’s voice. Her voice so exaggerated that you’d think nobody could really speak like that. Wrong.

There was something disconcerting about this theatre audience that we couldn’t immediately quite put our finger on. Ditto the congenial crowd at the bistro. In a ‘light bulb’ moment it came to us. Almost everyone was white. (The exception was a couple of Rastafarians sitting in front of us at the theatre.) Where were all the dark-skinned Americans?

It’s not surprising that we, as Australians, took so long to become aware of their absence as, grace of the now defunct ‘White Australia Policy’, (Australia’s very own substantial contribution to racial discrimination) Australia’s contingent of dark skinned people, especially African, is still not large.  There’s no expectation that we will encounter many in our everyday lives.

But African/Americans make up 13.5% of the population of the US and that night in Los Angeles, African-Americans were grossly under-represented in the few places we’d been: a four-star hotel, an upmarket French Bistro and the theatre.

The next day, in the early hours of Saturday morning, cocooned in our warm, comfortable taxi en route to Union Station we found the missing Americans.

The taxi meter had not clicked over very far when mean streets replaced the congenial boulevards of downtown LA. They were bustling with humanity unlike the still empty weekend streets surrounding our hotel. Clearly homeless, these people were wrapped in blankets against the cold. It seems when you’re homeless and it’s freezing sleeping late is not that desirable.

And it was very cold. Warm breath turned white when it made contact with the icy LA morning. People blew this warmth onto their hands to thaw out rigid fingers. They were queuing. I don’t know why. Perhaps for food, perhaps for work. There were few Caucasians. Poverty and skin colour seemed to be bedfellows in downtown Los Angeles.

To give further credence to this developing theory, in our first class cabin on board the train to San Francisco all were Caucasian.

Notwithstanding this, the people with whom we struck up a conversation were nice, decent, friendly people…except…when we started to talk politics their necks grew increasingly red.

They had an evangelical approach to democracy.  Wishing to impart their beliefs worldwide they favoured doing so whether the recipients of their largesse wanted it or no.  It was their justification in advocating the right – nay the duty – of America to intercede in global skirmishes and, if necessary, to invade other sovereign nations. “It’s for their own good, you know.”

Opinions were resolute even after I’d identified myself as an Australian journalist and asked if I could record the conversation and quote it in future articles. They were delighted to cooperate and it wasn’t too long into the conversation that I realised their ease in expressing their prejudice had a lot to do with the colour of my skin.  They’d assumed because I was white I was simpatico.

The scenario was akin to the episode in Sacha Baron-Cohen’s Borat movie where a bunch of young American men’s reactionary views escalate into something grotesque with the encouragement of Borat and alcohol. I wasn’t encouraging them, in fact I struggled to remain neutral, to rein in my often shocked reaction in order to let their voices through.

Only one of my co-travellers suspected that I might in the future betray them in print.

“You’re going home to tell of these cock-sure Americans. I bet,” he said to me as he left the club carriage. Bingo!

Hell Hospital: Episode 7 – Christmas (Part 2)

12 Friday Feb 2010

Posted by in Hell Hospital

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By theseustoo

There are moments of spiritual certainty bordering on epiphany, in which, acting on compassion and from the most noble movements of the heart, one senses that whatever one can do to help a particular individual, group or cause, that it is most certainly the right thing to do, regardless of the outcome, or the cost. Paula’s generous impetuosity with the air-conditioner, aided and abetted by George, the Greek janitor, was just such a moment. As little Emily gleefully enjoyed the sight of a pretty snowstorm in her ward, Paula knew without a shadow of a doubt she had done the right thing… whatever happened next, it was worth it to see the smile on Emily’s face!

But once the ‘fault’ with the air-conditioners had been found and fixed there was still all that snow to deal with. All the children in the ward had to be kept warm with heated blankets as temperatures gradually returned to normal and the snow was cleared away by a team of cleaners, who eventually agreed to do the extra work for a 50% increase to their usual Christmas penalty rates. However, by the time the negotiations had finished, in spite of their best efforts, the snow could not be cleared away before much, if not most of it had melted; and the resulting water, as is its wont, flowed downhill…

The Children’s Ward was on the first floor, just above the reception area. The receptionist, a remarkably diminutive yet cheerful girl with the unlikely name of Candy, first noticed it when a drop or two of water landed on a sheet of paper she was printing out, smudging the ink; wiping it only made the smudge worse; she would have to reprint it, she thought.

Then it occurred to her to look up to where the water was coming from; the ceiling was all wet and water was dripping from it quite rapidly now… Suddenly the plasterboard of the ceiling, simultaneously soaked, weighted down and structurally weakened by the water from Paula’s snowstorm, gave way and allowed a deluge of water to drench Candy, the printer, photocopier, filing cabinet and the reception’s computer station, which now seriously malfunctioned, emitting dangerous electric sparks, as the water continued on its way to the basement, where it finally ended up as a pool of water a few inches deep in the morgue after compromising the morgue’s lighting and refrigeration…

***** ******* *****

When Loreen had seen Paula and George walking off arm in arm, she thought at first that perhaps Paula now fancied the janitor and had given up on Swannee. For a brief moment she was jealous of what she imagined was Paula’s new conquest, but then realized that this was something different… she’d overheard them talking about George’s grand-daughter and dolls or something; Paula was obviously trying to scam the janitor for his help in some scheme or other. She wondered briefly what it was all about, but then realized that without Paula’s presence there was no competition; she had done her homework and knew that Swannee would be coming off duty for his lunch break in less than ten minutes’ time; the field was clear… and since the packet of Viagra which she’d ordered from the internet had arrived in that morning’s post, she was ready for him! The Viagra would overcome this or any man’s indifference, she thought lecherously as she plotted her seduction.

***** ******* *****

Catherine Swan would have made an excellent girl-scout; she was always prepared. After giving birth to ten children, she knew the whole routing inside and out and had had her ‘hospital bag’ prepared since the eighth month of her pregnancy. No longer fooled by any false contraction, she instantly recognized the real thing when it happened. She instantly instructed the eldest boy to phone the hospital for an ambulance and the eldest girl to fetch lots of towels from the bathroom as her waters broke even as she was giving her eldest son his instructions. Of course, the baby would have to come now, wouldn’t it? Now, while Swannee, her husband was at work, doing all the overtime he could to feed the cricket team… Such a good man, she thought as the second-eldest boy dragged her bulging suitcase out to the front door and the doorbell rang just as the lad arrived, in time to open the door for the ambulance man, who turned out to be an old friend of sorts; one of St Helvi’s longest-serving ambos, he had been privileged to drive Catherine to the hospital for the delivery of at least half of the cricket team, including her first.

“G’day, Mrs Swan! Nice to see you again… How many will this be?”

“G’day Harry… nice to see you again too… how’s the wife? This’ll be the eleventh!”

“Good Lord!” Harry exclaimed, “They know what causes that now, you know!”

“Oh! You are awful!” Catherine joked as she clambered into the ambulance and son number two pushed her suitcase in after her.

“John,” she said to the eldest boy, “you look after the kids while I’m away won’t you? You know what to do? Daddy should be off-shift in about four hours’ time… There’s plenty of food in the fridge…”

John merely nodded; he’d been through this all before… more than once!

As the ambulance started to drive away, Catherine suddenly turned to Harry, who rode with her in the back of the ambulance, and said, “I wonder if I might have a chance to see Swannee on the way to the delivery room…” as the staff canteen where he worked was right next door to the maternity ward; “I need to remind him to get plenty of disposable nappies on his way home.”

“No worries missus! Long as you think you’ve got enough time before the bub arrives, we can make a quick stop at the caff…”

***** ******* *****

Growing Pains

12 Friday Feb 2010

Posted by in Gerard Oosterman, Poets Corner, The Public Bar

≈ 13 Comments

factory workers

The owner of the second factory and wooden leg had a curious way of dealing with others. His mouth did not just contain a fag with brown spittle leaking, but mouth was also set permanently at twenty past eight o’clock and he would spend the day creaking around the factory floor with gammy leg, sneering and leering at the cavorting going on. At times he would get into his strides and gun for me. He would grab my hair and pull my head towards the floor. ‘You forgot this bit here’ he would say. Look at it, you bastard, ‘here’ and he would spit a lifetime of smoking induced load of phlegm onto the floor.  Those unfortunate experiences were tolerated when considering that the pay off, at least, was not having to join in any buggering in front of the capstan lathe machine.

Cadets

Again, at some time later and another job, as an apprentice spectacle maker in Clarence Street, Sydney, the initiation for the young and upcoming workforce was for the adults to get Ultra marine blue or Cobalt blue dye in powder form and after taking the pants down of the uninitiated, rub this powdered dye around the genitals of the hapless victim.  This dye was so strong it would stain legs, genitals and clothes for weeks. Later on when I found out that this was widespread and tolerated and accepted as an almost essential part of ‘growing up’, I knew that there was a serious and serial kind of bullying going on. Of course, at that time I was also astonished to observe young kids going to schools in quasi army uniforms and with mock rifles slung over their tiny shoulders. Was there a war still? Girls, in the middle of hot summers with black skirts, black tops, black hats, black stockings and even black gloves. Was there some connection between all that and bullying?

Cobalt blue

My younger brothers and single sister in the meantime were enrolled at different schools. Some at the primary school locally, and two brothers to a catholic high school, called ‘De La Salle’ College. It was not long before our parents found out that the punishment of whacking her children with a ruler or cane was not all that rare, so off the ‘chief of staff’, (mother) went to confront the Head ‘Brother” of this ‘benevolent’ College wanting to stop the bullying by physical violence of her children. The practise that was commonly used would be the voluntary holding up of the palm of hands, whereby the kindly ‘brother’ would sweep down at full throttle and hit the upturned palm with the ruler. Another much liked version was the hitting of hands with the knuckles up. This was popular because it inflicted so much more pain and was even more effective in installing subservience and non questioning education in pupils.

Another perplexing insight in this new country was given that for children to move up to the next level of education, this did not depend on having passed examinations on subjects, but rather on how much someone had grown up? The younger ones did not have the advantage that Frank and I had of having had a few years of English back in Holland, so it was perhaps much harder those first couple of years for the younger brothers and sister to stay in front. When it was suggested that John should perhaps spend another year at the same level, the answer was that John was so tall he could not possibly spend another year in the same class.

Cyrus: Chapter 15, part 6

10 Wednesday Feb 2010

Posted by in Cyrus the Great: Chronicles

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Theatre at Delphi

Cyrus

by

Theseustoo

Usually only a single herald was sent with enquiries for the oracle at Delphi. However, in this particular instance Croesus wisely sent two; each to guard the other, in case either the Pythoness or perhaps even the god himself should decide to avenge themselves for what Croesus realized might very well be taken as an impertinent question. Neither gods nor their priestesses, Croesus knew, took kindly to impertinence. Croesus was not afraid for himself, however, indeed he was perfectly willing to suffer whatever punishment the gods may decide to inflict on him, but he felt it would be unjust if their anger were to be vented on these innocent messengers.

Another unusual aspect to this particular expedition was the absence of any of the usual gifts of gold, silver or purple which traditionally accompanied such an enquiry. Although Croesus had reminded his heralds that Lydia had just been granted permanent exemption from all fees by the Pythoness herself, they nevertheless still felt nervous; especially when they considered the nature of the question they were now obliged to put to the most powerful oracle in the world. Thus it was two extremely nervous Lydian heralds who arrived all too soon at the sacred shrine of the oracle.

The Pythoness had been gracious enough to grant them an audience immediately. Her imposing presence terrified the two trembling heralds as, with her white arms wreathed in living snakes and her eyes flashing with the internal fires of infinite knowledge and infinite wisdom, the demi-goddess descended the thirteen marble steps which rose to the dais from which she habitually consulted the gods of the abyss which yawned beneath her; and from which they spoke to humanity, directly through her.

The vocal utterings with which, in an entranced state, the Pythoness transmitted the will of the gods of the abyss were totally incomprehensible to mere mortals, however. First, they were translated and the words recorded by a priestess and then filed in the Tablet House, after a copy of the original had been made to give to inquirers. It took many years of education to learn how to interpret this godly language; many more years of arduous studying and meditation before any candidate could even hope to be considered as eligible for one of the few exalted positions of Student of the Oracle; and many, many more years of study, meditation and also waiting patiently until the incumbent Pythoness dies before one of these rarest of mortal individuals was chosen as her replacement. Thus, regardless of who the incumbent was, the Pythoness was always a most formidable and highly imposing person.

The Pythoness was not presently entranced however and, with an effortless grace she descended from her sacred raised dais towards the two trembling messengers, to whom her manner seemed haughty and severe; as indeed, they would have expected from a goddess.

The unusually intelligent consciousness in her eyes; the way they seemed to look not at, but through people, as if she saw not only their outer personal appearance, but also inside them to the very depths of their souls, added to the mystique which adorned the Pythoness like glamour itself; a magical aura which emanated from her very person. The Pythoness knew the effect her highly cultivated and refined manners and appearance had on people; indeed she always carefully stage-managed her interviews to achieve exactly that effect; although she was sometimes a little surprised at the extent to which some of her visitors were affected by it.

Nevertheless, this glamour was a very useful tool, and the Pythoness, after a lifetime of training, used it with great skill. In the current circumstances, this too, only added to the fear the Pythoness’ imposing presence was generating in the hearts of Croesus’ quaking messengers as she waited in silence in front of, and a few steps above them, for their question. Nervously, the bolder of the two heralds looked up into those intense emerald-green eyes and, with as much courage as he could summon up, said in a quavering voice,

“Our master, Croesus of Lydia, wishes to enquire if you are not ashamed of having encouraged him to begin a war with Persia of which these were the first-fruits?”

As he spoke he took the shackles with which Croesus had been bound from a large leather wallet he carried slung over his shoulder, and tossed them at the Pythoness’ feet. Then, with a kind courage of which only the powerless are capable, he continued bravely, “…and if it is the Greek gods’ habit to be ungrateful?”

The dark look the Pythoness now gave him withered the fearful messenger who now cringed and cowered before her, afraid for his very life. But the words which came from her mouth next astonished him; as did the tone in which they were uttered, for it was not harsh or angry and recriminating, but kind and gentle and not at all what he had expected:

“It is not possible” the Pythoness began softly, “even for a god to escape the decree of destiny…”

Where the messengers had been expecting anger at the impertinence of their question, there was only understanding; and a gentle explanation as, seeing the puzzled expressions which now replaced the immediately relieved expressions which had briefly appeared on their altogether astonished faces, the Pythoness continued her explanation:

“Croesus has been punished” she said, “for the sin of his fifth ancestor, Gyges, who, when he was one of the body-guard of the Heraclides, joined in a woman’s fraud and, slaying his master Candaules, wrongfully seized the throne.”

The heralds were familiar with the story; indeed it was the foundation story of their own, until very recently, independent nation of Lydia; Gyges, their first truly Lydian king, had been persuaded by Candaules’ wife to kill her husband, the last king of the Greek Heraclides dynasty. This was her revenge on her husband, Candaules, who had outraged his wife and queen when he had secretly displayed her naked body to Gyges as a result of Candaules’ own excessive admiration for her beauty. That explains, the heralds now thought to themselves, why such an indisputably holy man as their master, Croesus, had suffered such a reversal of fortune; as the now unusually un-entranced and remarkably garrulous Pythoness continued,

“Apollo was anxious that Sardis should not fall in the lifetime of Croesus, but be delayed to his son’s time; he could not, however, persuade the Fates. All they were willing to allow he took and gave to Croesus. Let Croesus know that Apollo delayed the taking of Sardis for three full years, and that he is thus a prisoner three years later than was his destiny. Moreover it was Apollo who saved him from the fire. Nor has Croesus any right to complain about the oracular answers he received. For when the god told him that if he attacked the Persians he would destroy a mighty empire, he ought, if he had been wise, to have sent again and inquired which empire was meant, that of Cyrus or his own.” At this point the Pythoness’ voice darkened several shades, “But if he neither understood what was said, nor took the trouble to seek further enlightenment, he has only himself to blame for the result.”

The messengers, now immensely relieved that their lives were no longer in any apparent danger, quietly nodded their understanding of the Pythoness’ explanation. The one who had spoken earlier was about to enquire about the meaning of the mule in her prophecy but she apparently divined what he was about to say, for she interrupted him, silencing him with a single raised finger as soon as he opened his mouth, and gave him the answer to his question before it was even asked:

“Besides,” she said as the herald gaped like an astonished goldfish, “he misunderstood the last answer which was given him about the mule. Cyrus was that mule! For the parents of Cyrus were of different races; and of different conditions.  His mother was a Median princess; the daughter of King Astyages; and his father a Persian and a mere subject, who, though so far beneath her in all respects, had married his royal mistress.”

When the messengers returned to Sardis to report the Pythoness’ answer to Croesus, their one-time king accepted it with a quiet and resigned patience which several centuries later, the Greeks would come to call ‘stoicism’. Addressing Apollo, the god of prophecy, who had saved him from the fire, Croesus poured a libation in his honour; as the one-time king now sighed a brief prayer of repentance,

“Alas! Now I can see clearly all that I could not see before; the fault is my own and not the god’s…”

***   *****   ***

Cyrus had, of course, occupied Croesus’ palace in the newly-captured city of Sardis, but as he truly did not wish to cause this holy man any further distress he allowed Croesus to keep his own personal apartments.

But it was from the throne room of Croesus’ palace that Cyrus administered his new province; and it was in this throne room where he now received two Greek heralds; one from Ionia and another from Aeolia.

The people of these Asian-Greek provinces, both of which had previously been tributaries to Croesus, had just heard of the fall of Sardis and had sent these messengers to try and forestall any desire for vengeance which Cyrus’ may feel tempted to exercise for their earlier blunt refusal to join him in his rebellion against Croesus. They had started by offering him an alliance on the same terms as they had held under Croesus…

Coldly, Cyrus addressed them both,

“So, you have been sent from Aeolia and Ionia to request alliances with me now that I have conquered your master, Croesus. Yet you refused to revolt against him even when I offered you the same kind of liberation the Milesians now enjoy. And now that Sardis is conquered and Croesus is my servant, you come to offer me the same terms of fealty you used to have under him. Here is my answer:

There was a certain piper, who was walking one day by the seaside when he espied some fish; so he began to pipe to them, imagining that they would come out to dance for him upon the land. But as he found at last that his hope was in vain, he took a net, and enclosing a great draught of fishes, drew them ashore. Then the fish began to leap and dance; but the piper said, ‘Cease your dancing now, as you did not choose to come and dance when I piped to you.’ Now go!”

The terrified ambassadors exchanged fearful glances and then, bowing and scraping obsequiously and repeatedly they hurriedly backed out of the throne room.

***   *****   ***

How Different Can Dogs Get ? One Canus Tell

09 Tuesday Feb 2010

Posted by in The Public Bar, Warrigal Mirriyuula

≈ 27 Comments

 

Siberian Wolf

Story by Warrigal Mirriyuula

You all know what a sucker I am for a good dog yarn; so when I came across some recent research regarding the genetic and morphological variation in domestic dogs I was immediately drawn to a study that articulates the human determined direction of domestic dog evolution over the past 10K years, and specially the effect of human selection in confirming Darwin’s theory. Human intervention has allowed dogs to follow their own evolutionary paths, dumping Darwin’s soundbite, ‘survival of the fittest’, and proving him right in the bargain. The study was conducted by biologists Chris Klingenberg, of The University of Manchester and Abby Drake, of the College of the Holy Cross in the US.

Published in The American Naturalist on January 20, 2010, the study compared the skull shapes of domestic dogs with those of different species across the order Carnivora, to which dogs belong along with cats, bears, weasels, civets and even seals and walruses.

African Wild Dog

It found that the skull shapes of domestic dogs varied as much as those of the whole order. It also showed that the extremes of diversity were farther apart in domestic dogs than in the rest of the order. This means, for instance, that a Collie has a skull shape that is more different from that of a Pekingese than the skull shape of the cat is from that of a walrus.

Dr Drake explains: “We usually think of evolution as a slow and gradual process, but the incredible amount of diversity in domestic dogs has originated through selective breeding in just the last few hundred years, and particularly after the modern purebred dog breeds were established in the last 150 years.”

Asian Wild Dog

By contrast, the order Carnivora dates back at least 60 million years. The massive diversity in the shapes of the dogs’ skulls emphatically proves that selection has a powerful role to play in evolution and the level of diversity that separates species and even families can be generated within a single species, in this case in dogs.

Much of the diversity of domestic dog skulls is outside the range of variation in the Carnivora, and thus represents skull shapes that are entirely novel.

Dr Klingenberg adds: “Domestic dogs are boldly going where no self respecting carnivore ever has gone before.

“Domestic dogs don’t live in the wild so they don’t have to run after things and kill them — their food comes out of a tin and the toughest thing they’ll ever have to chew is their owner’s slippers. So they can get away with a lot of variation that would affect functions such as breathing and chewing and would therefore lead to their extinction.

“Natural selection has been relaxed and replaced with artificial selection for various shapes that breeders favour.”

Dingo

Domestic dogs are a model species for studying longer term natural selection. Darwin studied them, as well as pigeons and other domesticated species.

Drake and Klingenberg compared the amazing amount of diversity in dogs to the entire order Carnivora. They measured the positions of 50 recognizable points on the skulls of dogs and their ‘cousins’ from the rest of the order Carnivora, and analyzed shape variation with newly developed methods.

The team divided the dog breeds into categories according to function, such as hunting, herding, guarding and companion dogs. They found the companion (or pet) dogs were more variable than all the other categories put together.

Pug

 

According to Drake, “Dogs are bred for their looks, not for doing a job so there is more scope for outlandish variations, which are then able to survive and reproduce.”

Dr Klingenberg concludes: “I think this example of head shape is characteristic of many others and is showing it so clearly, showing what happens when you consistently and over time apply selection.

“This study illustrates the power of Darwinian selection with so much variation produced in such a short period of time. The evidence is very strong.”

Story Source:

Adapted from materials provided by University of Manchester.

Journal Reference:

1. Chris Klingenberg and Abby Drake. Large-scale diversification of skull shape in domestic dogs: Disparity and modularity. The American Naturalist, January 20, 2010

From Here to Nairobi Chapter 3 – Art for Sartre’s Sake

09 Tuesday Feb 2010

Posted by in Neville Cole, Travels

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"Mr Dali, do you use a dictaphone ? No, I usually use a lobster."

Story By Neville Cole

Dinner arrives not a minute too soon. Most of us have been drinking for more than two hours already and we are all quite besotted. Meals at the Oasis are served family style so introductions are quite naturally in order. Everyone seems most interested in learning more about the bearded stranger taking his seat at the table. All he will offer up is that he no longer uses a name but that he will always answer to “friend”. Most of the group appears quite willing to accept this rather peculiar comment and leave him to his anonymity; John, of course, is not one of them. Leaping to his feet he is clearly ready to pepper “friend” with further questions but his attack is cut short by a more pressing need: food.

The meal starts all out quite remarkably with an appetizer of Lobster Turkana (actually Nile Perch in a white crème sauce but Michel, after one bite, spits his on the floor later explaining he is allergic to crustaceans and was momentarily convinced it really was lobster). Perhaps feeling a need to draw attention away from the retching Michel and more importantly to himself, John seizes that exact moment to raise himself up to his full, gangly height and call the entire table to attention.

“I’d like to make a toast…” he says while keeping quite remarkable balance for one so tall and tipsy. “To Wolfgang… to Lake Turkana… to beautiful African skies and even more beautiful women!” Now, that was something the whole group could agree on, and glasses around the table were duly raised.

I can’t help but think that we look quite a sight this night. The bearded stranger sitting at the center of our long table and the rest of us spread out to either side disciple-like with John next to me at the far end.  I can already tell that John is more than primed to play the part of Judas. Of course, unlike The Last Supper, our two dozen or so includes four strikingly gorgeous girls. The girls don’t say much and they eat even less. In fact, until three bowls of salad are set down before us, not one them has a single bite.

I find myself transfixed by the tall blond next to me who is diligently carving her tomato into impossibly thin slices and savoring each bite with almost orgasmic delight.

“You really like that tomato, don’t you” I ask finally.

“Mmm, yes” she answers with a distinct Russian burr. “I have not ever tasted such a flavor.”

“They are very good, aren’t they? You can really tell that they are fruit.”

“Fruit?” the Russian says while posing seductively with a thin slice of tomato poised next to her full lips.

“Yes, you know…” I continue. “As opposed to vegetable… I always had a hard time thinking of tomatoes as fruit because in the States where I live they don’t have much flavor.”

“Mmmm?” she adds with little conviction. “I suppose you must be right.”

I am clearly losing the battle for her attention so John leaps into the fray.

“Neville is a writer and a filmmaker too” he exaggerates. His interruption fails to hit its mark. The Russian continues on her oblivious tomato-loving way. However, all is not completely lost and Michel turns to me with sudden curiosity.

“You are filmmaker? You did not say this earlier. What film you make?”

“I’m not a filmmaker, exactly.” I have to admit. “I make videos. They’re kind of like travel videos, but not exactly…and I write kind of a travel blog, but not exactly.” I’ve never been very comfortable describing what I do and this floundering attempt quickly loses everyone’s interest and imagination and is quite rightly overshadowed by the arrival of the main course, a mountain of grilled perch filets and fresh vegetables.  Before we can fill our plates, the bearded stranger raises himself up and all eyes are immediately drawn to him.

 “My friends,” he says warmly. I have a toast for us tonight as well…” His toast is delivered in what appears to my ears to be almost perfect French. When it is completed we all drink with the requisite convivial gusto but John in his typical fashion is the first of us to ask for clarification.

“Why don’t you translate your toast for the rest of us so that we can all know what we just drank to?”

“Of course,” the bearded one smiles. “I said: What we choose is always the better; and nothing can be better for us unless it is better for all.  We have all chosen to be here together in Africa tonight and that I believe is a good thing for all of us.” 

I look over at Jean. He is sipping his wine and whispering quietly but with great sincerity something about “l’essence” and “l’existance.”

“What was that last bit, Jean?”  John asks with a cheeky smirk.  “I guessing some more Sartre, but it’s been years since I discussed French existential thought.  I’m afraid I’m a tad rusty.

“Very good, my friend. You are correct. We are both quoting Sartre.” The bearded one replies. Jean reminded us that: “Existence comes before essence.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?” I ask myself before realizing I have just spoken my thoughts out loud.

The bearded stranger holds out his glass of wine.  “It’s like this glass,” he says holding it to the light. The person who created this had a one purpose in mind – to make a beautiful container for wine. Whoever made it knew exactly what it would be used for.  The glass is made in a certain, definable manner and precisely for a specific purpose.  In the case of this glass, its essence – the sum of its production and its purpose – came before its existence.  The same is not true of us. We exist first then create our own essence.  Our choices determine what we are.”

“And God or some supreme being doesn’t enter into it?” John asks, quite obviously simply for the sake of stirring the philosophical pot.”

“Man is his own creator. As Sartre wrote: “There is no supernal artisan. There is no human nature because there is no God to have a conception of it. Man simply is. He is in possession of himself and the responsibility for his existence is squarely upon his own shoulders.” The bearded one then finishes off his glass and reaches for a new bottle of wine.

“I agree with the whole self-determination idea,” John says without a trace of cynicism, “but I don’t see how that necessarily excludes the hand of God from setting the whole thing in motion.”

“It’s science, man!” Justin suddenly blurts while knocking over his wine glass for added effect.  “Everything fits together.  Look around you, the formula works.  We are all one fucking big science project!”

6.1 The Chairman of the Bored

07 Sunday Feb 2010

Posted by in Mark

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Do you remember when some idiot posted the pic of the ICCB scoundrels – Putin et al on the general web page or the dot ? Well, that pic should have gone here, but since I already screwed that up, I’ll continue out of sequence with this one – a home made ICCB bomb. Sigh.

Digital Mischied by Warrigal;  Screw-up by Emmjay.

Nobody’s owning up to the story, but it’s got Hung’s fingerprints all over it.

I’m bored. We’ve been in space for so long now I’ve forgotten, well, you know, the time thingy. Henry, the navcom, is avoiding tollways and wavetables so we can dodge the ICCB. It’s rumoured that the ICCB has sent out death ships to ram us and blow us up. Not on my zarking watch mate, I’ll tell you now. So, we’re taking the back roads okay?

“Are you bored Belinda?” I ask rather jadedly “Certainly not Sandy, this is great, all the books I can read, no cricket and fresh fish every second night, any girls dream, oh and of course you, handsome” Belinda replies cheekily.

“Look, I have this idea. We’ve been on this space ship for ages and we’ve never given it a name so lets?” I blurt.

“Well it’s the SHITS38B being the Super Hot Intergalactic Transport Ship Model 38 and B for Biosphere” replies Miss Smarty Pants.

“I think we need a team meeting to resolve this issue” I declare. “Catherine” I call into the ships intercom “Yes Lord Climate?” comes the reply “Look its zarking Sandy okay, get everyone  over to the Bats Droppings for a meeting, a meeting of the Bored, we need to give the ship a name” “Yes Lord Climate, a board meeting at 1500 hrs okay with you?” Catherine asks, “Yes, a Bored meeting.” I assert, “No worries Lord Climate, a board meeting booked” Catherine states.

The local pub, in the English village bio, is called the Bats Droppings and thanks to its owner they serve Trotters Ale, my favourite mildly hallucinogenic gluten free beer. Merv the droid got the recipe off Merv the publican, who brews the ale on site at the Pigs Arms back on Earth.

The crew are rolling in. There’s George our house mate, Michael the publican, Helvi our coordinator, Dave the guitar droid and the Kipper and Jilligan. There are a couple of new crew in the mix. I discover it’s the chief sensor called Warrigal. Warrigal reviews all of the data received by the ship and filterers it digitally so it makes more sense. The other droid is GO, an artist droid that immediately starts sketching a picture of this historic meeting.

“Okay you lot, grab a pint on me” I call, cheers erupt round the room, buying votes? Never crossed my mind. Oh, and yes droids can eat and drink when they want to. “Now I want to name the ship, anyone got any ideas?” I put to the group. “What about Sunev which is Venus backwards” says Dave, “The Van Gough” says GO “What about the Myfanwy” says Michael “Very Welsh” he continues and rubs his groin. The crew keep tossing up ideas. I love brain storming because basically I don’t actually have a brain.

Suddenly Belinda speaks up. Holding her tonic water to her ample bosom she says “Sandy, why don’t we ask the ship what it wants to be called? You see one night I couldn’t sleep as you were snoring so loudly. [Tutu here: Know what I mean girls?] I did some research about the ship. The ship is built by the Arcups and when the WEE is turned on the ship becomes sentient.” Gee I’ve heard some farcical things since I’ve been in space but this takes the cake. Suddenly the room starts to spin “Sandy, Sandy, come back, it’s true, ask Catherine” Belinda calls. Boy, the farce is strong at times.

I talk into the ships intercom “Catherine is what Belinda is telling me true?” “Yes Lord Climate, the ship is sentient” replies Catherine. “Can I talk to it?” I enquire “No, but I can” relates Catherine. “Okay, then ask the ship what it wants to be called?” I request of the central controlling computer. “Okay but this will take a few minutes and you may not like the answer” says Catherine.

Another round is poured as GO completes his sketch. Dave plays a few tunes from Pink Floyd just to break it down. Michael brings out a couple of trays of wedgies. Life’s good ain’t it.

“Lord Climate the answer is er, well, um, you know, sort of, well, Julian” says Catherine. “What Julian! What sort of sprauncy name is that I mean what about something mean and evil?” I state firmly, “I told you you wouldn’t like the answer” Catherine replies “But that is what he wants to be called although it’s not the name his mother gave him”

So there we are, I’m the Chairman of the Bored of the SHITS38B which is now called the S.S. Julian and Gordon bless all that sail on her.