Author Archives: Therese Trouserzoff

The Coalition’s New Wasteband Policy.

10 Tuesday Aug 2010

Posted by in Emmjay

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Half of the Coalition's proposed Wasteband Network.

Andrew Robb and Tony Smith announced the much-awaited Coalition Wasteband policy today, saying that if electrocuted, Tony’s government would install a more modest wasteband than the massively-overcommitted Labor Broadband.

The Co’s wasteband featured :

  • An investment of $8.35 over two years
  • A large ball of wet string and two chopped tomato tins washed and dried.  Mr Robb added that his government was supporting Australian industry and was eschewing La Gina product and going for the Edgell finely-chopped variety.
  • Coalition technology specialists said that the high speed analogue installation was good for no bits per second (unless there was some residual tomato).
  • They added that carbon capture guru Tom Switzer was developing a work-around for rural users facing the threat of the string drying out due to drought conditions in the Barcoo.

Under the Co’s plan, two houses were probably going to be linked, provided that they were neighbours.  Negotiations were well advanced with residents adjacent to Joe Hockey’s place.

Joe Hockey (the Minister for Waistband) stressed that this was no Labor white elephant, but was less clear in answering the question “Well what kind of elephant are you, Joe ?”  Shortly after that Mark Latham was ejected from the press conference.

Manne, the Pig’s Arms reporter spotted Julie Bishop with a packet of Gro-plus and a bag of lawn seed on her way to working up the Coalition’s environment policy….. or grassing up Christopher Pyne’s unicorn.

Cyrus: Chapter 19

31 Saturday Jul 2010

Posted by in Cyrus the Great: Chronicles

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Babylon

Cyrus stood on a hill which overlooked his own most recent excavations. The huge basin dug by Nitocris had all but drained by the time Cyrus arrived in Babylonia; the lake was now just a huge grassy basin with a reedy marsh in its bottom. Cyrus took advantage of this and, following Queen Nitocris’ example, excavated a channel from the river into the near-empty basin thus turning the course of the river so that it flowed into the emptied lake once more.

“Your majesty’s plan must have been divinely inspired!” Pactyas enthused, as he surveyed Cyrus’ latest excavations with the monarch, “We have turned the Euphrates into the basin; the river has now sunk so low that the stream is now easily fordable. Your armies will now be able to enter the city Lord, and surprise the enemy!”

Cyrus was pleased; the praise was not undeserved; using only the unwarlike part of his host, he had turned the very strength of Babylon’s own defences against her. Cyrus was also pleased with Pactyas, who, with his quick and adaptable mind had proven to be as excellent a supervisor for Cyrus’ building projects as he was an efficient leader of the military forces which Cyrus had placed under his command.

“Thank you Pactyas; you have done very well.” Cyrus responded; giving Pactyas due credit for the organizational skills he’d displayed working out the logistical requirements for Cyrus’ earthworks. Then with an amused look on his face he added, “I wonder what the Babylonians will think when they realize that they have been defeated in part by the earthworks of their dead queen, Nitocris; for had she not dug the basin for this lake, we would not have been able to divert the river so easily!”

Pactyas appreciated the irony,

“Indeed, your majesty! It is as if the gods themselves have prepared your path and everything you need to accomplish your purposes in advance!”

In Pactyas’ mind, this latest plan not only revealed Cyrus’ military genius; it also confirmed Pactyas’ growing certainty that his new master could be none other than the Son of Heaven; the living incarnation of Merodach.

“Ea be praised for his wisdom!” Cyrus exclaimed piously, “We shall sacrifice generously to him and to his consort, Enlil, as soon as we have taken the city!”

Just as Cyrus had planned, the water-level had dropped sufficiently now for Hystaspes and his men to wade along the riverbed and directly into the heart of the city. Hystaspes knew that the smaller brass gates which opened onto the river were the city’s weakest points; and he had anticipated having to fight hard for control of these points of entry into the city. He was absolutely astonished to discover that they were not only unguarded, but also unlocked, thus making it even easier than they had expected to get inside Babylon’s much-vaunted walls and into the very heart of the city. The guards who would normally have been on duty had been so eager to attend the city’s religious festival that they had not only left their posts; they had also forgotten to secure them.

When Cyrus had first assaulted the city, so confident were the Babylonians in the strength of their city’s defences that they had all simply withdrawn behind the inner wall and into the centre of the city where they carried on life more or less as normal. As the winter progressed, however, Cyrus’ army was having a hard time living off the land in the surrounding region while they waited for supply lines to be established between them and Persia.

By way of amusing themselves, occasionally Babylonian guards or other members of the citizenry would appear at the top of the walls, and, behaving rather like the rudest of the tourists who came to climb Babylon’s famous tower, they would gaze out at the besieging army and taunt them by flinging occasional items of food down at their enemy. Then, laughing hysterically at what they invariably considered to be their own remarkable wit, they would disappear back into the city’s interior; quite certain that these foolish Persians would be starved, frozen to death, or else gone by the time they should next choose to venture out again to mock them. But most of the time they stayed deep inside the city’s interior, where they felt completely safe; protected by height and strength of their city’s impregnable walls.

Throughout the siege the Assyrians deep inside the city had remained blissfully ignorant of Cyrus and his earthworks. Even when the final breakthrough between the river and the basin was achieved and, the water level in the river started to be drop visibly and rapidly, there were no Assyrian guards there to observe the phenomenon or to wonder at its nature.

As it happened, on the day that Cyrus’ earthworks were finally completed and the river was finally turned into Nitocris’ basin; when the water-level in the river had finally sunk low enough to allow the army to walk along the riverbed; the Assyrians were deep in the heart of the city celebrating the largest and most important religious festival of their ritual year; the week-long annual grand sacrifice to Baal-Ammon known as the Feast of the Dead.

So intent were they upon celebrating their feast that no-one even realized that the water level of their own river had dropped severely. Nor did anyone realize that the guards, not anticipating any kind of approach whatsoever from the river, had forgotten to lock the low brass gates which gave access to and from the river; until it was far too late. When Hystaspes’ forces thus caught the enemy unarmed in the midst of their celebrations, they were all taken completely by surprise and easily defeated.

*** ***** ***

Rugby Player Not Charged Today

31 Saturday Jul 2010

Posted by in Emmjay

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Tarquin Tough

In a shock announcement , Tarquin Tough, the new head of the NRL said that no player has been apprehended and charged by police today for:

  • Drunken and disorderly behaviour;
  • Possession of drugs (pharmaceutical or recreational);
  • Possession of a firearm, licensed or unlicensed;
  • Assault (common or sexual or aggravated);
  • Grievous bodily harm;
  • Possession of child pornography;
  • Rape (actual or attempted);
  • Murder;
  • Manslaughter;
  • Or showing up late for training.

Mr Tough said that several players were facing the judiciary for unspecified misdemeanours like sponsorship violations and the League was likely to impose heavy fines just to impress on fans how poor they are in comparison with their idols – the ridiculously overpaid buffoons with poor self discipline and bad attitudes towards women.

He then mumbled something about a minor ram raid on an ATM, and a holday home on the Gold  Coast.

Football journos are currently checking to see whether the season is on, or off or whether it’s April 1.  Bat Masterson of the Daily Telepathy was quoted as saying “Give them a fair go, it’s not even lunchtime yet”.

Policy Schmolicy in the Bottom Drawer of the Cabinet

28 Wednesday Jul 2010

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In another lifetime and on another planet, Foodge had the good fortune to spend a while in the Cabinet Office – the Special Forces Unit of a government.  The members of this elite crew were the hand maidens of the head of that government and the gatekeepers for incoming flak (letters from shock jocks and hard-to-resist FOI requests) and outgoing (and I use the word loosely) “policy”.

Foodge was just breezing through cleaning the Ethernet cables.

But these Special Forces Cabinet Office people were a driven lot, usually hard and experienced from being bloodied in former campaigns in lesser theatres (inner and outer budget departments).  These were the gentle folk who could turn a complex issue and a complex set of attendant costs into a one page decision document for Cabinet’s consideration.  Cabinet would decide on the strength of say 300 words to spend or not spend say $300 million of taxpayers’ money – or money borrowed on behalf of taxpayers.

Cabinet discussions, papers and cabinet meeting minutes are sacred and Foodge thinks it’s fair to say that a person found to have engaged in a bit of pillow talk that led to a traceable leak could reasonably find themselves promoted to a challenging position on a wild pig eradication program or be posted to a vibrant centre 200 kilometres from Woop-Woop where the nearest viable cappuccino was 3,000 light years away.  It’s surprising how much leaking goes on these days at stratospheric levels that not even Wikileaks can fabricate.  Assange that, will you, Oaks …… showing that the failure of fatal consequence has the Cabinet leaking like a sieve.

Foodge, in an idle moment, once asked a wizened old wizard maven what constituted “good policy” ?  The Wiz thought for a moment, smiled and answered “no unintended consequences”.

This suggests an uncommon insight into the world of policy.  According to Foodge, “policy” involved what Sir Humphrey Applebee habitually referred to as a “brave” decision to actually do something about a problem that government was unable to slough off to some other hapless organisation – say the not for profit non-government charity sector.  Policy is clearly becoming an increasingly rare species with even fundamentals like incarceration of citizen criminals being outsourced to the  for-profit commercial-in-confidence very very private (immune to even FOI) sector.

The genesis of policy apparently had to be a problem, but the problem was not necessarily explicit.  The problem of deaths on unsafe roads was really only a problem in certain swinging electorates.  The problem was more generally the incumbent needing to stay in government.   And the policy was nothing so fancy as building a dual carriageway to totally prevent head-on crashes with an outcome as clear as X fewer crashes and Y fewer fatalities.  The policy became the spend.

Hear the announced policy, brethren “ MY government will spend $1.7 billion upgrading the <insert whatever here>”.    This saves the government from messy things like details and allows for massive adjustments to policy imposed by other more competitive policies.

A failure of policy then becomes an accounting exercise.  The opposition will attack the government because it has:  a) overspent (79% of cases), b) spent too late (21% of cases), underspent (a whopping 43% of cases) and d) no idea what it has spent or what it promised in the first place (39.6%).  Smart arse readers will notice that these percentages don’t add up to 100%.  That was a conscious policy decision – so, tough.

So when we hear critics say that government has, for example, not delivered on its promise to do something, to develop and implement a policy and (whoa Nellie) deliver a wanted outcome…… it wasn’t a case of the fact that a) some politicians had no understanding of the problem, b) no idea about what to do or c) refused to listen to people not in the Cabinet Office who actually DID know what to do and how to do it.

But the policy itself was basically sound.  MY government’s policy was basically sound.

It was well-intentioned at least, but it had an unintended consequence.

It was a cane toad moment.   It was a spending f*ck up.  Accounting blame game starts now.

Foodge looked balefully into his receding Trotter’s Ale, skipped the 24 hour news coverage of the election, opened his paper and checked the form of the Dapto doggies.

Travelling Backwards with a Fat Man

28 Wednesday Jul 2010

Posted by in Gregor Stronach

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in which we step inside the world of Gregor Stronach

I loathe to travel backwards. This morning, however, I had no choice. You see, I woke up late, my slumber disturbed by a disquieting dream that I am still, now that I’m at work, trying to shake from my consciousness.

I was at a rock concert, but it was hours until the show began, and I was inspecting the special effects – long black ropes that hung from the ceiling, providing the illusion of levitation for anyone game enough to attach themselves and launch their body out over the seats. Suddenly all hell broke loose, and my partner appeared, complaining loudly that she had been cheated by a crooked gaming table in a casino downstairs.

It was during the ensuing investigation that I met the owners of the casino – two well-dressed young men and their father, a stately old gent of Mediterranean extraction with a sharp eye for business. His only blind spot was a scrofulous little dog that he allowed to stagger along the tables and bars where he sat, talking business.

As he effusively promised to return the lost funds to our pockets, the dog – I never did catch its name – began to drool, its saliva turning gradually opaque – it left marks on my shirt, which upon closer examination turned out to be blood. The dog’s advanced age had obviously caught up with it, and the strands of bloody spittle became great ropy gouts of gore, and it became apparent that the dog, in its final stages of life, was divesting itself of all internal organs. Appalled by the smell, the other patrons began to run for the doors, as the ichor dripped from the bar too the floor.

The casino owner could do nothing but watch in horror, a cry escaping his lips as his beloved pet collapsed, shuddering with its heart trapped in its jaws.

A commotion behind me alerted me to further danger, as the other punters had begun to fight to leave the casino. Failing to understand the principles behind an orderly exit, the mob had formed an ebullient wedge at the doors, which quickly turned bad. Fights had broken out, and people were injured.

I turned and saw that a young man had perched himself upon the chest of an elderly lady. He was prying out her eyes with a screwdriver, and stabbing randomly at her flabby, fleshy, freshly-rouged cheeks, tugging madly at her handbag that was spilling small golden coins upon the floor. Both were laughing hysterically… dear god, what madness is this?

*click*

“… and it’s 7:30 in the morning! Rise and shine all you sleepy heads! The weather outside may not be that nice, but you’ve STILL GOTTA GO TO WORK! He he he… of course, we’ve been at work since 5am, but you don’t hear us complaining, do you Marty?

“No Phil! We LOOOOVE to come to work!!!”

That’s because being a breakfast announcer is, arguably, a job that should be reserved for the socially retarded and developmentally arrested one percent of the population that find driving a bus or scrubbing a toilet just that little bit too challenging.

“…and if you’re travelling along King St this morning, watch out! There’s traffic about! We have a report of a taxi colliding with a power pole, and there are cars backed up aaalllll the waaayyyy to Stanmore! Thanks to the NRMA Sky-Tracker Traffic Chopper – more traffic reports in fifteen minutes!”

A quick look out the window tells me it’s raining. For once. But I still hate it.

“Do you suffer from headache, backache or muscle pain?”

“No…”, and with that the clock radio is switched off. Get dressed, swear loudly, get undressed, shower, get dressed again, drop two spoons of ground tuna into a bowl for Pablo and Hunter and I’m out the door.

The bus arrives, and because of the rain, it’s busy. I don’t understand it – are these people that normally walk to work? Because I know that they’re all going to still be on the bus when I get off. I can see the sprinkle of usual faces I see most mornings on the 8:28am Limited Stops – but today they’re packed in between the gormless facades of strangers.

One seat left – the backward-facing seat at the front. Lowering myself gingerly into its comfortless embrace, I find myself face to face with him.

He is, of course, enormously obese. It’s a mild morning – the rain has finally calmed the raging heat that has gripped my city of Sydney these past few days. Yet still he sweats, pit-stains forming circular patches of filth on a deep khaki button-down shirt.

He’s wearing shorts, which reveal his ferociously hairy legs, which sport twin knee-surgery scars. His enormous bulk has clearly sounded the death-knell for his over-worked anterior cruciate ligaments, requiring reconstruction.

His shorts are too short – loose in the waist to accommodate his waistline, which appears to be expanding even as I watch. The legs of the shorts are too tight – his scrotum bulges beneath strained material on his left inner thigh, like a poorly-hidden weapon.

Even over the sounds of the bus – the hissing of the tyres on wet blacktop and the muted strains of a dozen iPods feeding tunes to the ears of their owners, who remain oblivious to the aural annoyance they’re causing – I can hear him breathe.

Tfffffffffft! goes the intake. A minute pause, before the strain of oxygen exchange takes its toll, and the air is expelled – Phuuuuuuuh. Beads of sweat appear on his brow.

Tffffffffft! Phuuuuuuuh… Tffffffffft! Phuuuuuuuh… Tffffffffft! Phuuuuuuuh… Occasionally punctuated by a rattle in his adenoids, suggesting an incoming dose of influenza.

He stares morosely out the window, his breath forming a fog on the glass, adding to the general fug of a government bus packed with damp commuters. He lunges for the bell, spotting familiar surrounds, standing as the bus begins to brake.

His weight and momentum threaten to deposit him upon me as the bus slows dramatically – his right arm swings forward, missing me by millimetres as he grabs the back of the seat behind me, juddering and jarring me uncomfortably.

He lumbered off the bus at that point, and as the driver made change for an inbound passenger, I saw through the window that he opened a small gate and entered the front yard of a house at the bus stop, fumbling deep in his pockets for the keys to the door.

“I know where you live, fatty. I’ll be by later – armed with weight-loss pamphlets and free gym membership offers and complimentary satchels of powdered diet-shakes. They’ll be stuffed in your letterbox and under your door – stuck to your windows with sugar-free chewing gum. I WILL be back.”

But I probably won’t. I almost as lazy as he is.

The now-spare seat in front of me has been occupied by an old woman. Her face is an almost exact replica of the woman I saw maimed in my dream.

Closing my eyes, I lean back in my seat – the morning has come full circle, and all that is left for me is to wait for the work-day to consume me, extract what nuggets of professional nutrients it can and expel me, as waste, upon the bus ride home.

Pig’s Arms Samurai Sudoku

22 Thursday Jul 2010

Posted by in Emmjay

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Most of the Pig’s Arms patrons have better things to do with their lives than fool around with Sudoku puzzles.  But just in case you feel the need to be part of a burgeoning urban commuting movement, here’s the Pig’s Arms “fit right in without having to break into intellectual panic” Sudoku.

Sushi level (Rated 4 Trotter’s Ales challenging) ……..

Samurai level ……. (Rated 3 Pink Drinks challenging)…….

And the Answer to last week’s Samurai Sudoku….

Biking to Timbuktu

19 Monday Jul 2010

Posted by in Emmjay

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Ducati 900SS

The Mighty Ducati 900ss

If there’s something more captivating than cuddling up to a quietly ticking Ducati 900SS on a coldish night in the Brindabellas and disappearing a flask of that fine product from Bundaberg (not the molasses, Merv, the distilled afterthought), then I’m yet to discover it.

Bike touring on a big twin is something delightful and an adventure that I can heartily recommend to readers, non-readers – and would be readers – of that old Robert M Pirsig classic “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance”.  As Mr P says, it gives one the opportunity to travel in the landscape, as opposed to seeing it flash past in the climate controlled six-speaker sound system four wheeled tin cocoon.

In summer one can savour the searing blast of a run across the Hay Plains at a fair clip in an open-face helmet and strain the occasional hopper through the moustache in a headlong rush to the next schooner of life saving chilled foamy liquid – carefully balancing a couple of hundred kilos of fine Italian metalwork, exquisite engineering and completely unpredictable electrics with the need to stay under the legal limit but be relaxed and wet enough to slip through the drought.

The point is to ride a machine that has a fair chance of allowing you to kill or main yourself, and an equal chance of not starting in the first place – leaving you to watch people you used to think were your mates disappear in a haze of smoke and raucous laughter down your street on only their back wheels, leaving you to fulfil the role of designated gooseberry – whose job it is to call Emergency Services when only Tommos Blue Heeler returns on Sunday night.

Unless you ride a classic bike, you miss out on the adrenalin rush associated with listening through the roar of bevel drive camshafts and mechanically-closed valves for those tiny telltale sounds that suggest a bearing is on the way out at 6,000 revs and you will be tasting the tarmac before you get to Bulahdelah.  Go ahead.  Nobody is going to notice you watching the temperature gauge and getting ready to go for the clutch.

Riding a big old bike and maybe sailing to Hobart are the last two ways you can scare yourself shirtless and experience the thrills and let’s face it pure terror of getting from Time to Timbuktu.

So how come it is those two dilettante fairies on SBS – Ewan Macgregor and Charlie Boorman can turn a major event like riding from John O’Groats to Capetown into the biggest and most boring festival of todger bothering on the small screen ?

Did you catch any of that tripe ?  I watched just the first episode and saw them struggle mightily with really fascinating things like getting a visa for their Yank friend to go through Libya.  Next time I’m going to ride through Libya, I’m going to enlist a couple of drop dead gorgeous ladies native to that turf to help ease my application through their customs formalities.  Yeah, right.

That, and Charlie’s dear wife being hospitalised just before kick off with some semi-fatal chest infection (in true scout fashion the old trout insisted that he go and she promised to pull through and cough a few encouraging bon mots down the sat line).  Give me strength.

From Chuck and Ew, I learnt quite a lot about international long distance bike travel.  Apparently these last thirty years, I’ve been doing it all wrong.  Instead of freezing crossing from Strachan to Hobart and getting snowed on in February (saved only by an open fire, a steak, a kilo of chocolate and several rums at the Derwent Bridge pub), I was supposed to be rescued by my backup crew and take a warm bath in the mobile home that was supposed to be following us a few dozen metres behind,

Just in case, you understand.

In case some of the extras from the remake of Deliverance wanted to get us to interact with the local gene pool – like it or not.  Sorry, I’m hopeless at doing pig impressions.

I think I need a few million dollars worth of film crew, support vehicles, the finest touring machines, a spare parts catalogue larger than California, several managers, my personal field surgeon, masseuse and a charismatic mate just like Charlie with eyes like two piss-holes in the snow.  The advantage is that nobody could tell that Charlie has just ridden non-stop through the deserts of Sudan (Go Ian Drury ! – I always wanted to squeeze him into a piece.) because Charlie always looks like that.  The purlieu of the mega wealthy – ultimate scruff – and the ability to hire someone far less attractive than oneself as a sidekick.  That’s IT !  I have gone through life totally without a Charlie-esque sidekick !  Although Merv would argue that I AM a Charlie-esque sidekick – or he might have said dropkick.  I’m not sure.

Through Ewan and Charlie’s august travel doco I also learnt how to cultivate a look somewhere between puzzled incomprehension and stifled frustration – possibly caused by having dental work inferior to my handsome, unfazed movie star colleague.  Or possibly because I have no actual idea what’s going on now, or what’s going to happen next – neither of which do I care to donate ordure over which of whatever. Of.

Hang on.  Can you wait on a bit ?  I’m practising diagnosing a mechanical problem by staring blankly at the silent engine cases and getting ready for my jovial and patronising exchanges with local tribesmen.  This one insists on giving me his spear ……..a fair trade for a travel doco this bad……

Emmjay

Best Art Gallery in Australia ?

18 Sunday Jul 2010

Posted by in Cricics, Critics, Everyone's a Critic, Emmjay

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Yesterday, First Mate and I visited the White Rabbit Gallery in Chippendale, Sydney – a new gallery devoted to 21st Century Chinese Art.

Shi Jindian's 3D Blueprint in wire

The sculpture above completely blew me away.  Made from blue wire and fine filigree, it is a full scale model – or perhaps a three dimensional blueprint – an astonishingly accurate rendition of a Chinese copy of a Russian copy (Dnepr) of a German copy (Zundapp) of a WWII BMW motorcycle with side car.  For those of us interested in motorcycles I (as an  owner of a 1954 BMW motorcycle) can tell you that this piece was accurate right down to the old fashioned side valves inside the engine.

You can check out the bikeology here.

We were astounded and completely in awe of the collection.  And let me apologise right now because a few clips from the web site don’t in any way do the exhibition justice, but if it provides you with a taste, that’s a fair start.

Walking through the gallery’s four levels we were greeted with the most amazing art works we have seen in a very long time – and hosted by incredibly well-informed minders on each of the four floors.  Whereas the NSW Gallery tends to have surly guard-types minding the treasures, the predominantly young minders  at White Rabbit were deeply knowledgeable, enthusiastic – and without being intrusive – were very available for a discussion or to answer questions about art works that are most likely to be unfamiliar amongst westerners and Chinese people who are more used to traditional forms.

Three artists working as "Unmasked" - their pieces are a view of the Iraq conflict and the translation was "Men who cast no shadows".

The pieces showed a sensational array of colour, materials, subjects  and different motifs – sculptural, photographic, paintings – on very large (two storeys) and very tiny (use the magnifying glass) scales and everywhere showing a wonderful commitment to excellent execution that speaks of months and years of work in individual pieces.

Some pieces were riotously funny.

Chilli - curiously reminiscent of a Burnside Refugee jam session.

This one by  Chi Lei (Chilli – a fan of the Red Hot Chilli Peppers) was a part of a disturbing cinematic  still montage.  Others in the series set in a “celebs” hotel were softly pornographic, debauched, bizarre and even forensic.

Some of the works by activist  artists reflected profound anger with political disenfranchisement.  Others are eerily disturbing and still others sad and reflective.

Wang Luyan's bi-directional pistol

We were deeply moved by the 10 metre panoramic photographic work of Jin Feng (Appeals without Words) depicting a large group of golden-skinned peasants protesting the state theft of their land, holding paper signs without words (because no official would read the signs).

Mao's Limo - was signed upside down and hng that way, Hung.

And the large scale photographs of parts of Chairman Mao’s limousine (with two discreet bullet holes in the window) speak softly but with great power of the irony of a communist owning a limousine.

The White Rabbit Gallery shows parts of an extensive collection and reflects the superb curation of the Director, Judith Neilson.  This, the second exhibition (The Tao of Now) finishes at the end of July and the gallery will be closed during August when the third Exhibition (opening in September) is being prepared.

Do yourself a huge favour and go if you can.  It’s worth every minute.  If you can’t go, do visit the website and take your time to see a wonderful collection of works by contemporary Chinese artists.