Category Archives: The Public Bar

Fable in Black (and White)

05 Monday Jul 2010

Posted by in Poets Corner, The Public Bar

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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…’

Ducati 250 Mk 3 Desmo

31 Monday May 2010

Posted by in Emmjay, The Other Side of the Carpark, The Public Bar

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Ducati 250cc Mk III - photos courtesy of Stew Ross

The Pig’s Arms has clocked up its first year and nearly every day we get a person or two coming over to read the piece mentioning perhaps the greatest road bike ever built – the Ducati 900ss.  This was a monster that sorted out the men from the boys simply by having a clutch beyond the power of a wimp to engage.  It was a beautiful, elegant piece of open road mischief, and a mechanics’ dream to keep on the road.  But for any serious motorcyclist of the 1970s and beyond, it was street cred writ large.

I have never owned one and the closest I’ve come to riding one was a more modern, heavier and more brutal Mike Hailwood replica.

But for a year or so I did have the pleasure of riding my girlfriend’s Ducati 250 Mk III Desmo.  At the time I owned and rode a BMW R75/6 –  a sweet as a nut touring bike with a bikini fairing borrowed from the big brother R90/6.

What a contrast !  The Duke weighed about half as much as the BM and was tiny in comparison.  But it was a joy to ride.  And it was reputedly good for 100 mph.  But it was pretty scary over 70 or 80 – probably because I was always short of coin in those days and I used to eke out the last adhesion available in the Pirellis, Michelins, Avons or Metzelers or Continentals – or whatever the last owner had graciously conceded at sale time.

And another small matter was that the gear shift and rear brake were respectively on the right and left – the opposite of just about everything else on two wheels at the time.  Not a good idea to forget this in a decreasing radius corner.

When one piles the miles on one’s own clock, it’s easy to forget the simple pleasures of youth. Every now and again, I feel a hankering for the thrills of my life back then. Last weekend, FM and I ticked one item off our bucket list and went off on a Ferrari drive weekend.  We went in convoy behind a generously-driven Alfa GT and drove from Sydney down to Kiama- via the Royal national Park, along the seabridge and through Jamberoo.  We took turns in a 1988 F328 manual – the best in my view – an F355, F360 and a 2006 F430.  The newish one had 500 horses under the bonnet and acceleration that was beyond belief.   Make no mistake, driving a Ferrari is a blast, but the average number of outings per year undertaken by people who are so indulgent that they buy one – is just 12.  A toy.  And a bloody expensive one at that.  The excess insurance for the weekend was a snip at $10,000 and so we were all rather careful that we didn’t need to call it in.

But cars, are well, just cars and when I was thinking about my old bikes  (most of which had stellar acceleration by car standards ) and eyeball-popping brakes – and some also had handling too, my thoughts returned to one of the greatest little motorcycles ever built.  I was fooling around looking for pictures and videos of the little beast – having little or no chance of finding my own and I discovered over at Youtube a clip of a Ducati 250 (probably an early 70’s Mk III following a Ferrari 328 along a freeway. Go find that for yourself.   But there were better images to be had and there’s  a video for your delight below.

The spectacular Ducati singles were made mostly in the late ’60s and early ’70s.   Ducati started out with the small 250s – and as many manufacturers have done – they upped the ante by hotting up the 250, that later became a 350 and an astonishingly good wheel-standing 450.   Big M said he saw a 450 for sale recently unrestored – asking price ten grand.  And Duke restoration is a heroic undertaking requiring highly specialised and detailed mechanical engineering knowledge – or access to that bloke.

Then Ducati had a little brain explosion and built something ordinary – the 500cc parallel twin.  Redeemed later with the gorgeous SL500 V twin Desmo Pantah in the early 1980s.  One of which is in FM ‘s Dad’s shed waiting for me to cash up.

In the mean time I also found one of a solid band of Australian collectors and restorers and Stewart Ross kindly gave me the use of photographs of his amazing concourse condition 1968 Ducati 250 Mk III.  My girlfriend’s bike was probably one year older and had – of all things, two filler caps on the tank.  Photos of that model are even more rare – many actually being a 350.

Best movie is a bit cheesy and it’s a very modern 250.  But it certainly brings it all back for me.

Enjoy you old road warriors.  Vale Dennis Hopper.

Riding in Cars with Strangers

29 Thursday Apr 2010

Posted by in The Public Bar

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By Emma James

When we are young, one of the first lessons we learn is not to get into cars with strangers. It goes along with don’t take lollies from strangers and look both ways before crossing the road.

When we grow up, that first lesson becomes less important as we jump into cabs and onto buses on an almost daily basis, assuming we will arrive at our intended destination safely, free to carry on our business for the day.

Perhaps though we should take more heed of that primal safety lesson, especially in foreign places. As travellers and tourists we climb into cars trusting these strangers will take us where we ask even though we have no idea where that is.

Imagine being in a foreign city where you don’t speak the language. You’ve just managed to make the cabbie understand where you want to go and have perhaps agreed a price.

You buckle-up (if you have that luxury) and watch out the window as the car veers around corners, up streets and down a dark alley. Is that alley a shortcut or are you being taken in some kind of ritual kidnapping of tourists about to lose all your possessions and left only with your underwear?

Of course when you ask any questions, the cabbie’s limited vocabulary, has suddenly disappeared altogether, just as you might soon as well.

But usually you arrive safely and live to tell the tale of the “scenic” journey you took and the exorbitant amount of money you paid for it; again the driver’s vocabulary disappeared when you tried to negotiate on the rate.

We all so freely place our trust in hundreds of strangers in our everyday lives and often where are personal safety is involved – hairdressers, dentists, doctors and the list goes on.

A recent study out of the University of British Columbia in Canada explains that “large-scale societies in which strangers regularly engage in mutually beneficial transactions are puzzling”.

Yet behavioural experiments show that members of these societies continue to interact in “fair, trusting and cooperative behaviour”.

Looking at the taxi-ride, it is technically a mutually beneficial; you get to where you want (you hope) and the driver receives payment (sometimes more than you would like). So we place our trust in the taxi driver and assume we will be a) alive at the end of the trip and b) in the place we wanted to go.

Is that trust however somewhat mis-guided?

Obviously unless we hire our own mode of transport we must rely on strangers. But in countries with rather lax road rules it is more than just the “scenic” route that can be a problem

Take for instance a recent four hour mini-van ride I took with a friend and 10 locals between Trat and Bangkok in Thailand

Our driver was attempting to break the land-speed record and was only thwarted by a few stubborn drivers refusing to move to the left-hand lane despite our driver’s furious light flashing. Most other drivers had enough sense to dart out of the way at the sight of our van looming in their rear-view mirrors

The swerving skills of our driver were excellent. Left then right with pure precision, he even considered using the right-hand shoulder to overtake a couple of times and only once sent our van head-long towards the concrete barrier in the middle road.

Our record attempting journey was halted only by the gridlock of Bangkok’s traffic where we did arrive safely, albeit with a few internal organs dislodged and some frayed nerves

The locals in the van never once seemed concerned, so it was obviously a common manner of driving in Thailand. Which means perhaps our trust in this particular driver was well placed. If the locals had been concerned, as they were on a mountain taxi ride in Morocco where it seemed certain we were going to park the rickety old Mercedes at the bottom of a 400m ravine, it would have been a different story.

So perhaps it’s not the echoes of our parents words “never get in a car with a stranger” we need to follow, but instead the locals. If they seem comfortable, then relax and trust you’ll be okay. If they’re worried, then it may be time to grab a pen and paper and write your will.

Emmas new web site is……….

www.emmathejourno.wordpress.com

The Adventures of Mongrel and the Runt – 08 – A Long Lunch

29 Monday Mar 2010

Posted by in The Public Bar, Warrigal Mirriyuula

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Harry gets the last of Algernon's things from the van.

Story and Angular  Mischief by Warrigal Mirriyuula

As expected Algernon had been released from the district hospital after both Doctors Wardell and Gruber had declared him fit, with the proviso that he keep quiet for at least a week and preferably two. All the cognitive tests had been clear but they were somewhat concerned that his left eye might yet have some trouble. The retina didn’t appear detached but the cornea was scratched and the aqueous appeared to be draining poorly increasing the intraocular pressure.

The doctors agreed that this may be due to the inflammation associated with the main injury. Perhaps the trabecular meshwork was damaged in some way or perhaps just inflamed. Time and rest would put that all right if there were no real structural damage.

Harry had been released too. He was free of pain and passing pee like a champion, his stones for now at least dealt with.

As Harry packed his small battered leather portmanteau with his pyjamas, shaving kit, his transistor radio and other odds and sods, it was obvious to Algernon that he had something on his mind.

Algernon watched quietly as Harry snapped the latches on the port and sat on the edge of his bed, ruminating on something. Algernon, having arrived in the clothes he was injured in had no packing to do. His clothing had all been washed and ironed by the hospital. There was no indication, no dull brown bloodstain, no green smear of rye grass, no rip or repaired tear, no sign at all of what had happened to him. Except that half his head was swathed in bandages and he now sported a fine looking patch over his left eye. Algernon thought of his ute for the first time since Saturday. He had no idea how he was going to get home or even if he could make it home with his head in the shape it was; and what was he going to do about the ute.

Algernon was surprised when Harry suddenly spoke up, his face as serious as Algernon had seen it.

“Algy, I’ve been doin’ some thinkin’. Not always a good sign, as Dotty use’ta say, but I wanna put somethin’ to ya.” Harry stood up and went over to the window to look down onto the little town. “I was a stranger ‘ere when I first came; didn’ know anyone, felt I didn’ fit in.”

Algy began to feel a little uncertain. Harry being serious was a new experience. While it had only been a few days since they’d met and not under entirely fortuitous circumstances, Harry had been implacably upbeat, a joker full of yarns about old Molong and the characters he’d known. Algernon looked intently at the old man wondering what was in store.

The old butcher plunged in. “The Shire’s got ya in one of their flats, right? I bet it’s pokey and hardly worth the subsidy they pay ya, which they keep anyway seein’ as they own the flat.” Harry paused, looked at the floor and pulled a disgruntled face. “Look I’ll jus’ say it. Why doncha come and stay at my place. At least until the docs give ya the all clear. I’ve got that whole house to rattle aroun’ in and I wouldn’ mind the company. We can look after one another while we recover. Whaddaya sayAlgy?”

Algernon certainly hadn’t expected this invitation; and Harry, realising he still hadn’t convinced him took a chance to land the clincher.

“Besides, you need the company too.” Harry looked directly at Algernon, the older man’s face showing the certainty he felt but at the same time masking his meaning.

Algernon didn’t know what to say. The offer was obviously genuinely felt and sincerely offered but Harry was still a stranger really. Amongst the manly advice offered by his father on his departure from Melbourne was an admonition to keep clear of strangers, to stick to your own kind. Well everyone in Molong was a stranger to Algernon. There were none of his own kind, whatever they were. A sudden and unexpected anger rose in Algernon, almost immediately washed away, transmuted into a magnificent sense of potential. Algernon felt his face flush warmly, he felt the first prick of tears, and then found himself laughing. He couldn’t remember laughing since he’d come to Molong.

The only problem with all this was that it set his head to pounding again.

“Ooooh”, he let go, wincing as he went and hugged the old man. “Harry I’d be honoured. I really would.” It was like the chocks had been kicked out from under his life and he had begun to slip into his future. He had no idea why the invitation sounded so attractive, but he had a growing sense of conviction that if he just let go, didn’t try to make everything conform to his ideas, took it a bit easy for a while, he might just be able to work it out, to find a place where he did fit, to discover his own kind for himself.

Harry didn’t quite know what to do or say. This wasn’t quite the reaction he’d expected and he stood stiffly, his arms locked at his sides, his head back a little, while Algernon wrapped his arms around him. A vivid memory of his son setting off on the Cooee March during the Great War filled Harry’s mind.

“Jesus Algy, it isn’ Buckin’am Palace.” Harry said awkwardly as Algernon released him.

“I’d need to get a few things from the flat first, if that’s all right.” For now all thoughts of his ute and his job and his future seemed less important. He could work all that out later.

Yeah, yeah. No worries.” Harry said, carefully putting the memory of his son back into that precious place where he kept his most private things. Harry too felt the prick of tears but it had been a long time. He sniffed once and smiled at the boy, recovering from this flurry of unfamiliar male intimacy, Harry said with a little too much enthusiasm, “Porky’ll be ‘ere with me van soon. We can get ya kit and get ya settled before tea time.”

Sure enough a little while later Porky turned up in Harry’s shiny black Anglia van and parked it under the ambulance awning.

In the back was a hundred weight bag of spuds and Mongrel and The Runt. The dogs jumped out as Porky put Harry’s port in by the bag of spuds. The Runt took off for a quick pee in the garden while Mongrel made a great show of affection for Algernon. Harry got in the passenger seat. Porky helped Algernon into the back of the van  where Mongrel joined him, resting his big head in Algernon’s lap as Algernon leant on the spuds. Porky turned and putting his fingers to his mouth, issued a piercing whistle, then “Com’on Butch! Gotta go!”

Porky closed the van doors and went and opened the driver’s door. The Runt jumped in, no hesitation, he was safe here with old MacCafferty and Porky. Mongrel could take care of the bloke in the back.

As Porky hit the ignition The Runt jumped onto his lap and sat there proudly looking over the steering wheel as Porky drove downtown, the windshield wipers slapping back and forth as the Anglia splashed through the potholes that always turned up with the rain.

“Transcendent, Mrs. D, that’s how I’d describe it. Ambrosia fit for Angels! Didn’t you think Karl?” Doc asked without taking his eyes off Mrs. D. Doc held her left hand firmly in both of his, covering her wedding ring and ensuring she couldn’t escape until he had finished lavishing praise on her piquant Spanish lamb roast and spicy vegetables. “A feast fit for kings, and perfectly complimented by Karl’s Gewurztraminer, yes Karl?” Still Doc didn’t look at Gruber, who had been drinking Pilsener anyway. The oddly aromatic German white with its curious tropical fruitiness had been a gift for Doc.

He was almost through with his shtick and Gruber was enjoying this almost as much as Doc. “Did I detect a hint of Juniper berries, and was that, anchovy, just the merest soupcon, as well? So adventurous Mrs. D! So exotic!” Doc gave Mrs. D a positively evil look as though he could eat her on the spot. “And not so easily procured ‘round Molong I’d wager. No wonder the good fathers hold on to you,” he paused and added cryptically, “as they do.” Doc continued, “You’re a magician, a culinary demi urge. A gourmet goddess! Why if your husband wasn’t as big as he is, I’d fight him for you right now.”

Doc smothered Mrs. D in his best most gracious and ingratiating smile. His entire focus on ensuring that Mrs D was completely aware of how well he thought of her cooking.

Mrs. Delahunty might have been floating several inches above the Telegraph dining room floor, saved from drifting completely away by the gentle grip of the doctor’s hands. “You exaggerate Doctor. It was never that good.” she gushed. Though it was obvious to anyone watching that she lived for this. “In honour of Doctor Gruber’s visit I’ve made you both a special strudel for desert.”

Doc’s eyes and mouth suddenly shot open wide. He immediately released her hand and threw his arms and head back. Mrs. D actually stumbled a step as though, having lost Doc’s steadying grip, she was without anything to hold her down.

“Take me now dear Lord. There’s nothing more for me here.” Doc mocked, crucifying himself across the back of his chair. The other diners, those that knew him, unable to miss the all too grandiloquent gesture, just put it down to Doc’s occasional theatricality. The strangers just thought him a bit queer.

It was a sign of the esteem Mrs. Delahunty held Doc in that she didn’t chip him about his taking the Lord’s name in vain. She was a very pious woman. It probably also had something to do with the girlish crush that seemed to consume her whenever she cooked for Doc. She simpered momentarily then said cocquettishly, “I’ll leave you two to enjoy your wine. I’ll bring out the Strudel in a few minutes.”

“Thank you my dear Mrs. Delahunty.” Said Gruber in his perfect but beautifully accented English. “You are truly too kind. I’ll try and gather my garrulous friend back to earth in time to enjoy it.” He smiled at Mrs Delahunty and as she turned to go he gave Doc a big wink. “How was I Albert? Do you think I’ll ever flatter in the first division?”

But Doc was visibly deflating. “You’ve a way to go Karl but I begin to discern the outlines of a champion.” He reached over for the wine bottle. “Sit at the feet of the master and learn the wisdom of the ages.” Doc intoned rather sourly while he poured himself another glass of the Gewurztraminer.

As the golden yellow wine tumbled into the glass, spritzing just ever so slightly, the sparkle that had so recently animated Doc seemed almost gone, as though someone were damping down his sun. This turn around in tone was not lost on his friend. Karl poured himself another glass of Pilsener and sat back in his chair his beer resting on his stomach, his chin almost resting on his chest. Suddenly he shot forward, the beer slopping in his glass. He was almost half way over the table before Doc knew what was going on.

Gruber took a pull from his Pilsener and adopted a rather intimate, conspiratorial tone.

“We’re friends Albert, you and I; much more than just professional friends, more even than boyhood friends simply grown up. We’ve chosen one another, as adults.” Gruber licked the froth from his top lip to fill the pause while he ordered his next thought. “We share a kind of shape, of thinking, of outlook. No matter the differences in our origins and upbringing.” With a quick wave of his hand he dismissed these things as unimportant and gathered himself in his chair, twitching a little from side to side as he warmed to his theme, “we’re objective and rational by training and we share a strong belief in the value and meaning of that training; its ability to help people, make their lives better,” Gruber paused and took hold of his glass of beer with both hands, the beads of chilled sweat gathering between his fingers, a single big drop falling onto the table top and spreading into the clean white linen, “but were still men, ordinary men.”

Gruber paused. How do you say the most important things you’ve got to say to a good friend when you know they aren’t likely to thank you for opening Pandora’s box.

Gruber took heart; that was a misunderstanding, an error. Pandora’s box had actually been a jar, and further; in the classic tale, apart from ills and woes the jar had also released hope. Thinking in metaphors wasn’t always the most illuminating process. In fact it often led to ever darker and more obscure insights that seemed to lack a definable connection to reality.

“If you’ll excuse me, indulge me, as a good friend with only your best interests at heart, I’d like to make this metaphorical observation,” Gruber paused again, then added impishly, “based as it is in my extensive training and experience.” Gruber chuckled a small self-deprecating laugh.

Doc was drawn back from the place he had gone a moment ago. Gruber’s insights were always fascinating, if occasionally uncomfortable.

“You strike me more and more these days like a gambler, slowly running out of winning cards, yet you stay in the game, upping the ante at every deal, risking it all on the next hand; and even when you win, the pot is never big enough.”

Doctor Karl-Lenhard Gruber, resident alien and gifted psychiatrist, good friend to all he met, but particular friend to Doctor Albert Edward Wardell took a quick, short pull on the Pilsener while he devised his punch line.

“Has it occurred to you that you may be playing the wrong game?” Gruber looked directly at Doc, his face impassively immobile hoping that his gambling metaphor hadn’t obscured his meaning.

“Metaphors are slippery buggers of things Karl.” Doc was slumped back in his chair, looking down into his lap. “Say what’s really on your mind. It’s not as if your English isn’t up to the task.”

Karl recognised and acknowledged how similar their thinking was with a quick satisfying “humph”. Seeing beyond his friend’s apparently grumpy reply, he struck out into the unknown and unexplored expanse of his friendship with Albert.

“It’s Alice Berty. For God’s sake man can’t you see she’s in love with you? More importantly why can’t you admit you’re in love with her?”

Doc looked up and across at his friend. He’d always construed Gruber’s past intimacy as the most European expression of his personality. Not exactly Germanic, and certainly not Australian; this desire of his to infiltrate to the very heart of a matter, laying bare all the emotion and thinking involved seemed most alien here in the Central West of New South Wales. Men simply didn’t talk to one another like this.

“So that’s your thinking.” Doc sat up in his chair, his eyes though, once more drifted down into his lap. “It’s not quite that simple Karl; and I’m not sure you’re right about her anyway.” He looked up at his friend. “You should have been there for the dressing down she gave me last Christmas at the hospital party.” Doc’s face showed the incomprehension he still felt at Alice’s reaction that day. “I’d saved a kiddie’s life before it had even begun! No one particularly thinks about the effect these things have on the doctor. I thought I was going to lose him,” Doc leant in on the table and added urgently, “I really did Karl.” He sat back again but kept his eyes fixed on his friend’s. “He was six weeks premi, all kinds of complications. It was the most difficult birth I’ve ever attended. It really shook me. I found myself questioning my ability. I was a wreck afterwards. I’d got the call at the hospital before the party kicked off and when I got back the party was winding down. I drank too much of the appalling punch. Someone must have dropped at least a quart of Gin in it, well a couple of tumblers of that, and then the father had given me a cigar; I don’t normally smoke but what with the Gin and the relief of having been able to bring the little bloke into the world without losing him or his mum. Well I did rather embarrass myself, loudly going on at length about the birth and blowing vast clouds of cigar smoke and gin fumes all over the place.”

Doc shook his head, lost for way to make it all come back together.

“My hat Karl, I’m not some spotty teenager to be chipped about underage drinking, or smoking in the toilets at school. I saved the little bloke’s life! Possibly the mother too! They had to take her, and him, to Orange Base. She was in intensive for a few days. He was in a humidicrib for weeks.” Doc nodded his head to one side a few times as if he still had something terribly important to add but just couldn’t get it out.

“It was a disaster Karl, a monumental disaster!”

Suddenly Mrs. D was there at the table with their strudel. Doc, a little uncertain as to how much of his outburst she had heard, tried slipping back into his former mode but he couldn’t get it off the ground.

“Sorry you had to come in on the end of that Mrs. D,” he said with genuine regret. “Just a couple of medicos tossing around a case.” he covered smoothly.

Mrs. Delahunty could see that Doc was uncomfortable and wondered what the queer German had said to upset him. She put the strudels down on the table and offered them both cream. Both quietly accepted. She poured in silence.

“Well I’m sure you’ll work it out Doctor.” Mrs. Delahunty said as she fixed Gruber with a gimlet-eyed stare that left him no wriggle room. As far as Mrs. D was concerned whatever was wrong at this table, the table of her favourite customer, must be Gruber’s responsibility. Doc was too much a gentleman to bring bad feeling to her dining room.

“We’re men of good will Mrs. Delahunty. We will always find a way.” Gruber offered in an attempt to cool things, but he ended up talking to her back as she walked off to the kitchen. Gruber chuckled quietly as she went. “How big did you say her Husband was Berty? You should hope that he never finds out about her secret passion for you. You might end up fixing your own splints.”

That was it for Doc. He just had to laugh; at his own foolishness, at the unending folly of humankind and the importance we give to silly absurd impossible things; but most of all he laughed with his friend who was right, again.

“You know Berty, this strudel is truly excellent,” Gruber said munching on his dessert, “and the cream, I can’t remember cream like this from before. So rich and thick, flavoursome; this is truly a lucky country.”

“Yes we are Karl. Lucky beyond measuring and you’re one of us now. Another denizen of God’s own little acre.”

Gruber’s eyes sparkled as he pushed another spoonful of crusty pastry and fat fruit all smothered in cream into his mouth.

“I really must get your reading list sorted out Berty. “God’s Acre” was a cemetery, in a Longfellow poem. American I know, but still if you’re going to use metaphors you should at least get them right.” Gruber smiled at his friend.

“Bookish bastard aren’t you Karl.” Doc replied with humour and piled into his strudel too

Home of the Brave. Land of the Free.

13 Saturday Feb 2010

Posted by in Susan Merrell, The Public Bar, Travels

≈ 20 Comments

The Loved One

The Loved One on the Los Angeles to San Francisco Train

By Susan Merrell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Growing Pains

12 Friday Feb 2010

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

≈ 13 Comments

factory workers

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

Cadets

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

Cobalt blue

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

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

How Different Can Dogs Get ? One Canus Tell

09 Tuesday Feb 2010

Posted by in The Public Bar, Warrigal Mirriyuula

≈ 27 Comments

 

Siberian Wolf

Story by Warrigal Mirriyuula

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

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

African Wild Dog

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

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

Asian Wild Dog

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

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

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

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

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

Dingo

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

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

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

Pug

 

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

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

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

Story Source:

Adapted from materials provided by University of Manchester.

Journal Reference:

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

From Here to Nairobi Chapter 2 – NO SHORTS, NO SHIRT, NO SERVICE (females excepted)

04 Thursday Feb 2010

Posted by in Neville Cole, The Public Bar, Travels

≈ 48 Comments

Tags

Mid-day at the Oasis .....

Photographs and Story by Neville Cole

Yellow orange hues of dusk fill the sky outside as I wake from a much needed nap. A hot, Kenyan breeze is blowing steadily. The window slats are rusted permanently open and a flimsy, green curtain is fluttering parallel to the floor. I go the bathroom to splash water on my face.  It consists of a sink, one tap, a toilet, and a shower nozzle. I could conceivably sit on the toilet, brush my teeth in the sink, and take a shower all at the same time. This could considerably speed up my morning routine. Somehow though, I don’t see myself ever being in that much of a rush. Not at the Oasis Club anyway.

No pool queues at the Oasis

While I dozed, a crowd gathered by the pool, which was actually a natural hot water spring, consisting of two self-circulating ponds connected by a waterfall: the oasis from which the club draws its name. Feeling stable again I wander out for a look. I find John splashing around naked with a bunch of fat old guys.

“Neville,” he yells. “Get your togs off and hop in!  And look like you’re having fun, we’re trying to get the girls to join us.”  On the far side of the Oasis, under a darkened porch, I can just make out a few young women sitting and smoking. I rip off my shirt and shorts and leap into the pool with a childish whoop.

John is floating blissfully around on his back. Two of the fat, naked guys are doing the same thing. They all have their pricks exposed to the night air. “This is Jean and Michel,” John says with a nod of his head. “We’re going to have some party at the old Oasis tonight!  Especially if we can get those mademoiselles to lighten up and enjoy themselves.”

“Wolfgang, tell us you were at the Florida 2000,” Michel said with a devilish grin. “Did you have the Nairobi handshake?”

“Nairobi handshake?” I asked.  “What’s that?”

“I’m not sure you’d remember even if you did get one, Nev.”  John says with exaggerated good humour.  “It’s a special greeting the girls give you underneath your shorts.”

“I think I’d remember that.  Besides, I was wearing jeans.”

“Too bad for you,” grinned Jean.  “We get the jungle fever, both of us.”

“How nice.” I smile and dive under the water. When I come up for air I find two stupendously tall models looking down at me. John wastes no time in sending a graceful splash in their general direction.  “Come on in ladies, the water’s fine!” he laughs.

“I don’t know,” the tallest of the glamorzons shoots back.  “By the looks of your things that water is pretty cold.  Besides, the bar is open.”

I watch very close to dumbstruck as Giselle and Natalia, for those are surely their names, parade up an imaginary catwalk to the bar. Is it possible that John’s horrible flying has dropped us into a parallel universe? Perhaps I am actually still asleep and dreaming. God, I hope not. I can’t make sense of this. I am naked in hot spring on the edge of the world surrounded by supermodels. How did I get this lucky? Then I remember the supermodels are heading to the bar and I am still in the hot spring with a bunch of fat, old guys.

“You like our girls, my friend?” Jean laughs. “I will put in the good word at dinner if you like.”

“Yes,” Michel adds. “You missed out on the Nairobi handshake last night. Maybe you will get the Oasis blowjob tonight.”

Jean and Michel, it turns out, work for Canal 4. They are in the middle of a five year shoot on five different continents. They have come to the area to shoot an episode that includes Dr. Leakey’s discoveries on human origins, the fashion photography of Peter Beard and more than a little extreme sports action. Neither Jean or Michel speak particularly good English so I have some difficulty following the entire story concept; but I don’t really care; the Oasis Club pool on a warm African night tends to make everything unimportant. Well, almost everything…the fact that there are several beautiful models waiting to join me at dinner is pretty interesting; but still, thanks to the healing waters of the spring, I am feeling quite human again and ready to face the night head on.

Wolfgang and supermodel

If there is anything better than a dip in a natural spring after a long, hot day travelling across Kenya; it has to be hopping out of the water and heading up to a bar full of supermodels for an ice cold Tusker.  I’ve always said I can travel anywhere the beer is good and fortunately for me, beer is good just about everywhere. I would add that I can also travel anywhere the supermodels are good but that seems to go without saying.

Putting the supermodels aside for the time being we all decide to start some serious drinking, except John who spends a good five minutes toweling himself off at the edge of the bar. I am pretty sure he believes this is of interest to the girls but it is perfectly clear to everyone else it is not. We beg him to “f’christsake put some clothes on!”  Wolfgang even threatens to take him off the dinner list. He points to a sign above the bar that clearly states: NO SHORTS, NO SHIRT, NO SERVICE (females excepted). John finally relents and gets dressed but not before he manages to slip in what appears to be the well-worn first line to a famous local vaudeville routine.

“So, what’s on the menu tonight, Wolfgang?”

“Well, it just so happens they caught a couple of Nile Perch fresh out of the lake today.”

“You don’t say. Well, that’s a stroke of luck for us!”

“That’s right. You can have anything you want for dinner at the Oasis as long as it’s Nile Perch.”

Jean and Michel move off to join the girls and the rest of their group, leaving John and I alone at the bar with Wolfgang.

“So where is Justin?” John asks while prying the cap off a fresh Tusker.

“He’s still in the village. They had a little trouble with the El Molo today.”

“Trouble?  What kind of trouble would the El Molo cause?”

“These guys blew down half their village. It was amazing. They flew in that enormous fuckin’ Russian helicopter to drop some gear down by the lake. Well, you know the El Molo huts, a couple of sticks leaning against each other. The helicopter came down and blew them all to buggery. Justin’s been there all day with another guy from the crew trying to sort things out.”

We drink steadily and generally socialise until the final members of our party arrive.  The first I take to be the aforementioned Justin Bell from Arusha. He carries himself with the confidence of a man who has lived the kind of adventures most of us just dream about. He is obviously cut from the same cloth as John, born and raised in Africa, though it is immediately clear he is far less gregarious than John and has a serious and studious nature. The other dinner guest is quite an intriguing sight: a tall, lean and very tanned, long-haired, bearded stranger wearing some kind of kaftan. I am just drunk enough to believe that we will be eating dinner with Jesus Christ himself.

NEXT UP: ART FOR SARTRE’S SAKE

Australiana du Jour

25 Monday Jan 2010

Posted by in The Public Bar

≈ 27 Comments

Waz does OZ - Digital Collage by Mirriyuula

I was reflecting on the arrival, yet again, of Australia Day.  And I was as usually troubled by the realisation that Australia came into being on 1 January 1901 – but that day off was taken by New Year’s Day – so we adopted plan B – the day Arthur Phillip in 1788 stepped ashore at Botany Bay – and raised the Union Jack on land claimed for England by James Cook on 22 August 1770 – the Eastern bit of the largest island.  Moreover it wasn’t until the 1930s that we bothered to celebrate the day at all – and not until the nineties that we did it everywhere at once on the wide brown lounge.

But I doubt that little details like these really matter very much.  Every day in this wide brown land is Australia Day.  But sometimes we have to work and sometimes we get the day off to do what Australians by and large do.  Which is two-thirds of bugger all.

So, reflecting that a story about two-thirds of bugger-all is not very compelling, my first reaction was to shoot for three-thirds of bugger all and ring up Foodge – to see what he’s been up to, but his one-time fiancée and part-time receptionist told me that the last time he was in the office was before Christmas – and that she suspected that he’d had a “holiday” with a blonde woman that he was supposed to meet a few weeks ago after some of the patrons of the Pig’s Arms overheard him making an “appointment” with her shortly before he was driven off by Inspector Rouge and Constable Jail. (Record length for a Pig’s Arms sentence – challenging the attention span of many Pig’s Arms patrons).

Drawing nothing but a blank on the Foodge front, I resorted (shamefully) to catch up on the news.  Like many of the Pig’s patrons, I can’t abide commercial media, so I opted for the ABC – and was refreshed by hearing that Adam Gilchrist had taken his job as the elder statesman of keeping a huge leap forward by stating the bleeding obvious and complaining that Australia has become a nation of sheep (falling in line with the Kiwis, one supposes) and of mindlessly worshipping celebrities for the fame rather than their substance.  Admitting that being the keeper of the Australian red ball game apparently IS a thing of substance, it was refreshing to have the point of view delivered by such a nice bloke.  An essentially decent, good bloke.  An Aussie good fella.  Our good mate.

I was also thrilled to see the redoubtable ABC back up Gilly by letting us in on the vital information that an A-league player faces trial on a sex charge, a rival threatens Jessica Watson’s ‘round the world solo bid, and a soap star admits a cocaine charge.  I think there’s some self-congratulatory movie awards stuff going on too, but in the spirit of Australia Day, if not exactly echoing Gilly’s sentiments, I’ve decided to ignore it on the grounds that to be truly Australian, it is important to not give a shit.

And other important and uniquely Australian happenstances have been reported by our national broadcaster of late.  We’re well appraised of the death tolls – road, water, disease, adverse weather, major earthquake, bizarre accident, heartbreaking family disasters etc etc.

This is Australia.  It’s our day.  It proves that we are as we always have been – as Barry Humphries once famously described (was it Melbourne ? – It could have been the whole country) – the arsehole of the world.  With paradoxically one of the highest standards of living according to our accumulation of pointless consumer goods, an albeit fraying tolerance if an not acceptance of people from other nations, a hostile climate, a nation governed into the ground, whipped by the massive storms of international finance, punching above our weight and kidding ourselves that we amount to something more than Bogart’s hill of beans.

The appropriate way to celebrate our great nation is of course to gather around the barbie and whinge about the day falling on a Tuesday and having to come to work on the Monday before – or taking (gasp !) one of our boundless days of annual holidays – to make it a four day weekend.  And lament the disappearance and near extinction of the Aussie tennis star.

Geez, talk about primitives.  I’m off to try and catch up with hot gossip from Hollywood.