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Author Archives: Therese Trouserzoff

Fable in Black (and White)

05 Monday Jul 2010

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Poets Corner, The Public Bar

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

Butcherbird, Crow, Currawong, Magpie

Crow Cries for his Lost White Feathers

By  Sean O ‘ Something of the Irish Kiss Tribute Band

Submitted by Ern Malley’s Cat

Back when not everything was as it is now,
there was a band of four black and white birds.
Butcherbird, Magpie, Currawong and Crow.

They each wore designs of beautiful glossy black and glowing white,
and every morning they filled the air with wonderful, colourful music.

Butcherbird was the smallest, with white on his front and neck and shoulders.
He sang with clear, floating, flute-like notes.
Magpie was bigger, with white only on his back and shoulders.
He sang with a cheerful, warm warble like a clarinet.
Currawong was larger still, with just some white on his wings and tail.
He sang with a rollicking riff like a saxophone.
Crow was the largest and he had just four white feathers, two on each wing tip.
His voice was the mellowest, with the rich resonant tones of a French horn.

The black and white band’s dawn chorus was irresistibly rousing.
The sun came up every morning to hear them sing.

But Crow was dissatisfied.
He was the blackest and glossiest of the birds, but he felt he wasn’t black enough.
He began to see his white wing tips as imperfection.
If only they weren’t there he’d be perfect, so he resolved to correct the error of nature.
He took the first of the four white feathers in his beak and plucked it out!
‘Aarrgh!’ Man that hurt! But it must be done!
He plucked the second white feather from his wing.
‘Aarrgh!’ Still, no pain, no gain!
Then the third.
‘Aarrgh!’ Nearly perfect!
The fourth and last.
‘Aarrgh!’
Now he was completely black and he could sing to the world of his perfection.
He threw back his head and opened his lungs and beak to the sky,
but instead of his rich, mellow voice, all that came was
the most mournful cry of the forever dissatisfied.
‘Aarrgh! Aarrgh! Aarrgh! Aarrgh! Aaaaaaaaarrrgh…’

Wiki Wiki Wiki, Oi! Oi! Oi!

30 Wednesday Jun 2010

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Politics in the Pig's Arms, Scott

≈ 7 Comments

Would you trust the truth from this man ? I'm checking with my hairdresser.

by Scott

Wiki Wiki Wiki… Oi! Oi! Oi!

I had to begin with the Oz chant here because I only recently learned that Wikileaks is in large part run by an Australian, Julian Assange. Wikileaks is a “multi-jurisdictional public service designed to protect whistleblowers, journalists and activists who have sensitive materials to communicate to the public[1]” and is aimed at creating ‘good governance.’ Assange is by all accounts a difficult man to speak with, currently stating that he feels his life may be in danger due to Wikileaks’ involvement in some leaking of classified US military material.

Assange may be correct to worry on at least one account. One of his idols, Daniel Ellsberg, leaker of The Pentagon Papers, recently stated that the current US administration is by far the most effective at finding and silencing leakers of recent US governments. He also agreed that Assange might be under personal threat if he is located.

There are a number of important questions you could ask regarding Wikileaks. One might be: good governance according to who? Another might be: do the Wikileaks folk have their own dark agenda? Or: do Wikileaks really just want to sell themselves to Google for a couple of billion dollars ?

Most basically, will knowing the truth actually help?

Wikileaks takes the position that if all the dirty little secrets of the corporate and government world are known, then it will be more difficult for them to have things all their own way.  Thus we find entries on the site such as ‘Scientology UK Annual Returns, 2008,’ ‘Secret recording of the LDS temple endowment ceremony, 2009,’ and ‘Boeing 737-200 maintenance manuals, August 2007.’ Some of the things on Wikileaks are items you might previously have found by searching the internet for websites or chat rooms dedicated to specific topics, others – like the Iraq footage – are not. The overall theory is, as I understand it, if the truth is known then lies lose their power to manipulate. So – good governance is equated with knowing the truth.

The idea of free information has been attractive to many over the years. I recall reading a novel by the Strugatski brothers, giants of Russian science fiction that they are, where information on the whereabouts of anyone on earth was freely available at all times. It seemed to me as a reader that freedom from secrecy might mean freedom from paranoia. Of course in that book, Beetle in the Anthill, there turned out to be ever-receding secret plots and paranoias, and no neat resolution at the end.

Closer to home, politics reveals that in many cases that facts do not help with governance. Currently we are seeing a revival of the debate about asylum seekers – and coincidentally or not, yesterday there arrived in my email a circular about ‘illegals,’ referring to refugees as ‘illegal’ border crossers. Interesting in a number of ways, but among them in the sense that it is well established – and no secret – that refugees are in no sense ‘illegal.’ This has been tested in Australia’s High Court, as well as being for a long time part of the internationally endorsed UN treaties.

So we know that refugees are not illegal. But this does not stop some from continually, and deliberately, mislabelling them as such. Also, it does not stop many countries around the world imprisoning refugees, at great expense to themselves and their constituents. It seems that access to the facts, after all, is no guarantee of good governance.

Another example of this might be cigarettes. Despite the best efforts of tobacco companies to hide the truth, it has emerged that cigarette smoking is – guess what – bad for you. For some time now we have known very clearly that there is a product which, when used in the manner designed, kills you. Despite this very clear and disturbing knowledge, cigarettes are legal in every country in the world that they were before we so clearly had this news. Less available and less used, but still there.

So maybe this idea that perfect information sharing will lead to good governance is slightly misguided. Perhaps we should prefer to think that fewer dark secrets will slowly lead us to better approximations of good governance, self-interest and profit-making notwithstanding.

Nevertheless, it sounds pretty good to me.

Where Wikileaks goes next will be interesting. If they sell to Google that would be an anticlimax, and disappointing. Where Assange and his associates get their money is a good question though – for all I know he’s independently wealthy, and just likes to annoy governments for something to do; a thought that makes me a little envious.

Currently the trajectory we’re watching seems to be leading to the eventual plugging of leaks on the side of the US government, with some kind of legal or other action against Assange at the same time to prevent him from trying to publish anything he does receive. One wonders if the US government has stopped to consider that there have been leakers and publishers for a long, long time before Wikileaks arrived.

Having said that, it seems that there are plenty of other places and governments that are worthy of leaking – too many to list here – and so even if the US leaks stop, there are a great many other windmills at which to tilt,  and possibly wobble about. In the meantime, would you like to help?


[1] Taken from wikileaks.org on 25.6.10

Foodge 14 Private Dick Photoshopping

29 Tuesday Jun 2010

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 13 Comments

Tags

Foodge, Photoshopping, Private Dick

.... Foodge had grown accustomed to the Daily Terrorgraph's sensationalist headlines

By Big M

Tuesday afternoon saw very little progress in the Local Member case. Foodge had started a file, which consisted of, the photos, and Mrs FitzPatrick’s business card, which Merv had managed to secure the previous morning. Foodge struggled to get comfortable, as the patrons had all been moved to the Ladies Lounge while Granny and Manne pressure cleaned “The Gents’. Evidently Merv had come across a full, automatic Fouler Wear stainless steel standuppery for an undisclosed amount. Granny was adamant that the entire room should be cleaned and repainted before installation.

Foodge had the photos fanned out like playing cards on the bar. He still struggled to make sense of the angle of the dangle, turning his head this way, and then that. He was sitting, wondering what the hell photoshopped meant when Merv piped up. “Well done, aren’t they?”

“Yes, lovely photos.”

“No, the photoshopping, beautifully blended, colour matches nicely, shadows fall the same way.”

Foodge suddenly realised that ‘photshopping’ had nothing to do with buying photos, but something to do with altering photos. “That’s if they are, indeed, photoshopped!” He retorted, thinking that he may have left the legal fraternity a little too early in life.

“Fair cop, you should get’em analysed. Waz is pretty good at this sorta thing.” Merv pushed another canoe across the bar. “I’ll point ‘im out next time he’s in.”

They both braced themselves for Janet’s ritual afternoon screaming session, but it never came. She was still in the grip of morning sickness, which lasted all day. Instead the pub was overwhelmed by the sound of big Vee twins. It was the Hell’s Angles, on their Charlies. Both Merv and Foodge visibly relaxed. The Angles started to wander in. Foodge was surprised to see Emmjay and FM, as they’d always rubbished American bikes. The last to enter the Ladies Lounge was The Professor, accompanied by Detective Chief Inspector Rouge, as well as Detective Inspector O’Hoo, who, thanks to Rouge’s influence, was still maintaining some semblance to a human

“Having a meeting, are we?”  Foodge was still a little hurt that his efforts in the de Sastri case had been overlooked.

“No, Foodge, not a meeting, a presentation.” The Professor intoned. “For services to the Hell’s Angles Motor Cycle Club, we hereby invite you to become an Associate, that is, non-geometric, member.” The Professor stepped forward and pinned a badge to Foodge’s lapel, shaking him vigorously by the hand. Each club member stepped forward, some shaking his hand, others embracing him, weeping openly.

DCI Rouge then took the floor. “I have been asked by the New South Wales Pleece Commishnar to thank you for you efforts in the aforementioned case, and am empowered to appoint you as a Special Deputy to the Pleece Force.” Rouge stepped forward, shook Foodge’s hand, and then hugged him tightly, whispering. “Thanks for looking after my little Gerald.” She had tears in her eyes. O’Hoo hugged him, grinning away. “There’s a big surprise.” O’Hoo, was, after all, a big child.

The Professor grabbed Foodge by the arm, taking him to the car park, the gang followed. “We’ve managed to find an old friend.”

There, parked in her usual spot, was Foodge’s Zephyr, idling as smoothly as when she came off the production line. Now it was his turn for tears. ”How…when…err.” He stammered.

“Surprisingly enough, Foodge, some of our members are mechanical engineers, and damned good mechanics.” Beamed the Professor. “Now, I think it’s time to party. Foodge was led back inside to the sounds of the Burnside Refugees, with guest bass player O’Hoo, and Emmjay on lead guitar. Merv had moved the pie warmer to the Ladies Lounge, and had stocked it with Fresh, Country Baked frozen pies and sausage rolls. Granny had hung up the water blaster for the day, and was busy cutting potatoes for her wedges. The Bowling Ladies had arrived with ham and tomato sandwiches, with thick margarine, on day old white bread, and had started to brew their trademark acrid tea.

Janet waddled down the stairs, convinced that this was the way a future mother of twins was supposed walk in the ninth week of pregnancy. DCI Rouge danced seductively in front of the bass player, whilst Emmjay’s First Mate attempted to teach the bongo player some musical concepts regarding cadence and rhythm. Merv was flat out behind the bar pulling pints of Trotters and Granny’s Best, whilst Granny was working her magic on the wedges. Even Manne was trying to be useful, by working as the bar useful.

The Pigs Arms was rocking. Angles danced with Bowling Ladies, whilst beer, wedges, pastries and sangers were consumed at a frenetic pace. Foodge was overwhelmed with the constant pats on the back, shouts of Trotters and smiles from well-wishers. Unfortunately, this just wasn’t his scene, and, ever the professional, he found his way up to the Nathan Rees Memorial Cinema, where, for the umpteenth time this week, he spread out the photos, staring whilst sipping a cleansing ale. The scruffiest, most unkempt fellow he’d ever seen soon joined him. “Gidday, I’m Waz.” As the newcomer thrust out a hand. “Believe you’ve got some photos need analysing?”

‘Waz’ set up a laptop, and his fingers were soon flurrying across the keyboard.  “So, you’re going to scan the photos into the computer to analyse them?” Foodge queried.

“No, I’m checking the comments on my various graphics and articles that I publish on-line.” Waz sneered at some of the text that flashed across the scree. “I only need to eyeball the photos.” He stopped typing, and looked at each photo. “Not photoshopped, mate.”

“So, they’re real?” Foodge was quick on the uptake.

Waz already had the laptop folded away. “Yep, see you.” Then wandered off.

Foodge sat and wondered how he’d break the news to Mrs FitzPatrick that the photos of the Local Member really were of his member.  Janet waddled into the cinema, supporting her non-bulging belly with two hands. Pregnancy suited her, Foodge reflected, even her crazy wandering eye seemed to make some effort to work in concert with the good one.

“You must be tempted.” Janet winked.

“Oh…er…um…a mate’s wife ‘n’ pregnant ‘n’ all.” Foodge’s cheeks coloured.

“No, you dill.” It was Janet’s turn to be embarrassed. “The photos. You could flog ‘em to one of the better papers, say, The Terrorgraph or Lewisham Bugle, for thousands. It’s a pity the Mirror’s gone. They’d pay tens of thousands.”

This had never crossed Foodge’s mind, not because he was a dill, no, he was honest, another personality trait that prevented him from re-entering The Law. “I’ve never thought about it. Thousands you reckon?”

“Yep, knew you wouldna thorduvvit, that’s why I suggested it.” Janet winked again, then waddled off in the direction of the flat over the pub. Pregnancy was really taking it out of her, besides ‘Mastercook’ was about to start.

Foodge realised that Janet was trying to give him a clue, but try as he might, he just couldn’t get it. Slowly, like dawn light filtering in through the high window of The Gents, where he’d woken many a fine morning, it dawned on him. Big Red had set him up to sell the photos to a paper. Foodge had been taken for a stooge.

photo borrowed from http://www.wtfoodge.com – a parallel universe – I suspect they borrowed it too……

Karen, with a capital ‘T’!

29 Tuesday Jun 2010

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Uncategorized

≈ 29 Comments

Okay, Helvi, I’ve teased you and kept you on tenterhooks long enough; it’s time to put you out of your misery. First, however, let me set the scene, Paula’s Easter Party, a couple of months ago.

Me with longer hair, flying the flag at Paul and Kaz' birthday party, December last year.

The first time I met Karen was at the birthday party she and Paula shared in December last year; we all went out for Pizza at Cafe Primo somewhere in the wild northern suburbs of Adelaide. I must say it was a beaut pizza, including Kalamata olives and anchovies, salami and everything that makes a great pizza!
The next time I met Karen was at Paula’s Easter bash… Earlier in the evening I’d ensconced myself in a corner on the lounge and set up my music for a bit of a jam.
The photos were all taken by Paula (thanks Paula!) but she didn’t get photos of the other two females who came to sit next to me and sing along:
The first was Swannee’s fourteen year old daughter; a gorgeous red-haired girl with a rosy complexion, snub nose and the cutest freckles; and like most teenage girls, she was an imperious madam who ordered me to play, one after the other, the three or four songs she’d recognized out of the three songbooks I’d taken along, before finally crashing out on the lounge and having dad come and take her off to bed.
Then Elaine came to sit next to me and sing along; afraid I’ve no picture of Elaine either; she’s an attractive woman perhaps a few years or so my senior. She sang along too, and stroked my left thigh for a while before wandering off to get drunk…
Finally, Karen came and sat next to me; she really enjoyed the music and sang along most enthusiastically. Her boyfriend however, was, I think, most definitely not impressed; check out the look on his face:

Karen really enjoyed my music...

From the look on her boyfriend’s face, he was  most certainly not impressed; if looks could kill, I don’t think I’d have survived to tell the tale. Later in the evening, in the garden, Karen and he came to ‘thank’ me for my music; Karen said she’d enjoyed it immensely, and I said it was great fun and that I’d like to do it again sometime. Her boyfriend gave me an extremely ‘dominant male’ handshake, and said, with a rather menacing tone in his voice, “Yeah, thanks! I’ll see YOU later!”
Now if I were twenty years younger, and twenty years less wise, not to mention, if I had both my feet in ‘fighting-fit’ condition, I must admit I could quite possibly really go for an attractive (dammit, she’s gorgeous, isn’t she?) brunette temptress who likes to sing along with me. But now I realize her name has an unusual spelling, it’s Karen, spelled with a capital ‘T-R-O-U-B-L-E’….
Sorry to disappoint you, Helvi, when you were expecting a tale of romance, rather than of temptation resisted, but I must say that it lifted my spirits considerably to know that at 55 years of age, I can still make other, considerably younger, men jealous!
I’ve still got it!
😉

Dear Aunt Mary – Hanky Panky

28 Monday Jun 2010

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Ladies Lounge

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

Aunt Mary, Hanky Panky, Pigs Arms

Dear Aunt Mary,

I friend of mine has a cold.  His partner comes on all sanctimonious about the use of a hanky to stifle sneezes and coughs – and even when he manages to whip one out in time, she is prone to roll down the windows of the car just in case.

I mean, if he dropped a fart, I suppose that would be appropriate behaviour, but a little “achoo” or “cough-cough” – surely that’s a bit over the top! Should he object?  Should he enclose his head in a humidicrib?  What?

Your nephew, Cy Nuss

Dear nephew,

I have to admit I find your letter curious, if not mildly disturbing. Your friend’s hanky etiquette is bad enough but the suggestion that your friend’s partner’s reaction was more apropos of a flatulence attack than a sneeze is preposterous as best.

Have you seen what goes on during a sneeze?  You do realize that the function of a sneeze is to expel mucus containing foreign particles or irritants and cleanse the nasal cavity. You do know that up to 40,000 mucus droplets are propelled at speeds of upwards of 160 kph during each and every sneeze. A sneeze may not be as odiferous as passed gas; but it is 10 times as dangerous to your health.

I do agree with you that by the time this semi-autonomous, convulsive expulsion of air from the lungs has traveled through the nose and mouth and been blasted shotgun-like across the interior of your vehicle it is already too late to roll down the window; but truly, what else is the poor woman to do? Is she expected to sit back meekly and offer a “god bless you” when every womanly instinct she has is telling her to throw open the door and leap to safety or slap you across your cheek and scream at you to cover your mouth? I would say that any civilized person would agree that the “rolling of the window” is a suitable substitute for these other, more natural, reactions.

One might expect you to know this already, Cy. One might expect that every child of Australia would already be well versed in all aspects of hanky etiquette; but clearly, in recent years, the advent of the tissue has lead to a steady decline in basic human civility. Perhaps only now, with our landfills overflowing with mucus-filled paper bombs, the world will finally bear witness to the hanky generation’s sense of sensibility.

All this is why is why I feel it is incumbent upon me to offer some suggestions for the proper execution of the common handkerchief during a sneeze or sneeze-like situation.

Always have a hanky handy. In particular be prepared while in confined spaces with other human beings. Some sneeze inducing situations you should be aware of include sudden exposure to bright light, a full stomach, high stress, spicy food, intense aromas and, of course, viral infection. Do note that if you are, in fact, driving a car having a hanky stuffed deep in your back pocket does not qualify as “at the ready.”

A hanky is not a prophylactic. Wrapping your digit in a hanky in order to shove it up your nose and dig around is never acceptable behaviour.

A hanky is not a trumpet. Never attempt to clear your nose in a public place by honking repeatedly into your hanky. Your mucus toots will never be the Brandenburg Concerto no matter how often you practice.

A hanky is not a work of art. Never. Ever. Open up your hanky to inspect the damage after a sneeze. It will never be Blue Poles so don’t even bother to check.

In fact, there is only one situation I am aware of where you can be in close proximity with another a human and not have to be concerned about the possibility of sneezing. That situation is while you are sound asleep. REM atonia is the only bodily state wherein motor neurons are not stimulated and reflex signals are not relayed to the brain so you and your partner as safe from a sneeze attack during this time. Then again, it is completely possible that external stimulants could cause you to wake up from your sleep and sneeze immediately upon waking so, here again, it is probably best to be prepared.

Finally, dear nephew Cy, there are a few things your “friend” could try the next time he finds himself at the wheel and does not want to abuse his partner with a mucus blast. Some simple preventative techniques include deep breathing to gently exhale the air his lungs would otherwise use for the act of sneezing. He could also try holding his breath and counting to ten or even crinkling his nose and keeping his eyes open.

However, should all this fail and your friend does accidentally let fly again in the presence of his partner; here is my suggestion:

Let her open the window. Apologize sincerely and then remind the partner that in Ancient Greece a sneeze was considered a favorable sign from the gods.  Your friend could then add that in many Asian cultures a sneeze means someone was talking about the sneezer. In China, Vietnam and Japan for instance, there is a superstition that if talking behind someone’s back causes the person being talked about to sneeze; as such, the sneezer can tell if something good is being said (one sneeze), something bad is being said (two sneezes in a row), even if someone is in love with them (three sneezes in a row).

Perhaps by offering a sampling of these fascinating facts your friend may be able to turn around the tenuous situation and make the whole disgusting episode seem somehow more acceptable. This may not be the perfect solution, dear nephew, but is far superior to making a comment like “Hey, at least I didn’t fart.”

Until next time, dear ones… nosce te ipsum.

Aunt Mary

Cyrus: Chapter 18, part 1

28 Monday Jun 2010

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Astyages, Cyrus the Great: Chronicles

≈ 17 Comments

Tags

ficton, greek philosphy

Cyrus breaks the power of the river god, Gyndes.

CHAPTER 18: Babylon

The Persian forces sat down outside Babylon, ensuring a complete embargo on all possible roads into the city. When the Assyrians saw this, at first they came out to offer battle, but seeing that Cyrus’ forces heavily outnumbered their own, they quickly withdrew back into the city, where they were prepared to withstand even a very lengthy siege. Indeed, Labynetus’ quartermaster had estimated that Babylon had supplies enough to last many years. Although Cyrus’ army attacked them immediately, most of the Assyrian forces made it back inside the huge brass gates of the fabled city.

As the last of the retreating Assyrians withdrew inside their city walls, and her huge brazen gates clanged shut behind them, Hystaspes rode up to Cyrus to give him his report on their first encounter with the Assyrians.

“Hah! These cowardly Assyrians!” he exclaimed, with utter contempt, “Knowing they would be completely defeated in an open fight they have withdrawn inside their city walls, where we cannot get at them! It looks like we are in for a long siege your majesty…”

“Perhaps…” Cyrus said enigmatically, “But there are more ways than one to skin a rabbit, Hystaspes!”

The general was again astounded at Cyrus’ apparent lack of concern; although once again he was relieved to see that his king had some kind of plan in mind, as Cyrus continued giving the general his instructions,

“Divide your army into two sections” he said. Pointing to the break in the walls where the river flowed into the city, he continued, “Put one section there… Where the river enters the city; and the other section on the other side of the city, where it leaves. I shall take the camp-followers and all of the unwarlike part of the host with me… You are to wait for the right moment and when you see the river become shallow enough, use it as a pathway into the city!”

“Yes, your majesty!” Hystaspes responded with a broad grin, for now he could see what was in Cyrus’ mind. Filled with admiration for his king’s cleverness and cunning, he added, “To hear is to obey!” Then he bowed deeply and left to carry out his king’s orders.

*** ***** ***

The city of Babylon stands on a broad plain and is an exact square a hundred and twenty furlongs on each side; so the entire circuit of her perimeter is four hundred and eighty furlongs. While Babylon’s size is impressive, no other city even comes close to rivalling her magnificence. The city is surrounded by a broad and deep moat, filled with water from the Euphrates, behind which rises a massive midnight-blue wall of glazed bricks, fifty royal cubits wide and two hundred royal cubits in height (the royal cubit being longer by three fingers breadth, than the common Persian cubit).

The soil which was excavated from the moat had been used to make the famous glazed bricks, their colour a blue as deep as midnight, which not only lined the moat itself, but from which Babylon’s fabled cobalt-blue walls were built. But their incredible size and strength and the fabulous deep blue colour of the glazed bricks were not the only marvellous features of these walls.

At regular intervals along their whole length they were decorated with enormous bulls, lions, chimerae and other animals, some real and some mythical, which were depicted in raised reliefs, which had been created in huge moulds using the clay from the moat. While the clay was still wet, these huge moulds were then cut into individually-numbered bricks and painted with the characteristic ceramic glaze which gave Babylon’s walls their famous deep blue colour; except of course where the moulded reliefs required other glazed colours. Finally the bricks, each of which was thus shaped and numbered to fit a very specific place in the wall, were then baked in huge kilns which had been specially built for the purpose. The reliefs were then reassembled as they were built into the walls as their outer course; their places in the walls already encoded in the individual numbers of each brick; which could then be exactly reassembled as the walls were built.

In this fashion, as fast as the soil from the moat was dug, it was moulded and made into bricks and then baked in the kilns. Then they started to build, first lining the moat with bricks and then constructing the wall itself, using hot bitumen for cement throughout; interposing a layer of wattled reeds at every thirtieth course of bricks. The bitumen used in the work was brought to Babylon from the River Is, a small tributary of the Euphrates far to the north of Babylon, where there also stands a city by the name of Is. This city is eight days’ distant from Babylon and lumps of bitumen are easily found in great abundance in this river.

Undoubtedly the tremendous amount of bitumen required for the mortar in Babylon’s walls were ferried down the river in the same huge rafts, made of skins stretched over a huge, wickerwork frame, which even now constantly ferried huge loads of grain and straw as well as other goods into the city.

These rafts varied in size but sometimes reached a diameter of a hundred and fifty cubits or more; and each carried at least one donkey; the larger rafts carrying several donkeys. When they arrive in Babylon, their cargoes are sold and then the rafts are disassembled and packed on the donkeys, which were used for the return trek upstream as the current was too strong for them to use the rafts for the return journey; and besides, they only carried two large oars, one on either side, which they used only to steer with down the middle of the river’s broad channel.

The walls of Babylon are so thick that along their tops, at regular intervals are small buildings to house sentries and guards; each has a single chamber and they face each other across the breadth of the wall, leaving enough room between them still for a four-horse chariot to turn. The circuit of the walls is so great that there are one hundred huge gates, equally spaced along the whole length of the wall, all made of brass, and with enormous brazen lintels and side-posts.

The city is, however, divided into two portions by the River Euphrates, which runs through it. This river is a broad, deep, and swift stream, which rises in Armenia, and empties itself eventually into the Erythraean Sea. The city wall comes right down on both sides to the very edge of the stream: and from the corners of the wall a high fence of burnt brick runs along either bank.

The houses in the city are mostly three or four stories high and the streets all run in straight lines, both those which run parallel to the river and those cross streets which lead down to the riverside. At the ‘river’ end of these cross streets there are low brass gates in the blue-brick fence that skirts the stream, which open onto the water and which, like the great gates in the outer wall, are also made of brass.

The outer wall is, of course, the city’s main defence. There is, however, a second inner wall, not quite as thick as the outer wall, but very nearly as strong. Each division of the town had a fortress at its centre. In one stood the palace of the kings, surrounded by a wall of great strength and size: in the other stood the sacred precinct of Ea the War-Maker; this was a huge square enclosure, two furlongs on each side, with gates of solid brass. In the middle of this precinct stands a tower of solid masonry, a furlong in length and breadth at the base, upon which was raised a second tower; and on top of that a third; and so on up to the eight level.

The ascent to the top is made on the outside by a path which winds up and around all the towers. About half-way up there is a resting-place with seats where religious pilgrims and tourists from every part of the known world habitually sit for some time to rest and meditate on their way to the top.

At the top of the topmost tower there is a spacious temple; inside this temple there stands an enormous richly-decorated couch with a huge table of pure gold beside it. There are no statues of any kind in this chamber and at night it is occupied a single native woman, who; so the Chaldaean priests of this god solemnly affirm; is chosen by the deity for himself out of all the women of the land.

These priests also declare that the god comes down in person into this chamber, and even sleeps upon the couch, in a similar manner to what the Egyptians say happens in Thebes, where a woman habitually spends each night in the great temple of the Theban god, Ammon. In either case the woman is a virgin and forbidden any contact with men. This practice is also similar to the custom in Patara, in Lycia, where the priestess who delivers the oracles is shut up in the temple every night.

Below, in the same precinct, stands a second temple, in which there is a seated figure of Ea-Zeus-Baal-Ammon in solid gold. Before this figure stands an immense golden table and the throne on which it sits and even the base on which it stands are all made of gold. Inside this temple there is also a figure of a man, twelve cubits high, entirely of solid gold. The Chaldaeans who serve in this temple boast that the total weight of all the gold in these items is eight hundred talents.

Outside the temple there are two altars, one of solid gold, on which it is only lawful to offer sucklings; the other is a common altar, but it is of great size, on which full-grown animals are sacrificed. It is also on the great altar that the Chaldaeans who serve as priests in these temples burn offerings of frankincense to the amount of one thousand talents’ weight, every year, at the festivals of the God. It was said that if the wind was in the right direction, the scented aroma of Babylon’s festivals could be smelled in Ephesus.

*****     *******     *****

An A to Z of my Favourite Noises

25 Friday Jun 2010

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Gregor Stronach

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

Foam, Goblins, Noises, Vuvuzuela

.... don't even ask .....

by Gregor Stronach

I like noises. It’s one of the reasons I am petrified of going deaf. The other reason I’m scared of going deaf is because I am, actually, going deaf. But that’s a sob story for another day. Today, I choose to Celebrate my Hearingness, with the complete A to Z of my favourite noises.

A is for aliens. They love to make noises, usually while standing on the roof of my home. My partner seems to think for some crazy reason that it’s actually just the plumbing making the weird noises, but I know better.

B is for Burping. I love the sound of a good, solid belch, particularly if it is one of mine. A sonorous blast from the belly after a good meal or a long swig of cold beer on a hot day is a true sound of happiness.

C is for clapping, for the following reason: I have always been fascinated by the concept of clapping. Who was it that decided that the polite way of showing one’s appreciation for something is to bang one’s hands together?

D is for Dynamite – I love the sound of a rollicking good explosion, the bigger the better. When I was a little kid, someone set off a huge bomb in a commercial laundromat three blocks from my house. The blast shook me out of bed, and it was one of the most interesting nights of my childhood.

E is for electricity. I like the buzzing noise it makes just before it really hurts you. Having been electrocuted on a number of occasions, I can reliably inform you that while the noise gets more and more interesting the longer you’re connected to the power supply, the sensation becomes less pleasant at an exponentially greater rate.

F is for Foam, the kind used for shaving. It makes such an excellent sound on its way out of the can that I have been known to try to use an entire container of it for a single shave. I ended up building a tower of foam on my head to see what I would look like. Predictably enough, I looked like a soft-serve ice cream. It served me right.

G is for Goblins. They sound like little kids full of helium and sugar… oh wait, that’s what they are. Never mind.

H is for Helplines. I like to call them and ask for help. Like when I locked myself out of my apartment, and rang a laundry detergent helpline for assistance. The lady’s advice – to ‘rub a little on the lock and wait ten minutes before putting it in the wash’ was next to useless, but interesting nonetheless.

I is for Ice, tinkling against the edge of a large glass containing scotch and soda water, from which I sip on a sunny afternoon as I watch the world go by. When I grow up, I’m going to be an alcoholic.

J is for James Morrison. He’s a trumpet player. I find that playing his records at a staggering volume is useful for subduing and evicting unwanted house guests.

K is for Kiss. It’s a wonderful sound, except if it’s coming from an elderly relative. Or if it’s the kiss of death. Then it’s probably not so good.

L is for Language. The part of language that I love is the first time I hear something said in a language that I am learning, and I understand it without having to translate it into English in my head.

M is for Mastication. When I hear someone chewing food, it makes me so happy that I feel like putting their eyes out with a fork.

N is for Nnnngggg, which is the sound most people make when they hit themselves somewhere sensitive with something blunt. I heard a great one the other day when a workmate slammed himself in the balls with a golf club. It was Good Stuff.

O is for Oration. Hearing a good speaker make a wonderful speech is one of life’s highlights. Hearing the US President make a tit of himself every time he opens his mouth is another.

P is for Pablo, my cat – she makes the best noises ever. When she’s hunting, she goes ‘meh meh meh’ just before she pounces. It’s cool – much cooler than you.

Q is for Questions – I love them, love being asked them and love answering them with a question of my own. People get infuriated by this practice of mine, but to them I say, “do I look like I give a fuck?”

R is for Rain, on a tin roof. As a child, I played in a cubby house made of asbestos sheeting with a pressed tin roof, and when it rained outside the noise was deafening, but I stayed dry. It was such a momentous feeling of safety and warmth that the sound, to this day, brings me comfort.

S is for singing. I like most kinds of singing, but especially the genre perpetuated by tramps and hoboes when they’ve had a couple too many swigs of cough medicine and they think, for a brief moment before they pass out, that they’re in the top twelve on American Idol.

T is for Tantrum. If there’s anything funnier than a little kid losing the plot, I’m yet to hear it. My personal favourite is the supermarket tantrum, which generally involves junk food, one harassed mother with a teetering shopping cart and a child on the floor screaming blue murder. It’s one of nature’s classic sounds.

U is for ululation. Look it up – I had to.

V is for Vaseline – or, more accurately, the sound a satisfyingly large blob of Vaseline makes when it hits a hard surface from a reasonable height.

ed…. no, V is for Vuvuzuela…… enough said….

W is for Wind. Pundits claim to have heard it speak, sing and even – famously – cry “Mary.” For the most part, though, it has a tendency to howl, particularly around my motorcycle helmet during repeated attempts to approach the speed of sound.

X is for something other than a xylophone. Bugger. I nearly made it all the way to the end.

Y is for Yellow – contrary to popular belief, yellow is not just a colour, it is also a sound. Synesthetes claim to be able to hear colours, as did I after one memorable episode with a strange chemical compound on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

Z is for Zoo. I have a friend who lives near the zoo, and on quiet Spring nights, if you lean out the window, you can hear the lions fuck. They sound so happy…

I trust that this satisfies your urge (or lack thereof) to know what my favourite sounds are. Next week, I’ll write something a little more accessible. I promise.

This piece was first published at http://www.rumandmonkey.com
ps – Gregor ALWAYS promises a proper piece next week……. 🙂

For What Shall it Profit ?

24 Thursday Jun 2010

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Politics in the Pig's Arms

≈ 15 Comments

Tags

global financial crisis, profit, stock market

.... a few problems for the Pig....

Problems with Profit

The Pig’s Arms welcomes Scott

Recent economic events in Australia and abroad have affected us very powerfully, in different ways. The Global Financial Crisis, GFC, is still headline news all around the world. There are daily updates on exactly how well or how badly things are going on this front. The saga of James Hardy has, in Australia, had as much power to command audiences as the GFC, probably because it is more local and personal to us here. Overseas, Americans have been treated to financial events such as the collapse of Enron, and of course the spectacular exposure of Bernie Madoff’s $US65 billion fraud. Prior to the GFC of course, there were a number of episodes of so-called ‘rogue traders’ in various investment houses. No matter how many of them there were, they were always ‘exceptions.’

And these were just the most spectacular failures.

There seems to be a common theme amongst all of these, a very common motive, mentioned most days in the evening news, but almost never commented upon by any observer. As motives go, it is not only very powerful, but universally praised within business, and considered not only indispensable as a motivation, but usually as necessary for normal civilised society. In fact, it has been recently stated by the scion of the Murdoch family as being necessary for freedom – freedom of the press, in this case. He was talking about profit.

Having seen what damage the motivation to make profit, or protect profit, can do, it seems very odd that the whole idea of profit as a motivation is not coming into question. The brief list of economic disasters made earlier is mostly a list of the damage done by failures driven by profit. What damage has success done? A couple of items on that list, James Hardy, and perhaps Bernie Madoff, are probably examples of the damage done by the success of the profit motive. Success, that is, until it all went wrong. It is important to remember that most of the accepted causes of the GFC were actually being hailed as great successes before that all went wrong.

Other successes of the profit motive are terribly suspect. The long-term targeting of third world countries by tobacco companies is an obvious one; also too the unrestricted logging of forests in undeveloped nations. Both of these endeavours, we are told, are greatly profitable and therefore wonderful successes. In a similar way, the profitability of the mining industry is trumpeted now not just as a success, but the kind of success that must be protected from any interference. And this kind of profit-seeking has a long history: the Opium War waged by the British against China must be one of the clearest examples by the English-speaking world of the success of the profit motive creating abundantly negative outcomes for a very large number of people, the knock-on effects of which continue to affect us today. One is reminded of Buckminster Fuller’s analysis that the modern corporation had its roots in the ‘fortune hunters’ of the old British Empire – people who today would be regarded as pirates.

But this is not a harangue against business, or enterprise. Rather, it is a call to involve enterprise more closely with the community. A broad issue seems to be that although people and profit-making entities live in the same world, they are not sufficiently involved with each other. This means that profit-motivated problems grow until they can only be addressed through legal or community-action means, which are laborious, expensive, and divisive. The James Hardy saga is a prime example of this; the recent history of tobacco companies in Australia and the US is another.

If profit is a problem, what to do about it? Various alternatives have been proposed historically, the most prominent of which is communism in its many forms. This has not worked in general. People do not react well to restriction of freedom; the promise of democracy, however well it is delivered, is freedom, and people like this idea. The profit motive has somehow usurped the position of democracy in making the promise of freedom. It may be that we would like to retain our freedom, but without the severe risk to our well being that the profit motive represents a good deal of the time.

How do we take charge of profit? The strategy used by communism has been to essentially ban it, and the state take complete control of financial and economic activity. This approach, besides being wildly unpopular with most of the people affected, did not work. It seems on the whole a good idea that to let people conduct whatever type of business they like, within the constraints of health, and to generally separate the state from business. This is essentially the model we work with now – some business, like tobacco, are quite constrained, and others, like making soft drink and potato chips are not, most of the constraints being along the lines of public health.

The other constraint we might like to place on business is in the area of extraction of profits. There seem to be some existing models of business in our culture now that might guide us as to how this can be done. To make all businesses into not-for-profit businesses, requiring the retention or reinvestment of surplus income, could be a good start. Businesses could do whatever they want, even pay their executives whatever they want, but the pressure to produce profits, and the tendency to use profitability as an excuse for decisions that adversely affect communities, employees and the environment, would be lessened.

Profits accumulated in each year would need to be reinvested at some point; whether this be in skilling-up a workforce – desperately needed in many sectors of the economy – or in investment in capital – also badly needed – would be up to them.

The structure of business governance also seems odd; it is frequently pointed out that many people on the board of one major corporation are on the boards of a number of others. This seems to make the boards collectively less focussed on their own business, their own affairs, and their own people. We could change this in a number of ways. The suggestion that the number of board appointments held by one person be limited to a small number is an old one, worth trying.

Also, boards can be required to have members representing the specific segments of the company population – professionals, clerks, truck drivers, and contractors. This may have the effect of at least slightly lessening the gap between a company and its own people – often manifested as disputes between management and workers, employers and unions, companies and communities, and so on. There is also some reason to think about including community representation on company boards; after all, any business benefits from being in the community it occupies in a number of ways. Surely the community should have some direct representation on the board of a business using it in this way.

Complaints about all this would come from the stock market. Given that the stocks traded return no capital for the companies except in the case of new stock issues and initial share offers, we are free to change how the stock market works. Perhaps a small proportion of every share transaction needs to return the the business – that way share traders are benefiting the companies they trade in, rather than themselves alone. A large amount of share trading is done by so-called ‘institutional investors’ – who have relatively vast sums of money available to inject into businesses deserving of the investment. The idea the they can accumulate steadily more vast fortunes, influence markets and move on, without ever contributing directly to the businesses involved seems ethically hollow.

No doubt there are some problems with these ideas. Share dividends are one issue: perhaps these can be paid as a proportion of the profits retained each year; that way they would be a predictable cost for the management, and a more predicable income stream for investors. There should not be any issue with the salaries and other compensation paid to company executives, because the boards would still be able to offer anything they see fit, as is the current situation. It might be that there is a greater level of accountability for the compensation on offer due to the slightly different makeup of the boards, however all businesses have been loud in their agreement for the need for accountability lately, so again, no problem. In fact, this should be a more agreeable situation than government regulation of compensation paid to executives, as is proposed by some currently.

In the end, the question that needs to be asked is: who does the striving for profit benefit? As we have seen many times in recent history, it benefits very few, and sometimes does not even benefit the entity that strives for the profit, as graphically illustrated during the GFC. The idea of profit is really a kind of pot of gold at the end of the rainbow – and rainbows always recede into the distance as we chase them.

Thirty Seconds is a Long Time….

24 Thursday Jun 2010

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay, Politics in the Pig's Arms

≈ 72 Comments

Tags

Australian politics, Julia Gillard, Kevin Rudd

.... in May, First Dog on the Moon drew ......

Well, it goes to show that there IS a Santa Clause after all.  And it also goes to show what a totally shithouse perceptor of the future is your humble correspondent.  A few days ago I wrote that the Labor Party might be pragmatic, but it typically gives a leader a fair shot at failure before giving him the heave-ho.  Remember Caldwell displaced by Whitlam, Hayden pushed out by Hawke – also just before an election, Hawke by Keating ….. and now Kevin by the Power Fox.  Sorry, her Highness the Power Fox.

I don’t think Beazley by Latham and Latham by Crean (or was it the other way around) count.  None of these fine gentlemen ever had a snowball’s chance of becoming PM.

But this time, the Labor party has shown that it has definitely moved into the 21st century by striking early and going hard – on Kevin – just because he had the whiff of failure about him – and because, let’s face it, we hate to be told what to do and how to think – especially by a smart arse churchie who’s often right.  But there were quite a few not-rights, and nobody really wants to hear the PM reading the Apology-of-the-Day – day after day.  I guess the buck really DID stop with him.  And today he was well and truly bucked.  I think he deserves a great deal of respect for not contesting a vote he was certain to lose – not by a slim margin but by more than 2 to 1.  Now was not the time to take on the fat cat miners, but when Julia gets in, and has three years for electoral amnesia to weave its magic, they had better pull up their socks and take it on the fucking chin.

None-the-less it certainly highlights the difference between the ALP and rabble of the co-alition.  Three leaders in three years (the last with a single vote majority in their caucus) and all they can come up with is a budgy-smuggling bike riding swim god.  Pathetic.  True, the Labor party had a choice – an excellent choice – and the discipline to make it and make it with surgical precision.  And Labor has the luxury of not having coalition partners who are total drop-kicks.  Or Wilson Tuckey.  Or the notorious comment by Liberal Senator Bill Heffernan who once questioned Julia’s political ability because she does not have children. Senator Heffernan said Ms Gillard was unfit for leadership because she was “deliberately barren”.

I know Senator Heffernan apologised, but I’d personally love to see him eat a mountain of humble pie now.  From the arse end of the opposition benches, of course.

So how will Julia play out ?  I’m predicting a comfortable smashing of the Libs when women of Australia get to chose between a mysogynist papist and a talented woman of true grit.  Does anyone remember Tony’s “sometimes I tell fibs speech” ?  Is anyone really going to vote for that jerk ?  Maybe the Kevin haters might have.  But it’s hard to imagine now.

Another (always proven wrong) prediction…… unless the Libs really DO want to get smashed running Tony as their leader, we should expect a return from Malcolm and then we could really see the battle between equal intellects …. and between capital and labour.

I was really disappointed by Rudd and was contemplating supporting the Greens (no other choice in the NSW election – and even then, that’s a waste).  Now I’m happy to go back to the spirit of the party of the old days and support the campaign of the local federal member – as if that mattered much at all.  Maybe Maxine McKew or another marginal candidate needs the help more….

I really hope that I’ve read the tea leaves more correctly this time around – and that Julia hasn’t been given the hospital pass that Carmen Lawrence, Joan Kirner (Anna Bligh – almost….) and certainly Kristina Keneally have taken…..

Angels in the Retirement Home

22 Tuesday Jun 2010

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Angels, Pigs Arms, Rock music

FM and I saw / heard the Angels at a gig at Revesby Workers Club last year.

They rocked the house down  and are an excellent role model for growing old disgracefully !

Angels in 1976

Doc Neeson 2007

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