The Great Aussie Moore Chapter Two: The Fire

22 Friday Jun 2012

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Neville Cole

Tags

1901 fire, Aussie Moore

Melbourne before the storm

By Neville Cole

The summer of 1901 was unreasonably hot and windy and, though I need not add this, excessively dry. This was especially difficult on my slowly recovering mother. Doctor Lockett did finally arrive on the morning of my birth to attend to my mother. He praised Mr. Webb for his surgical efforts but nevertheless administered a dose of opiate and did what he could to clean the wound and stop the bleeding. He wanted to have my mother moved to the new hospital in town but she would not hear of leaving her family and instead my father hired a Chinese nursemaid from the goldfields who was known for working miracles with injured miners.

I, of course, was too young to remember any of this – being but a mewling and puking babe at the time – but during a recent visit the State Library in Melbourne I happened upon some articles written over the summer of my birth.

HEAT AND GALES the headline read and DUST STORM IN THE CITY; but the one that struck the clearest chord simply noted LOSS OF LIFE AND PROPERTY.

The Argus scribe wrote on February 7^th, 1901 that shortly after 6 o’clock “one of the most violent dust storms that has ever been experienced in Melbourne swept over the city, and came as a fitting climax to a day of almost unprecedented heat.” He described the “rushing, mighty wind” as seemingly “converting the city into a gigantic railway train, rushing with headlong speed into a tunnel.” He also wrote that storm formed an “impenetrable grey wall causing vehicles to come to a standstill, and that the trams, after endeavoring to maintain snail’s pace motion amid the incessant clanging of warning bells, finally gave up the attempt”. But perhaps the most telling description I read pointed to the fates of innocent bystanders caught up in this furious whirlwind: “Luckless pedestrians clutched their hats and made for the nearest portico or doorstep, or clung to verandah-posts, burying their faces in their hands to escape the blinding cloud of dust and pebbles. The tornado swept through the metropolis in a few minutes, warning messages of its approach being sent over telegraph wires from places it had just left, though, as a rule, the recipients had no time to make use of the warning given to them.

1901 fire

Melbourne was smothered by dust that day but spared the flame. We country folk were not so lucky. We had not only hurricane force wind and dust but also faced fires travelling at a terrific rate in front of that wind. Account after account in the Argus noted the devastation.

In Lower Byeduk, for example, “three houses alone stood out of the original fifteen. Nothing was saved, not a stick of furniture, and women and children, who had dashed out of their houses, just in time to save their lives had to stand by and see a mass of flame lick up their houses. People,” he went on, “with clothing burning, rushed to the creeks and dams, and many stood therein, while with hurricane force and cyclonic speed the fire swept past them actually singing their hair.”

While engaged in the act of reading these accounts I could not help but to imagine my dear mother, still partially invalid from the trauma of my birth sitting by me in my cot trying to formulate an escape from the fiery darkness that raced toward her like a headlong train.

No one ever told me an exact account of that day; but from snippets I did take in it appears that even in the days leading up to the great fire my father was often heard to curse his own father’s name. “Who but an arrogant fool,” he was said to exclaim, “would build his house on a hill instead of next to a cool and comforting stream?” What man would rather watch over his dominion than allow his family to live in comfort and safety?”

All of which is to explain why my father and my two young brothers were down by the creek in the heat of the day on February 7^th. They were gathering water to cool my mother’s brow. The flames I am told blew up suddenly and without warning from the valley behind our house. By the time, my father even saw the smoke, the wind and dust was on top us and we were blanketed within that impenetrable wall of grey. It is not known what took place inside the house and I certainly don’t recall a thing but, as my brother told it, my father took off toward the flame but became disoriented in the wind and dust; and then, when the storm had passed as quickly as it arrived, out of the maelstrom staggered the Chinese nursemaid clutching me to her yellow breast.

My brother’s watch in silent horror as my father ripped me from her grip and beat her to the ground with back of his free hand. The Chinese girl, Clarry once whispered, managed to heft herself to her feet and ran off into the falling ash that was already decorating the plain like some snowy English Christmas scene. Like my mother, the Chinese girl was never seen and rarely spoken of again.

The Great Aussie Moore – Chapter 1 Victor Australis

15 Friday Jun 2012

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Neville Cole

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Tags

1901, Aussie, Australian Federation, Ballarat, goldfields

Fossickers

By Neville Cole

My mother always had a rare sense of timing. She passed away last year on my birthday. Instead of celebrating another year around the sun with my friends, I travelled back to Melbourne to organize her funeral and take care of her affairs. It was all fairly straight-forward until it came time to go through her stuff. The house where she passed was filled to overflowing with the assorted flotsam and jetsam of a long and disorganized life.

Sadly, most everything I came across was destined for a quick trip to the local tip. I was beginning to think that I should save myself a considerable effort and toss it all, until deep down in a box pile of ancient papers, I started to discover bits and pieces of a jumbled handwritten manuscript entitled Victor Australis that appeared to have been written by a long-lost Great Uncle named Aussie Moore.

I knew my Great Uncle Clarry well. He was a legendary figure around Kilmore, the town my mother grew up in. One of many famous Clarry Moore tales was that on his 82^nd birthday the family purchased him a table saw so that he could put a new roof on his barn. He completed the task by himself in less than a week. I knew all about Clarry and Grandpa Dot; but until I came across Victor Australis, I had never heard of Aussie Moore. It was if he had been banished from the Moore family records.

Victor Australis is a rambling and outrageous account of a very strange life. Many events are described in exhausting detail then whole decades disappear without a trace. Much of he describes is too coincidental to be true, while other parts of his life story are clearly historical fact. In his own words, Aussie Moore was one of the “first true Australians” as he was born during the early hours of January 1^st, 1901: the day Australia became an independent federation.

Ever since I picked up Victor Australis I have haven’t been able to set it back down for long; which is why I have decided to write out Aussie’s tales out in some kind of a logical order and bring them to the world. Ladies and Gentlemen I give you the late, great Aussie Moore!

NOTE: The section of italic text that follows I believe to be the opening paragraph of Aussie’s autobiography. I have tried to capture his idiosyncratic phrasing exactly as he laid them to paper; but, truth be told, some of these pages have been pretty severely damaged by the ravages of time and in places I was forced to make my own best guess as to what had been once been intended.

I was born into trouble and it has followed close at me heels throughout my entire life. I have done too many things to remember them all, seen much more than even that, and just to have survived this long I consider myself a fortunate fellow indeed. I was born in an Englishman’s house high on a hill overlooking the rich goldfields of Ballarat. The morning of my birth was the first morning of the new Australian federation, which makes me one of the first true Australians, the first of the Aussies. I don’t count in this group any of the many indigenous peoples who have inhabited the great southern land as they all predate terra australis by centuries at least. I don’t remember any of the particulars of my birth. Which isn’t unusual, I suppose. In fact, any man who says he does remember that time of his life is a damned liar at best and at worst a devil in the flesh.

I was, quite naturally, told stories of that morning by others from time to time. However, never by my own father, Duncan Robert Moore, for reasons I will reveal at a later time.

Ballarat – the town where Aussie was born

At the dawn of 1901, Ballarat was a town still thriving from sale of gold. It was a town with a thick rough edge and a tough, unforgiving, and almost unimaginably wealthy center. It was a town still driven by the Eureka spirit. My father was far more proud of Australia’s hard fought federation than my arrival. In fact, on more than one occasion he informed me that it was always his intention that I would be a daughter – a gift from him to my mother for her hard toil over the years. My name had already been chosen. I was to be Victoria Australis Moore. When it was clear that a nob and two bollocks hung between my thighs, my parents removed the last two letters of my first given name and I became Victor Australis Moore – forever after known simply as Aussie. But getting my name changed is the least memorable part of this story.

You see, as was customary on the last night of each year, my father spent a good part of New Years Eve, 1900 drinking heavily with good friends and neighbours and, only after midnight passed and it became obvious that I would wait no longer, did he send his guests home and my brother Clarry to fetch the local mid-wife. She arrived none too soon and immediately saw my mother was in grave danger as I was well on my way to coming out breach. There was no time now to fetch the doctor so, as the mid-wife did what she could to make my mother comfortable, my father staggered to his horse and galloped off to fetch Mr. Webb, a local horse breeder who had experience with various animal surgeries. Mr. Webb by all accounts had also been partaking in a long evening of revels and, perhaps because of this, made the immediate decision that I must be delivered in the manner of the great Caesar himself. He administered a gulping gut full of rum down my mother’s gullet then proceeded to quickly and skillfully slit her belly and tear me screaming from her womb.

My oldest brother, Clarry watched the whole ordeal in utter fascination, and later would recount the horrible episode to me late at night causing me to suffer from a lifetime of sleep shattering nightmares. Clarry never failed to mention that Mr. Webb sowed my mother’s belly back together “like a seamstress at her loom using naught but dried sheep intestines that had been soaked in spirits”. Such was my coming in and such has been my path ever since.

—ooo—

Many Hoppy Returns

10 Sunday Jun 2012

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Neville Cole

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

Burma, Grand Cayman, Harold Hopwood, Hoppy

Hoppy in Burma, circa 1930

Story and Photographs by Neville Cole

Harry “Hoppy” Hopwood would have turned 104 earlier this week. Wherever he was I am sure he did so with a schooner of beer and a fine Hopwood cheroot. I wish I had been there with him to raise a toast, and listen to a story or two. Instead, I’ll take the time today to share some of the Hopwood legend with you.

The author in Grand Cayman circa 1995

I met Hoppy on Grand Cayman shortly before his 87^th birthday. I’ll remember him always as he was that day: a spry, cheerful old gent with an intoxicating laugh and a puckish glint in his eye. His adopted home on Grand Cayman is a small bar called Over the Edge that is literally built on the edge of a cliff and out over the Caribbean Sea. Next to the bar is old lighthouse from the top of which it is said on a good day you can see Cuba . Most nights when Hoppy is in Grand Cayman you will find him perched atop the corner stool at Over the Edge sitting with his good friend Capt’n telling tales and occasionally engaging in the lusty singing of a naughty shanty.

The author goes over the edge

Hoppy and the Capt’n were enjoying a quiet drink at Over the Edge when I wandered in. I sat down and ordered a Caybrew and before I had time to take my first sip, Hoppy had taken me under his wing. All I had to do to was introduce myself and ask Hoppy for his name. You see, it is impossible for Hoppy to respond to any question in a direct manner. Instead of just telling me his name, Hoppy had to spin me a yarn.

“The name on my passport” he said, “reads Harold Lloyd Hopwood, but I’m rarely called anything of the sort. My father, the entertainer, George Hopwood, of Hopwood and Harris the Brighton Boys fame, always called me Harry. Most of my good friends know me only as Hoppy, though once the great S.J. Perelman in one of his less humorous novellas, dubbed me Hapless Hopwood. Frankly, I don’t care what they call me anymore, unless it’s late for dinner, boom boom.”

At this point in the story, as if on cue, Capt’n began to chuckle and my beer arrived so I raised my glass and said “Well Cheers, Hoppy” and after taking a sip added “So, you’re not from here then I take it?”

“Here?” Hoppy pondered. “No, not here exactly. I guess I would have to say I am from New York though that answer seems far less than satisfying because, you see, where I am from is far less important to me than where I am and where is am is right here. I’ve been everywhere others weren’t and disaster was my only companion. I’ve contracted just about every known disease of the modern age and a few that have yet to be diagnosed, but I’ve always traveled on. What I’m not is a writer, though I met many in my time. Writers spend half their lives chasing down inspiration and the other half trying to remember what it was. That’s not for me. Not that I have anything against books or the written word. On the contrary, I enjoy them thoroughly. In fact, I’ve always kept a journal. I’ve filled a full two-dozen of them with various and sundry jottings; but that’s all rote and happenstance – life is in the living, not the retelling.

“Is that so?” Capt’n snorted. “Then why are you so bloody fond of the retelling part?”

“Quiet, Capt’n I’m just answering his question.” Hoppy muttered without ever turning his head.

“I was born on the sixth day of the sixth month of the sixth year of the century, within the incandescent glow of Coney Island, New York. My old Da was as cockney as they come. From the moment I tumbled from the womb, my impressionable brain was filled with rhyming slang and lilting English melodies. So complete was my indoctrination, that despite being submersed in Brooklyn bawls and Bronx cheers for a good part of my youth, I was without fail, always mistaken for a Londoner. My parents came to New York soon after the untimely split of the Brighton Boys in 1904 to perform their show “London Derriere” and never saved up enough money for a return ticket. Mother, it seems, was no replacement for the outrageous Charlie “Bomba” Harris and London Derriere was far from a roaring success; but with two paychecks coming into the family instead of one, George and Emma: The Hilarious Hopwoods did manage to become two of the most reasonably priced entertainers in the greater New York area. So what if their show was tired as old boots, it hardly mattered, my old dad was a masterful salesman and had an uncanny knack for making good business decisions. Somehow, somewhere he’d find a way to succeed. You see, there was one thing my Da loved more than old London town and that was the machinations of high finance. In fact, he’d only managed to lure my strong-willed mother to New York in the first place by regaling her with tales of wondrous Wall Street. Like most of the American public, George Hopwood longed to make a killing in the Stock Market. They planned to grab themselves a quick fortune and retire to the English countryside.

“And what was it your Da would sing to you as he bounced you on his knee?” Capt’n inquired with a stifled snort.

“Stocks, Harry!” he would sing to me. “That’s where your future lies. Stick with stocks, me lad, and you’ll soon reach the skies!” At this, Da would raise his voice to a high crescendo and toss me into the air catching me just before just before I hit the ground. I always screamed with delight at this, a reaction that only encouraged George to try to throw me even higher. Of course, the Hopwood apartment was far too small for such a dangerous game to carry on for long without incident. It isn’t clear exactly how my mother knocked me out of my father’s reach as she bustled through the door that day. She may have swatted me right out of midair, or possibly she toppled over the top of my father causing him to mistime his catch; but the end result was I broke several bones and spent nearly three days unconscious. It was the first of many episodes with coma-inducing injuries.

“Which explains everything you ever need to know about this crazy old coot,” the Capt’n chortled as he rose and staggered slightly to the bathroom.

“You have the look of a man of words,” Hoppy said to me quite seriously after the Capt’n had moved out of earshot.

“It’s how I make my scratch” I replied… unable to resist taking on Hoppy’s addictive word play.

“Good,” Hoppy said pulling a large stack of journals out from behind the bar and dropping down before me. “Look this lot over while you’re in town and we can talk about you writing my life story when I get back. Meet me here in three days, four tops. We will be here to celebrate my birthday at least…and you are hereby invited to join us. No gifts necessary. Fine with you?”

“Fine Hoppy, of course,” I replied. “Where are you headed?”

“North, I believe.” See you in a few days.” Hoppy smiled as he threw a stack of Cayman dollars on the bar. “And the next drink’s on me.”

Looking North to Cuba

As I sat and sipped my rum and cokes that evening I began to read Hoppy’s journals. Within the first few pages I noted details of numerous hospital visits and the occasional traumatic head injury. Despite these scrapes and bruises it appeared that Hoppy’s childhood was a generally happy and uneventful one. That is until I found an entry about an incident that occurred shortly before his twenty-first birthday, when George Hopwood drove his brand new Model T off the road near Staten Island. Emma and George died together in the crash and left Harry, who recovered after a brief weeklong coma, alone in the world.

But it was the next entry that really caught my eye. In it Hoppy described turning his back on a lifetime of his recently deceased father’s advice. When confronted with facing the world alone for the first time, Hoppy opted to cash in all of his small family fortune and use it all to see the world. The long and short of this being, that by the time the Great Stock Market Crash of 1929 hit, Harry was living high in the mountains of Burma; the proud owner of the newly formed Hopwood Cheroot Company. Had he “stuck with stocks” as his father advised, Harry would have lost everything; instead he happened upon a sweet deal that would keep him flush enough to travel the world the rest of his life and bring him into close contact with some of the most discerning and infamous cigar aficionados of the modern age.

Hoppy never did return to Over The Edge. I was there every night until June 6th. When he didn’t return for his birthday party, I put his journals back behind the bar and headed off into the night; but Hoppy’s tales I read that week still bounce around my brain.

From time to time, an incident will remind me of one of Hoppy’s adventures and I imagine him still out there dodging danger and living life to the fullest; then I think back to my last memory of that evening with Hoppy in Grand Cayman… two tipsy octogenarians stepping off the dock, setting their course for due north, and powering out into the darkness. No doubt Hoppy had a hankering for a fine Cuban cigar.

Happy Birthday, old friend. Many hoppy returns!

The Eternal Optimist ?

06 Wednesday Jun 2012

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Neville Cole

≈ 16 Comments

Tags

living in the now, optimism, psssimism

Relaxing in the new Pig’s Arms Platinum Lounge

Story and Photograph by Neville Cole

Did you ever have a really bad feeling about something that turned out to be completely misplaced? No, me neither. 90% of the time my bad feelings are eerily accurate. The other 10% of the time they are only slightly exaggerated. Never have I been so far off base that I later wondered: “What the hell were you worried about?” The funny thing is the statistics for my good feelings going bad are about the same. 90% of the stuff I feel good about on any given day goes horribly wrong.

How is it my bad radar is so accurate and my good radar so out of whack? Does that make me a pessimist because I can recognize oncoming misery so well? Or am I an optimist because I so constantly believe that things are going to turn out fine when time and time again they don’t.

My friend Russell and I talked a few months back about a film idea. It was about a man constantly besieged with troubles that he somehow only just manages to survive. He ends up homeless, broken, and utterly friendless but calls himself lucky because “by rights I should be dead a hundred times over.” I (the eternal optimist?) felt like we needed an ending where our poor Job tells his story to a reporter at the homeless shelter and gets a cut of the movie deal; but Russell nixed it saying it was unrealistic

I have a lot of very positive acquaintances. I can’t call them friends because I do seem to actually prefer the company of cynics; but these people do fascinate me because they have the ability to turn any bad situation into an opportunity for growth. These acquaintances are the type of people who will walk up to you at a funeral and say “God doesn’t give you anything you can’t handle, you know” and “he’s in a far better place.” These people will tell you that trials are proof of God’s care. You see, God’s plan is to give you heaping tons of shit to deal with so that you can talk yourself into believing that something good has actually happened every single time and that you are – in reality – one of the lucky ones. Hmmm…maybe there is a movie in this, after all.

Movie storylines aside, the fact remains that I woke up with a bad feeling today and all I have to hang my hat on is that there is a slim chance that I will eventually recognize that it wasn’t quite as bad as I first thought. I probably should have reacted to this feeling by getting some exercise or cleaning the house or doing some yard work; you know, getting my affairs in order…but my immediate reaction was to make some coffee and fire up the laptop.

I would like to note that, at this particular paragraph, I have no idea where this piece is headed. Will I write myself to a convenient conclusion? Will I lose my way? Will I go for a cheap gag and leave my meaning up in the air? Who knows? But I’ll probably work something out eventually. That’s one of the great things about writing – the chance to make edits. We can’t do that in life, can we? There is no delete key for the stupid shit you do to your life. We don’t get to rewrite the ending or to suddenly introduce a deus ex machina. We just get the opportunity to try and make sense of and then make up for all the insanely bad decisions we made during some previous day’s existence.

That said, I think most of us can deal with that fact. Most of us know that if we make mistakes we are going to have to try and fix them some day. Most adults will accept the responsibly for their actions. The gray area becomes how much we are willing to take responsibility for the actions of others. How much are we willing to suffer for the actions of our families, our children, our ex-wives and ex-husbands, our friends, our co-workers, our communities, our world leaders? When and where to we draw the line?

You see, here is where I go astray. It is clear from just these few passages that my mind is apt to casually leap from my own personal struggles to the fate of the world as we know it. My initial reaction to any trial is pretty much to go the full Chicken Little. But I usually find that as the immediate panic begins to fade I will begin to instruct myself to focus on the issue at hand, to take baby steps… one day at a time. In fact, I will usually offer myself a hundred other platitudes until, in the end, I can once again resolve to keep on going, keep on trying, to fix what I can and let those things I can’t control work themselves out.

Maybe, after all is said and done, life is nothing more than a series of actions and reactions to real and imagined events both of our own making and others that eventually lead to disappointment. Then again, maybe life is a series of major disappointments that eventually lead to redemption. I guess it is quite possible, especially to a Hindu, that both options are true.

But I can’t worry about all this, right now. Right now, I just have to remember that all in all I’ve always been a pretty lucky guy… the other important thing to note about all this is that I wrote this several months ago and this morning as I sit here re-reading it I can’t for the life of me remember the bad thing I was so worried about. Maybe, in the end the real truth we have to accept is that life is indeed transitory and time really does heal all wounds.

Good luck to all of you out there dealing with the daily shit of existence.

Neville

Lucky Bastard

23 Thursday Feb 2012

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Neville Cole

≈ 17 Comments

Tags

greyhound racing, humour

Apache Greyhound Park

Story and Photographs by Neville Cole (aint it great to have him back ?)

Martin strode through the open door of the Apache Greyhound Park wearing his lucky African tee shirt (the one given to him by Freeman Mbowe, the Tanzanian Presidental hopeful who bore a striking resemblance to Eddie Murphy), his lucky vintage Hawaiian shirt decorated with 60s era Chryslers that he’d found in a Goodwill in Pacific Beach, his lucky charcoal checked shorts, and his lucky red Chuck Taylor’s. Underneath all this lucky apparel he was wearing his lucky Monster Garage boxers. In fact, the only things he had on that weren’t particularly lucky were his socks; but truth be told he didn’t yet own any lucky socks so for all intents and purposes everything about Martin that morning was lucky. He even stopped at a 7/11 – two of his lucky numbers, not coincidentally – to buy a pack of Lucky cigarettes; although 7/11 didn’t carry Lucky brand cigarettes anymore so he picked up Marlboro Lights instead.

Apache Greyhound Park was pretty busy for a Sunday morning. Even though only a handful of East Coast tracks had started racing most of the locals were already in position. The Mexicans, the Rednecks, the assorted Old Farts and the hard core Doggers were all buried in their racing forms. Martin wondered if the crowd was gathering early for the upcoming Super Bowl celebration or if the New Seasons Christian Fellowship – which meets in the back conference room of the Apache Greyhound Park – had suddenly doubled in faithful; but he didn’t have time to worry about all that, he was on a mission. Today Martin Meeks would finally break the $200 barrier. Martin hadn’t been a betting man for long but he was without a doubt pretty damn lucky. More often than not he almost broke even. One any given day he’d hit an exacta or two. He’d even managed a couple of trifectas and once a superfecta. The only problem was he’d never won more than $187 in any single bet. Today that would change. At least Martin was hoping it would change. He was supposed to host a Super Bowl party in four hours and he barely had enough money in the bank to buy beer.

Martin was worried about all that. He lived by his wits and relied almost completely the whims of fate to guide his path. Every decision Martin ever made was based on one part superstition and two parts intuition – shaken but not stirred. It was a life cocktail that rarely let him down for long. By now it shouldn’t be surprising to anyone that Martin shunned traditional gambling methods. He prided himself on having no idea how to read a racing form. In gambling as in life he preferred to ignore data. In fact, the act of compiling hard evidence in Martin’s world was akin to cheating.

The main reason Martin frequented the Apache Greyhound track was its lucky location; practically within the shadow of the Superstition Mountains. The spectacular façade of Geronimo’s last hideout was always looming just a few miles away. Surely a vortex of good fortune must be close by, Martin reckoned. After all, these mountains are the final resting place of Jacob Waltz and hidden within those peaks, somewhere down a long lost cavern, all of the Lost Dutchman’s riches sit waiting to be discovered.

Martin didn’t trust reason and logic but was devoted to routines. His day at the track always began at the ATM machine. He considered the $2.50 bank fee the machine charged him an offering to the gods of high commerce and trusted it would eventually pay dividends. Just as you always tip the cashier after a win Martin believed in tipping the ATM before the win. Call it karma. Martin’s routine began with a $100 deduction from his checking account; even if, as in this case, he only intended to spend $40 of it. After sliding three twenties into his wallet, Martin fed the remaining two twenties into the cash-betting machine by the bar instead of going to the cashier and immediately printed himself a voucher. Then, voucher in hand, he made his way to the TV wall in the back room. That would place him close to the back North wall. All of his best bets were made at back North wall.

It was a good sign that, even on this busy morning, one seat was still available in the front row. Martin liked to think that the front row was lucky but in the back of his mind he knew he only preferred the front row because his eyesight was failing him and if he sat anywhere else he would have to get up at the end of each race and walk up to the screens to see who won. He was not about to copy Stroke Grannies lead and bring binoculars to the OTB. He’d rather get up and walk than sit in the second row staring at a TV set through binoculars. Of course, Stroke Granny used a walker so she didn’t really have an option. Actually, for her, binoculars were a pretty clever idea. For one thing, they came in pretty handy when there was a photo finish. On more than one occasion the back room crowd turned to Stroke Granny at the end of a race to see which horse’s nose got across the line first. Not that you had to turn to Stroke Granny for anything as she tended to yell out the numbers of the first four horses in each race as a matter of course. Stroke Granny was the self-appointed back room race caller.

Martin scanned the TVs for the next race. Even though he had set his mind on a personal record win; he was well aware that he had been shutout the last three times he came to the park. It was the longest losing streak of his short career. “Maybe what I really need is one small win to break the ice,” Martin told himself.

The very next race of the day was the third at Golden Gate. Golden Gate was one of Martin’s favorites. He was already familiar with a number of the jockeys: Russell Baze, Francisco Duran, Aaron Gryder, Frank Alvarado, Kerwin John, and the longshot specialist Alejandro Gomez. The only problem was the third today was one of those races that Martin usually avoided: a six horse race with two scratches. Four horse left with the 6/1 Excelling as the only horse that could even be considered close to a long shot; but Martin decided to make an easy bet then let his winning’s ride on a shot at breaking the $200 barrier and pretty much the only way to make any money on a four horse race was to go for a trifecta.

Martin put his voucher into the third machine from the left and stared at the entries displayed on his iPhone. His initial goal was to divine the horse most likely to win. His initial selections were based solely on names and numbers. He looked at the names first and one or two special horses would usually present themselves. These became his favorites. With a couple of favorite in mind Martin compared the Equibase odds to the current odds and contemplated the shifts that had taken place over the past 24 hours.

Equibase had #3 Dance Chief 5/1, #4 Excelling 6/1, #5 Unexpected Gift 9/2 and #6 Stormy Surge 2/1. With the two overnight scratches the odds for all the horses had dropped except for Excelling which had held at 6/1. Martin figured a $2 keyed trifacta on a four horse race was about as close to a sure thing as he be bothered betting. He ended up with three keyed trifectas: the favorite 6 over 4 and 5, the long shot 4 over 5 and 6, and 3 over 5 and 6. As long as #5 Unexpected Gift didn’t win he had reasonable shot at breaking even.

Bets made, Martin retired to the patio for a pre-race smoke. This was another of his recent obsessions and one he was already ready to quit. For 47 years, Martin easily resisted an addiction to cigarettes; but ever since he started frequenting casinos and OTBs, a pre-race smoke had become part of his routine. He would change that routine very soon, but not today.

As usual, the only guy on the patio was Sweat Pants Guy. Sweat Pants Guy was a hard core Dogger. Martin didn’t believe that people who played the dogs were actually ever called Doggers; but that’s what he liked to call them. It just made sense.

Similarly, Sweat Pants Guy was called Sweat Pants Guy because he always wore an old pair of black sweat pants pulled up high over his beer belly. He also always wore a tucked-in white tee shirt featuring some kind of wilderness scene – a wolf in the snow, a fish jumping out of a stream, or band of horses running across the desert – but Tucked-In Tee Shirt guy didn’t have much pizzazz. Then again, Sweat Pant Guy did always have an old beat up baseball cap perched on top of his noggin; but geez, Beat Up Baseball Cap Guy could describe 99% percent of the residents of Apache Junction.

Martin preferred to register people by their outward appearance rather than having to ask for and memorize a bunch of useless names. In fact, when people told Martin their names he ignored and promptly forgot them until he figured it would be totally embarrassing to admit that he didn’t know who they were. Fortunately for Martin most people seemed quite satisfied to be acknowledged with a smile and a “Hey, how you doing?” Of course, there becomes a point when people would start to worry Martin had Alzheimer’s if he still couldn’t remember their names. That’s when he would be forced to eavesdrop on the unnamed person’s conversations to see if the other people ever referred to the unnamed person by name. In rare circumstances when this clever ruse didn’t work, Martin would resign himself to engaging someone “in the know” and quietly whispering something like: “This is really embarrassing but what is that guy (or girls) name again?” Then he would admit in a half-joking way that he was “really terrible with names” and that he “really needed to get better at remembering names” but still half the time he would forget the name again in a matter of hours unless that new person had somehow managed to become a true friend.

Not surprisingly, Martin had few true friends. Sweat Pants Guy was a long, long way from being a true friend. Martin couldn’t see Sweat Pants Guy ever being anything but Sweat Pants Guy: the blind slob who bet on practically every dog race across the country every single day of his life.

Sweat Pants Guy bet often but not much. Rarely did he put down more than a dollar or two on any race; relying on exotics – pick 3s, pick 6s and superfectas – to boost his winnings. Sweat Pants Guy also never sat down. He paced and smoked between races and during races positioned himself two or three feet from the screen alternately yelling encouragement and obscenities. Sweat Pants Guy was the Bill Parcells of the OTB; he never called a dog by name referring to them only by number.

Martin was highly entertained by Sweat Pants Guy but the two rarely shared more than a word or two of conversation. Maybe it was because Martin played the ponies and Sweat Pants Guy was a Dogger. But really, what is there to talk about with a near total stranger? Certainly not what they planned to bet! That was Martin’s biggest superstition. He never shared his bets with anyone until the after the race. Martin thought placing a bet was like voting: an inalienable right every adult was free to exercise without any obligation of disclosure.

Martin was seated at the table closest to screen as the horses burst from the gates at Golden Gate. Taking the lead right away was Unexpected Gift followed by Excelling, Stormy Surge and Dance Chief already trailing by a few lengths. This wasn’t perfect by any means but the long shot in second gave Martin hope. Martin isn’t a big yeller. He sat quietly puffing through the first couple of furlongs. Then, at the last turn things started to fall in place. “Go 6!” Martin urged as Stormy Surge made (dare I say it?) a Stormy Surge past Unexpected Gift down the straight. It was looking like Martin’s first win in two weeks. The camera followed 6 and 5 to the line then there was a brief pause. Several seconds passed until 4 appeared on screen closely matched by 3. “Goddamnit!” Martin bellowed, “Where did 3 come from?” Of course, it was for naught, as right at the line Dance Chief edged out the long shot and Martin’s shoe-in trifecta was history. The losing streak was still alive.

“What’d you have?” asked Sweat Pants Guy.

“6 over 5, 4” Martin answered.

“Aw, shit…” replied Sweat Pants Guy.

Martin wandered off to stare at the abandoned dog track that was at one time the pride of Apache Junction. Martin imagined for a moment Apache Greyhound Park in its 70s heyday. The manicured red dirt track, colorful flower boxes lining the club entrance, a sparkling new grandstand, and flocks and flocks of snowbirds decked out in orange and yellow polyester dresses and lime green leisure suits. Those were heady days indeed; the likes of which will never be seen in these parts again.

Martin shook his head. He had two, maybe three, chances to get his personal record and what does he do? Waste $12 on three useless trifectas. But, like some strangers name, the pep talk didn’t register for long and with just a few minutes to post at Gulfstream, Martin rushed in a $4 boxed 5/1 exacta and a $10 win/place bet on the long shot #2. Before he even walked away from the machine, he couldn’t remember the names of the horses he picked. He was picking odds again, instead of following his routine. He clearly hadn’t let the names speak to him and made his picks based only on which choices might get him that personal best. He had to cover his bases. The only way out was to pull another twenty from his wallet and pick another race before the one at Gulfstream started. In the fifth at Fairgrounds the name Hobson’s Choice was the one that stood out. Martin compared the odds, 24 hours ago Hobson’s Choice was a 20\1 long shot, now she was 12\1. Martin always liked late money so brimming with confidence Martin punched in $20 on 2 to win.

There was still 3 minutes to post at Gulfstream so Martin stepped out again for another smoke. He tried to puff as quickly as he could but by the time he got back to the TV wall the horses were already crossing the line. He saw 5 out front and, could it be? Was that a 1 to place? Martin stepped forward but before the question even had time to fully form in his mind the unofficial results 5/4/1 were posted. “Shit!” Martin blurted. “I always pick 4. Why did I not pick 4?” Then as if to answer himself he added “It’s my fault, I should have been here at post time.” Then he told himself: “I have to quit smoking, it’s ruining my luck.” By the time he sat down again it was post time at Fairgrounds.

The one thing about sitting by the back wall of TVs at Apache Greyhound Park on a Sunday morning is you have to listen to the rock and roll gospel blasting out from The Church of New Seasons.

“Jesus Christ!” said Old Pony Tail. “How long are they going to play that crap? It’s been going on for hours already. I’m 71 years old I don’t have to listen to that churchy bullshit anymore.” Old Pony Tail turned to Martin and grinned: “The one good thing about being 71 years old is that you don’t have to put up with churchy bullshit if you don’t want to.”

“You don’t look 71. I would have guessed you were in your early 60s” Martin replied quite honestly.

“I’ll be 72 in a few weeks and I feel like 80,” Old Pony Tail laughed.

“Is it better to feel older than you look or look older than you feel?” Martin asked almost rhetorically.

“Well shit,” Old Pony Tail said quickly. “That’s easy. I’d rather look as old as dirt and still feel good any old day.”

“People think I’m fifty-eight…” Martin noted.

“How old are you?” said Old Pony Tail leaning in for a closer gander.

“Forty-eight but I feel like I’m thirty.”

“Well, consider yourself lucky,” said Old Pony Tail staring back at the TV.

Martin looked up just in time to see Hobson’s Choice just beat out the favorite at the line.

“Finally,” he said.

“Did you have money on 2?” asked old pony tail guy.

“Twenty bucks,” said Martin breaking into a grin as the official results appeared on screen.

“Nice win, buddy!” Old Pony Tail said raising his hand to Martin for a high five.

“It’s about time” said Martin as he slapped Old Pony Tail some skin. “Now I can splurge on a few Super Bowl party supplies.” With that Martin headed straight to the cashier to pick up his winnings. The last thing he heard was old pony tail guy sharing one final word of advice:

“Hey buddy. Pick up one of those shrimp rings at the supermarket! They’re a great party starter.”

“What happened?” screamed Stroke Granny after Martin left the building. “Did he win, or something?”

“He had 20 bucks on 2 at 12\1!”

“Lucky bastard…” Stroke Granny muttered as she scanned the wall of TVs with her binoculars.

“Tell me about it,” said Old Pony Tail guy…and he didn’t even offer to buy me a beer!

“You know, something,” said Stroke Granny. “Something I learned a long time ago. When you get lucky, you got to spread your good fortune around a bit. That shit will come back to bite you in the ass. Karma is one nasty bitch!”

It wouldn’t be long before Martin would learn that Stroke Granny knew a thing or two about karma.

Goat Man

26 Monday Sep 2011

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Neville Cole

≈ 21 Comments

Tags

Goat Man, humour

"My goat is very alluring", says Neville, just before .....

Story by Neville Cole

I am Goat Man

As I write this it is 4am. I am brewing some coffee. The sun won’t be up for hours; but I am.

I have just woken from a lucid dream. I was convinced at first I was not asleep but merely dozing. The dream started when I noticed my bedroom light flash on briefly. That seemed strange but I was too tired to open my eyes fully and see what was going on. Then I sensed a woman crawling into bed behind me. Naturally I wanted to turn and see who this mysterious woman was but I could not open my eyes or move. I suddenly became aware I was dreaming but I was convinced that the woman was still behind me. I told myself to wake up. I had to repeat the command a few times but eventually I did open my eyes and roll over to the sudden realization that I do, in fact, live alone and that I was, in reality, just having a weird dream.

I think I know why this dream happened. Call it a perfect mental storm.

For one, I am still very jet-lagged from a recent flight back from Australia. I have made that flight more than 20 times but for some reason this time I have struggled mightily to get back to my own time zone. I have been up each morning by 4 since I got back. I have been napping at sunset for a few hours and for two nights in a row I have been put right to sleep by Bill Maher. Now, I don’t agree with a lot of what Bill says, but he almost always keeps me engaged and entertained.

Apart from this obvious sleep deprivation, I am currently working through a recurring pattern of obsessive self-doubt and regret that is part and parcel of my bi-annual whirlwind tours of my homeland. Add to my fear and loathing the fact that I am currently reading Jon Ronson’s The Men Who Stare at Goats and it is pretty easy to see what is going on.

Ronson’s book is barely recognizable as the source of the enjoyable motion picture romp of the same name featuring among others Ewan McGregor, Jeff Bridges, George Clooney, and Kevin Spacey. At the beginning of that movie is the warning that “more of this is true than you would believe;” but falling into this brief, rabbit hole tale is mind-bending experience of the tallest order. The Men Who Stare at Goats is like something concocted by Hunter S. Thompson for Rolling Stone. In just over 250 pages, Ronson manages to tie the spoon bending skills of Uri Geller; the Heaven’s Gate cult suicides; the atrocities at Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo Bay, and the popular US military slogan “Be All That You Can Be” back to the new age ideas of one Vietnam-vet-turned-hippie.

Ronson sets up his tale by asking his reader to accept one of four possible scenarios:

1. It just never happened.

2. A couple of crazy renegades in the higher levels of the U.S. Intelligence community acted alone to put these events in motion.

3. U.S Intelligence is the repository of incredible secrets, which are kept from us for our own good. Or…

4. The U.S. Intelligence community was, back then, essentially nuts through and through.

As each page turns these four scenarios shift about in your brain (or just maybe they actually shift your brain about in your head). “No, that didn’t happen. Oh, that makes sense. Oh my god! Why did I never think of that before!”

The title of the book refers specifically to some secret experiments reported to have occurred at the military installation at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Apparently, a select group of soldiers were trained to kill goats just by staring at them. It’s not clear how many goats, if any, actually died; but the program had enough success that a group of psychic soldier (PsyOps) known as the Earth First Battalion was created. The book suggests this group has been reborn today within the U.S. Department of Homeland Security to help fight the War on Terror.

In the end, it’s not the truth that matters; as whichever scenario you finally accept, the story is still by turns entertaining and harrowing but always thought-provoking. All of which adds up to exactly the wrong kind of book for a highly fatigued and self-doubting individual to read into the early hours, especially on a work night.

Still, as Robert Plant once famously sang: “Ooh, it makes me wonder. Ooh, it makes me wonder.”

You see, I have, for a good part of the last two decades, turned my back on metaphysics and anything even remotely new age. That’s not to say I haven’t had my moments of elevated thought; but, for the most part, I have stayed grounded (and mostly satisfied I might add) in the here and now.

I was raised in the distinctly new age, some say cultish, religion known as Christian Science. Yeah, that’s right, the ones who don’t believe in doctors. As my faith faded, I dabbled, as many ex-CSers do, in Eastern thought, Tao, Zen and Buddhism in particular; but finally, in my early thirties, I resolved to accept that life was indeed a cabaret and decided that I would be a lot happier if I just learned to enjoy the cabaret.

I have been pretty happy and pretty lucky and remarkably healthy ever since. I haven’t wasted much time wondering what it’s all about. I’ve been resigned to fate. I’ve described myself from time to time as a secular humanist, a cynical optimist and an hopeful pessimist. I’ve tried to do my share of good things mostly because it feels good to do so. I’ve noted that, for the most part, when I make the effort to do something that I don’t have to do – especially something creative – well, somehow it seems to work out that I gain something from that effort. I’ve also seen that things I’ve tried to hide or lied about eventually get uncovered. I don’t call this karma. To me, it’s just the way things work.

The only problem is, when you leave things mostly to fate for too long, you tend to feel a little bit out of control and I’ve been growing increasingly tired of that feeling. As a result, I’ve been spending quite a bit of time trying to figure out how to get a little bit more proactive with my existence. I’m tired of doing OK. It would be really nice to excel for a while. Maybe I have fallen down the rabbit hole myself a bit this morning but I have a very real sense that somehow things are about to fall into place.

Yesterday, on a whim, I sent in a headshot and resume to a casting agency and asked them to arrange an audition for an upcoming TV commercial. I could really use the extra cash right now. I also have a long term plan. I would like to return to acting before I am forced to retire and see if I can finally realize my dream of getting a decent role in one really good movie. I am interested to see if I can influence my future in some small way right here, right now. Can I project myself to that audition? Am I able to influence the casting agency from a completely blind call and get myself in front of the director? If I do get the audition, how do I overturn past failures and finally find some success? After all, I gave up acting all those years ago because I was useless at auditions.

But now I am getting ahead of myself. If I’ve learned anything from The Men Who Stare at Goats is that metaphysical projection takes intense focus. I need to start with some baby steps. I can’t kill a goat right out of the box. Let’s see if I can get that audition first. Then I’ll take things from there.

After all, if I can control my dreams, why shouldn’t I be able to control my reality? Isn’t it better to be the man staring at the goat than the goat?

Chilean Miners Redux

14 Sunday Aug 2011

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Neville Cole

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

Beer, Chilean miners, humor, Llamas

Llamas gather for the 1 year celebration of the miners' release

Story (and the good photographs) by Neville Cole

This week I returned to Chile to celebrate the anniversary of Chilean miners release from their harrowing 69 day ordeal underground. What I found was far from a joyous occasion. Several of the miners and I gathered at a popular local bar in Copiapo called The Man Cave. Here now, in their own words, several of the miners talk about the events of the past year.

The Author enjoys a beer in a quiet corner of the Man Cave

NC: Yesterday was the anniversary celebration of your release from the mine. Did it turn out as you expected?

YONNI: For me, it did. Things have been very bad since we got out of the mine. Why would this be any better?

EDISON: I did not expect to be pelted with apples and oranges. I did not even get to sing Blue Suede Shoes.

NC: You have become quite famous this past year for your Elvis impersonation, haven’t you Mr. Pena? You even were invited to visit Graceland, as I understand. I am surprised Jaime never mentioned your singing in his diary.

YONNI: His singing is as bad as his marathon running! 5 hours, 40 minutes and 51 seconds! What a joke!

EDISON: At least my wife came to see me when I came out of the mine!

YONNI: I wouldn’t be so proud about that! Your wife is hairier than my dog. I thought it was your grandfather you were kissing!

JAIME: Brothers, please! Let us not bring up old quarrels. We are free now are we not? Is not any of this better than being stuck in the mine?

EDISON: You are just happy that his missing wife took some of the heat off you. A wife and a mistress greeting you for the press! Ay! Carumba!

PACO: I for one miss the mine. I have tried to get sent back down many times; but they will not hire me again. That is why I sold my story to the News of the World and started this bar.

MARIO: This place is creepy. Are these fur-covered shackles on the wall?

NC: Mario. Good to hear from you again. From what I understand, you were the miner who spent most of your time underground training to run in marathons yet Edison was flown to New York to compete in last years race. How do you explain that?

MARIO: Edison has a very big mouth. He runs with me 2 maybe 3 times while we are in the mine but as soon as he gets out he is talking like he’s Alberto Salazar or something. I should never have let him go up before me. I might have had a chance at that race. He barely made it in before the sun came up.

EDISON: I will race you any where, any time, any way you want.

NC: Gentlemen. It has not only been a tough time for you but also a difficult year for all of Chile. President Pinera, who was so instrumental in organizing your release, is under attack from all quarters. His popularity has sunk to 26%. Miners have gone on strike closing mines and costing mine companies millions of dollars in lost revenue. Students have closed universities and high schools for more than two months seeking education reform. Mupuche Indians have occupied ancestral lands. There a protests against proposed dams inPatagonia and planned coal mines in the north. At your celebration the President was quoted as saying:

“The time of the protests, the strikes, the takeovers, the violence has passed. Now has come the time to construct and not keep destroying, the time of dialogue and not of intransigence; the time of solutions and not of confrontation, the time of unity and not of division.”

PACO: Do you have a question?

NC: At the protests yesterday it was clear to me that many of your fellow Chilean’s see you as political puppets. How do you feel being so closely aligned with Pinera?

PACO: Pinera is a good man. He has visited my bar many times and always spends a lot of money.

JAIME: I don’t like it at all. We have been treated as dogs and ponies. Poor Omar has gone into shock. When the people threw the fruit at him he stopped talking altogether. I talked to his son, Omar, and he told me his father, Omar, just sits in the corner and won’t say a word. It is very sad what they have done to us.

EDISON: Omar hardly spoke the whole time we were in the mine either. Face it, he’s just not a talkative guy. Look Pinera is a politician. He is doing his best to run a poor country in difficult times. So, he tries to milk us for a little positive press? What’s the big deal? Is he the first president to try and take advantage of feel good story? No. Will he be the last? No. I can only speak for myself but I have never been happier and if our lawsuit comes through, believe me, even poor old Omar will be grinning like the Cheshire cat.

NC: Let’s talk about that for a moment. You all stand to split 17 million dollars from the Chilean mining companies while your fellow miners are struggling mightily to get a pay raise that amounts to only a few more pesos a day.

YONNI: We were the ones stuck underground for 69 days. Do you think anyone would be even discussing safety if we didn’t get stuck in the mine? They will all gain from our suffering.

NC: But many feel that the reason they are not giving the miners a raise is because they are concerned about the large payout you men may receive.

EDISON: It’s all politics. There is plenty of money to go round. Maybe we do need a new president. Maybe someone who knows what it is like work underground should be president. Maybe someone with connections in the United States should be president. Maybe someone who can sing like the king should be president.

JAIME: Edison is thinking of running for president.

NC: Really. I hadn’t heard that.

EDISON: When I am named president I am going to step to the podium and say “Thank you. Thank you very much.” Then I’m thinking of opening with Viva Las Vegas but instead of singing “Las Vegas” I’m going to sing “Chile”.

NC: Stranger things have happened. Thank you all for joining me today. It’s been a pleasure talking to you all again.

YONNI: I understood there was going to be a free lunch today?

JAIME: …and beer?

NC: Ah…well, beer I can manage but I didn’t make any plans for lunch.

EDISON: Typical Australian journalist.

Just another Friday night at The Man Cave

After I purchased several rounds, Paco put on some hard driving techno trance and The Man Cave quickly filled with patrons ready to party the night away. It seems there was to be a celebration for the miners after all.

Old Dogs

07 Sunday Aug 2011

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Neville Cole

≈ 25 Comments

Tags

growing old, Old dog

Blue

Story and photographs by Neville Cole

They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. I say why would you want to?

Old dogs got it all worked out. They appreciate the finer things in life: good food, good company, a nice nap in the sun, and the occasional stroll in the park. Old dogs don’t make a fuss unless they really have to. Old dogs are nearly always close by. Old dogs make me look forward to being an old man, almost.

My old dog is Blue. She recently came back to live with me because a young dog decided she was past her prime and tried to rip her head off. Blue was beaten and miserable when she arrived at my door and the big wound across the back of her neck took forever to heal.

But with time and peace and quiet some of her old vim and vigor has returned. A nice bone from the butcher makes her deliriously happy and when Lisa talks to her in a high sing song tone she gets downright puppyish.

It’s nice having an old dog around. Granted, I live alone most of the time and my kids, when they do turn up, are all grown. I don’t need protection or entertainment from my pet. Someone who will listen to my complaints and rambling thoughts and doesn’t require all my attention in return is pretty much perfect for me.

Right now Blue is taking a nap at my feet. That’s very comforting for a writer.

She is at me feet a lot. Blue has this way of showing respect. She wants me to always be in the lead. This is fine except when I try to walk into a room she is already in. If that happens she tries to bulrush past me before I reach the doorway so she can follow me into the room.

As a result almost every time I move from the bedroom to the living room or vice versa I have to be sure to dally at the doorway and dodge the bustling black and white blur determined to find her proper place in line.

I guess I could try and find a way to train Blue not to do that; but really, why bother, she’s an old dog and pretty much set in her ways. One day far too soon I will be too.

They Don’t Call it Monster.com for Nothing.

15 Wednesday Jun 2011

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Neville Cole

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

humour, Weasel Words

Weasel Words

Story by Neville Cole

Editor’s Note: This piece carries a special spelling and grammar warning for grammarians. You know who you are….

A while back I was looking to hire some writers. I posted a notice on Monster.com clearly stating that the work would be writing educational video scripts for the Elementary Education market.

I always request a cover letter in addition to a resume as history has shown that having someone write about themselves can be very telling.

NOTE: These excerpts were all copied and pasted directly from the responses I received. Only names and any specific details have been removed

One candidate made a most interesting offer.

I am interested in applying for the writing position I found advertised on Monster.com. I craft short erotic stories on a regular basis and cater to an online fanbase of about 2000. I am unsure how to include writing samples, as monster.com allows only a cover letter and resume. Could you contact me with a way to send some to you?

One sent as a sample that was definitely not at grade level.

They still had a great sex life despite of or maybe because of, his extreme efficiency. Once, afterwards, she said “you just fucked me like a machine, like the pistons of some engine.” This side of her surprised him, and he was ashamed of how turned on it got him. He couldn’t count the number of times he had used that memory to masturbate in the on-site porta-Johnny.

One was very friendly but had never heard of spell-check.

Hello I was browsing monster.com for a few moments, intisipating more work fullfilment. I came across your enthusiactic job posting. I am totally determined, eager, motivated and motivating, just a come together type of person to accomplish goals of success. Success is what I live for in everything I do. I also enjoy knowing company peers encourage each other to succeed.(This would be an awesome place to work for.) I would encourage you to believe in the words I speak and give me consideration. Yes! I want to be part of a properous business work place, to contribute to making your great company greater. I am ready to pick up the baton and go! and hold a position in a company or corporation I can believe in. Over all Dear one, here’s your candidate look no further. Enough about me, I would love to here more about this company I am eager to work for, for any questions or offers,(smile) feel free to call or reply.

One proposed a philosophical argument:

I may not have professional writing experience, but I do have a writing intensive degree. A philosophy degree is at its essence a degree in logical exposition, or writing in a detailed and concise manner that follows an argument. Educational writing is a cousin of logical exposition, or as some call it legal writing. I think that the type of writing that your company is seeking is a type of writing that will come very naturally to someone of my educational background. The reason that all this is an advantage to you is that I come cheap.

One described how her previous job was brought to a dramatic end:

I have served for seven months as Contract Administrator for the valley’s largest towing company. Unfortunately, we suffered a corporate take over and my position was abolished.

One spoke very highly of himself:

Although you will find I maybe be over qualified for the position for which I make application, I bring many skills which I will fully share to benefit the entire organization. Though my resume is quite detailed, it cannot fully profile the manner in which I have been successful. This can only be accomplished in a face-to-face meeting where we can exchange information, get to know one-another and examine whether there might be an employment opportunity that has mutual interest. Thank you for your time; I look forward to meeting with you soon.

One had impressionable skills, a good work ethnic, and an ablility to arrange words in an almost random order:

OBJECTIVE: An opportunity to utilizes my impressionable writing skills to further my personal and professional growth within the writing industry. Description of my perfect job: A company that has a good work ethnic and provides an outstanding way of communicating their mission objective. Wrote the book Corporate America: an exceptional investigation of the working relations with fellow colleagues successfully. A creative observation into corporate politics in the pursuit of succeeding the trials and tribulations. Beginning with our attitudes that are crucial to surviving the journey, the book outlines pertinent questions that are answered by CEO’s, managers, and non-salaried employees to overcome pitfalls in corporate America. The book presents an exceptional investigation of the working relations with fellow colleagues in a successful and fulfilling approach. Develop and wrote the course for the Joy of Reading. Concentration was made on the curriculum development for a friendly atmosphere thru out the different stages of the course. Providing weekly content for the promotion of his book, monitoring the message boards, proofread and verifies related links t o post on his site. Post bulletins in the literary world, polls, moderate the forum, and plan events. A book reviewer and write profile articles on prominent business owners. Certified professional writer was achieved with this course that provides an individual the elements of the publishing industry. Recognizing the differences between staff-written and freelance articles, explaining the process of submitting a professional manuscript and listing the various freelance markets by describing the types of writing appropriate to each. In addition, the course has extensive writing assignments in ever genre. I currently have written five fiction novels, two non-fiction novels as well done book reviews. I have written computer technical and women issues articles and I can do proposal writing. In addition, I developed and is the existing Editor of the Aetna African-American Employee Network. My passion is writing and I can focus on any agenda a company wish to accomplish. I look forward to hearing from you regarding future assignments.

I passed on all these candidates and I have not tried to hire writers on Monster.com since.

A Pretty Good Day

10 Friday Jun 2011

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Neville Cole

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

Surfing, Zoo antics

George

Story and Pictures by Neville Cole

Chimp George was fit to be tied. If there was someone around to throw shit at he’d already have his hand full and be ready to start tossing. He definitely was in no mood to talk to Wally Baboon; but after six calls in the last thirty minutes he knew that if he didn’t answer soon the torture would go on all day.

“What do you want, Wally?” George snarled, baring his teeth.

Wally

“George, you old bastard!” Wally hollered happily. “Why didn’t you answer your phone? I’ve been calling all morning?

“I know. That’s why I didn’t answer.

“Ha! That’s what I just told Wang. I was going to have him to call you next.”

“What do you want, Wally?”

“We want you to get that hairy ass of yours out of that damn house and come join us for breakfast. We’re down at The Pancake Shack right now. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is warm and the mimosas are flowing.”

“It’s two o’clock in the afternoon. I had breakfast hours ago.”

“So come and join us for a drink,” Wally laughed. “Wang and I miss you, buddy.”

“Some other time, Wally. I can’t today.” George slumped back on his tire swing and stared out the window. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

“I’m telling you this as a friend,” Wally said with all the charm he could muster. “You can’t go on like this. You have to shake things up and get out of the house. Just come down for an hour. You don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to say a word. Besides, Wang and I have something big to tell you. Something that will make you forget all your troubles.”

Wally didn’t know much, but he did know when it was time to talk and when it was time to sit back and let his words fester. He knew with absolute certainty that Chimp George would eventually bend to his will.

“I’ll be down in ten minutes,” George said with utter resignation.

“That’s the Georgie we know and love,” Wally chirped. “See you in a few, buddy!”

Panda Wang stared at his pancake with Zen-like concentration. Gently he raised a corner with his paw and flipped the flapjack with remarkable precision. “The reverse side also has a reverse side,” he noted quietly to no one in particular. Wally leaned back dangerously on his rickety chair and idly sipped his mimosa.

“When George gets here, you let me do the talking. Ok, Wang? He’s hasn’t been feeling himself lately so we are going to have to ease him into this thing.”

“What thing is that, Wally?” Wang asked without breaking from his pancake mediation.

“The TV show thing, Wang.” Wally said rocking forward on his chair. “The thing we’ve been discussing all morning. The reason this guy is here with us.”

Wally turned to the nappy-headed koala quietly dozing next to an empty cup of gum-leaf tea.

“Yo, Waz! Wake up! It’s go time.”

Waz slowly uncurled, unzipped his backpack and retrieved a beat-up DV cam and small sprig of gum leaves from its depths. He munched on a juicy looking leaf and fiddled with the settings on his camera for a minute or two. Then he placed the camera carefully out on the table in front of him, lifted up his blood-shot eyes and gave a weary thumbs up.

“Is that it?” Wally asked. “This is your equipment?”

“Reality TV, mate” Waz mumbled. “What else do I need?”

“You’re the pro, I guess; but listen, whatever happens here today you keep your mouth shut and let that camera roll, got it?”

“That’s what I do,” Waz smiled. “It’s what I live for.”

“And go easy on the leaves, will you?” Wally frowned. “We need you to stay alert.”

“Hey, mate.” Waz replied through a mouth full of eucalyptus, “I need these leaves, ok? You don’t want to see me without my leaves.” With that the koala slipped down from his chair and wandered off to grab a few establishing shots. “Don’t panic, man. Chill… I’ll get you the goods.”

Well, if it isn’t the great Wally Baboon,” a gravely voiced woman announced as she stepped out of The Pancake Shack; “A legend in his own and no one else’s mind.”

“Hello, Norma,” Wally replied without missing a beat. “I don’t think you’ve met my good friend Panda Wang, have you? You’ve probably heard of him: the fresh new face adorning every Panda Café across the nation.”

“Yes, of course. Congratulations Mr. Wang. I’m Norma Greenback, Agent to the Animal Stars. Such a delight to finally meet you.”

“Agent to the Animal Stars?” Wally repeated. “Is that what you call yourself now? You don’t represent me, or Wang, or Chimp George. What kind of “animal stars” do you have on the book? Wait, let me guess, you are too busy to get any new clients because you are spending every waking moment desperately trying to figure out how to win me back.”

“You! I wouldn’t represent you again if Todd Phillips was floating the idea of signing you up for Hangover 3! And you know and I know that Chimp George best days are behind him. Way behind him. You think anyone is ever going to hire him again after that awful incident in Japan? Come on, now, Wally. You may be a bastard but I’ve always taken you for a smart bastard at least.”

Norma Greenback grinned like Cruella deVille skinning a puppy, then turned politely back to Panda Wang.

“Now, Mr. Wang you must think I’m a simply awful person; but, please take into account that Wally and I go way back. Way, way back. We have a long…history. It wasn’t always this bad, you know; even Wally will admit his best years were with me. I know this town, Mr. Wang. I can get things done. Norma Goldberg can make things happen. The face of Panda Café is a nice gig, to be sure; but if you ever want to get yourself a really meaty role and make yourself some real dough… Well, you just give me a call. Here’s my card. Have a nice day, Mr. Wang I hope to see you soon. And Wally…well, I hope to hear very soon that you have driven yourself off a cliff.

“Sorry to ruin your day Norma,” Wally said, slurping loudly on yet another mimosa. “But we won’t be calling. Not me, not Wang and not George either…and you want to know the real kick in the pants about all that? We have, all three of us, just signed to be in a TV show together. In fact, we’re already shooting the pilot.”

Norma’s grin slipped to a curious snarl. “TV show? What TV show? I haven’t heard about any new animal shows.”

“It was designed especially for the three of us. I pitched it myself and got the green light.”

“Oh, I get it…you’re not talking about a real show.” Norma leaned in conspiratorially. “You’re talking about a reality show, aren’t you? This what you brag about these days, Wally? Talk about an all time low. Ha! You just made my day. Who could resist a show about a washed-up chimp, an idiot panda, and an obnoxious baboon sitting around scratching themselves and tossing their poo around? Yeah, I’m sure that will be a huge hit. Say good bye to what’s left of your career, Wally. I wish I could say it’s been nice knowing you; but it hasn’t.”

With that Norma Greenback strutted off directly into the full glare of the sun causing Wally and Wang to squint and look away.

“Wow, man,” Waz smiled slyly. That was great stuff! This show is going to totally rock.”

“That’s not going in the show,” Wally snapped.

“Why not? It was awesome. She totally nailed you.”

“Well, for one thing, you didn’t get a release.” Wally replied squirming in his seat like a restless child.

“No worries, mate. We got her card, right? I’ll get her to sign later, no probs. So when does this George fella get here? I don’t want to miss a moment of that. Are you going to hit him up right away or is this going to be a long slow build? If you ask me I say go for the long, slow build. More drama.”

“Let me handle this. When he gets here just keep your mouth’s shut.” Wally stared directly into each set of beady dark eyes around the table one pair at a time. “You understand? We can’t afford to blow this. Without Chimp George we have no show. The people at the network were very clear about that. No George, no show. That’s the deal. But,” Wally paused for a moment and looked off into the distance, “Just leave this all to me and I’ll get it done. Right, so be cool, George is here.”

Wally jumped to his feet and rushed forward to greet his friend. “George, buddy! So good to see you, man. You know something? You look good. You do! You’ve lost weight. Suits you. I must have found all that weight you lost, eh? Look at this stomach. When’s the baby due, right? Am I right?” George kept walking through Wally’s whole monologue without so much as a glace in his direction and George plopped down in an empty chair so firmly that his Ray Bans slipped down over the bridge of his nose.

“Where are the mimosas?” George asked, readjusting his shades.

“We were just about to order another bottle, George” Wally answered eagerly. “You hungry? You want a menu too? Let me get a menu for you. Waitress, can we get another round of mimosas and a menu over here?”

George looked at Waz quizzically. “Who’s the koala with the camera?”

“He’s an old friend of mine.” Wally replied casually. “Just got in from Australia. He sure loves that camera, man. Shooting all the time. Documenting his whole vacation, he is. Isn’t that right, Waz?”

“Can’t talk now, mate! I’m shooting.” Waz backed up slowly to frame up a wider shot. “Just ignore me. Act like I’m not even here.”

George looked at Panda Wang. For a normally carefree Zen master he looked dangerously nervous.

“Hey Wang. How’s it hanging?” George said with a nary a hint of a smile.

Wang gulped loudly then suddenly stuttered “W-W-Wally says not to talk about the TV show.”

“TV show? What TV show.”

“Wang,” Wally interrupted. “How many times have I had to tell you enough with the stupid TV show already? All day he’s been going on about them making a TV version of Kung Fu Panda. They don’t hire animal actors for cartoons, Wang. Accept it and move on, will ya? George has got real problems he’s dealing with…he threw a pile of shit at the Prime Minister of Japan. He caused an international incident.”

“Thanks for reminding me, Wally.” George muttered. I very nearly forgot about that.”

“You can’t hide from it, George. Charlie Sheen always says it’s better to face this stuff head on. If anyone asks you about Japan, here’s what you say. Tell ‘em “What do you want from me? I’m a simian. Every now and then we toss shit around. Deal with it?”

“Thanks for the advice,” George muttered as a fresh bucket of champagne arrived at the table. “Is this the big thing you wanted to tell me about that was going to make me forget my troubles.”

“No, no…” Wally shook his head. “We’ll can get to that later. The main thing is we want to make sure you’re ok. We’re here for you, buddy, you know that, don’t you? You can’t hold all this shit inside. You got to let it out. Talk to us. You can tell us anything. What’s going on? What are you thinking?”

“What am I thinking?” George paused. “I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. I’m thinking I am out. I’m thinking what do I need this grief for? I got enough to be comfortable. I had a good run. I’m thinking I’m going to quit the business for good.”

“Quit the business?” Wally exclaimed. “Why would you do that? After all the shit you’ve gone through. After all you’ve accomplished? After all those rotten gigs? You, my friend, are in the perfect position. You can hand pick any project you want to do. You can turn down any gig you want. You don’t need Japan. Hey, go ahead, refuse to do interviews. Turn down a blockbuster if you want. But quit completely? You don’t want to do that?

“What about the TV show?” Wang whimpered.

“Wang!” Wally snapped. “Forget the damn Kung Fu Panda, will you? George here is facing a critical life decision. We need support him in this. We need to let him know we will always be there for him. We need to finish these drinks and go for a surf!”

“Surf? The last thing I feel like doing is surfing.”

“Maybe that’s what your head is thinking; but you heart is saying someone completely different.”

“And how do you know what my heart is saying, Wally?”

“You could have worn anything here today,” Wally smiled. “But look what you decided to put on? You’re favorite billabongs. You want to ride the waves. Go on, admit it. You know you want to…”

“Of fine, we’ll go surfing but first tell me this big thing you dragged me down here to listen to.”

“No,” Wally said leaping to his feet with unbound exuberance. “First we surf! Then we talk!”

“But we still have a half full bottle of champagne.” George said between sips.

“No problem,” I’ll take it with us. No body is gonna mess with us. They’ll all be too worried you might throw shit at them.

George hated to admit it, but Wally was right about surfing. Getting out in the water was exactly what he needed. The waves weren’t great but it was peaceful out beyond the break and except for the fact that Wally was picking fights with every pimply-faced kid that dropped in on him, or paddled though the line up, or ignored his right of way.

“These damn kids today have no sense of etiquette,” Wally cleared his nose for emphasis,” and what’s worse… when the do break the rules they absolutely refuse to admit it.”

“You want me to toss the shit, Wally? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Ah ha…there you go. Now you’re making fun of it too. You are halfway to healing.”

“That koala friend of your sure does love shoot video, doesn’t he? He’s been out here in the water with an underwater rig for the last forty-five minutes.

“You know those Aussies.” Wally smiled. “They just love the water.”

The sea air and the churn of the surf continued to relax George but he did notice the Wang was still wound up like a ticking time bomb.

Wang - after a few Mimosas

“What’s the deal with Wang, Wally? I’ve never seen him so worked up.

“Listen, buddy.” Wally said reaching out to George once more. What do you say we catch one more wave and head up to the house? I think it’s time to let you in on the big news.”

Wang had been staring intently out to sea for fifteen minutes when he simply turned and announced: “Only when the wave reaches the shallow water does it find its true form.” Then he dug in his giant paws and began to paddle to shore, catching a nice wave and riding in his slow motion tai-chi style all the way to shore.

Wally had begun to paddle for Wang’s wave too, but he dropped off and picked up the wave right behind it. Wally rode goofy and turned and cut relentlessly up and down the face of the wave hooting and hollering wildly, and even managing a hand stand along the way.

Wang and Wally both caught nice waves but they saved the biggest of the day for George. George felt the swell lift him up before he was ready and except for a few last mighty paddles he would have missed out on the ride completely. Still, as soon as he leapt to his feet and pushed the nose down the face of the wave, he rapidly picked up speed. Behind him the wash bubbled at his heels. Over his head he could see the water starting to curl. Then suddenly he was right inside the swell and the only thing he could clearly see was a small circle of light the end of the tunnel of water. George leaned a shoulder into the tube and aimed his board to the light. When the big wave finally crashed behind him, George was literally shot from the tube like a bullet from the blue.

On the beach, Wang and Wally gave each other a high five and Wally did a half dozen back flips across the sand.

“Thing is George, you’re taking this whole deal all wrong,” Wally said between sips of piña colada later in the hot tub. “This shit throwing in Japan is actually one of the smartest things you’ve ever done. I sure as hell wish I’d thought of it.”

“How do you figure that, Wally?” George asked already reaching for a refill.

“Have you seen how many hits that video got on you tube?”

“They call you shit monkey, you know,” Wang added.

“Thanks for that, Wang.” George frowned.

“Shut up, Wang, “Wally snapped. “I am being totally serious, here. I’m surprised your agent hasn’t mentioned this to you.”

“I fired my agent right before I went on the trip,” George said sadly. “Right after Crystal dumped me. He is her agent too and I couldn’t stand the thought of going into that office and seeing her pictures up on the wall.”

“That Crystal, she’s big time now,” Wang added while stirring his Singapore Sling with a fingernail.

“Damnit Wang!” Wally screamed. “You are not helping here.”

“It’s alright, Wally. It’s not Wang’s fault. It’s all my fault. I never should have got on that plane. I certainly shouldn’t have drunk all that sake….and I am now pretty sure that eating sushi on the 747 is not a good idea, even in first class. I fucked up, man and now, forever more I will be known as shit monkey.”

“Don’t you see, George?” Wally leaned forward so far his multi-colored buttocks poked out of the hot tub. “You have the biggest viral hit on the internet. You can take advantage of that. You can write your own ticket. You can let this wave drown you, or you can ride it, man! And wouldn’t you rather ride it?”

“What are you talking about, Wally.” George said suspiciously.

“I’ve got us a TV show. All of us.” Wally announced with a grin quite literally from ear to ear.

“What kind of a TV show, Wally?” George put down his drink very slowly.

“Waz is shooting it right now,” Wally laughed. “It’s a reality show about the three of us. Three famous animal actors living together in the North Shore.

“One of them, much more famous than the other two.” George added. “One of them famous for…throwing shit at the Prime Minister of Japan.

“After an episode or two no one will ever remember that old thing.” Wally replied.

“I think you two should leave now…and take your cameraman with you,” George stepped out of the pool and stomped his way to the house.

“George, wait!” Wally leapt from the tub grabbing for George’s arm. “We’re only trying to help.”

“Get your hands off me, you damn dirty ape,” George snarled throwing Wally to the ground. “This whole day was a set up! How are you, buddy? We just want to help. We care about you, pal…and all you ever wanted to do was get me to agree to humiliate myself more! All you wanted to do was get yourselves a gig.. You just want to take advantage of my infamy! You don’t give a damn about me. You don’t want to know my troubles. You aren’t trying to help. Tell me, Wally. Will this reality show make me feel better about myself? Will it erase what I’ve done? Will it help me get Crystal back? Well, will it?”

Wally stared up at George like a scolded child. “It might,” he concluded quietly.

George swung slowly on his tire deep into the night. He watched the other silently from the window. Shortly after George went inside, Wally passed out ass up to the moon on a banana lounger and Wang retired to the bamboo patch to sorrowfully chew shoots and leaves. With nothing left to shoot the koala made his way to the tippy top of the big old gum tree at the edge of the lawn.

The more George pondered his situation the more some things became clear. He knew beyond a doubt Wally Baboon was a manipulative, insensitive, selfish buffoon. He was also pretty certain that deep down both Wally and Wang were the best friend he had and most of all he realized that, all things considered, especially compared to where it had started…it had been a pretty good day.

Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle

~ The Home Pub of the Famous Pink Drinks and Trotter's Ale

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