Baboons Rising

Heard some spokesman for generation Y on the radio yesterday. I forget his name…would have been Montana or Dakota or New Hampshire or something, but he was spouting off about why the young ones don’t see a future in the military these days. Said it was all to do with respect. Said shit like “How can I be expected to follow the orders of a general who I don’t respect? I mean if the military expects people to follow, it has to respect them as people first.”

You’ve got your Alexander The Greats and your Ivan The Terribles…not so many Dave The Respectfuls though. “You know Sarg - Dave…can I call you Dave?...I really think you asking me to take out that machine gun nest is just a bit unfair. I mean you aren’t really looking at me as a person with needs and feelings are you Dave? You know I have a thing about machine guns, but still you pick me…why do you hate me so?”

This is why I have for so long advocated the training of genetically modified baboons. I have begun preliminary experiments which have so far been somewhat disappointing as I know almost nothing about genetics or biology. Also I have not yet been able to find a baboon supplier in this area. But I have been able to train both cats to come on command, which is not easy with cats…I simply rattle their food box as a signal telling them to come immediately. Eventually I will apply these techniques to genetically modified baboons and raise a baboon army like none seen before. Howling vicious primates with robot brains and rainbow asses to do my bidding and protect me from dickheads seeking respect just for showing up.

Diamond Dave

David Lee Roth was of course the original front man for Van Halen (originally called Mammoth). Roth was fired from the band in 1986. He released two solo albums (that I know of) Eat ‘Em And Smile and Skyscraper with the excellent guitarist Steve Vai (Vai appears in the film Crossroads as the Devil’s guitarist), bassist Billy Sheehan -also an excellent musician – and drummer Gregg Bissonette. He also released one or two EP’s with tracks like “California Girls”, the Beach Boys cover.

It’s easy to dismiss Roth as a cliché…the long blonde hair, spandex, notorious womanizing, drugs and alcohol and trashing of hotel rooms. But his charisma is astonishing; like Jagger, Townsend, Hendrix, Angus Young, Chuck Berry, Eminem, and that dude from The Hives, he invented a whole genre/style of performer. Van Halen’s first 5-6 albums with Roth had their share of stadium-rock classics like “Jump!” and “Ain’t Talkin’ Bout Love”, but were also peppered with Negro spirituals, early blues, and old standards. “Big Bad Bill (Is Sweet William Now)” from the Diver Down album features Eddie and Alex Van Halen’s father, Jan Van Halen, on clarinet. Roth also brought some Spanish influence to the band.

The first of the solo albums, Eat ‘Em And Smile, has a couple of radio-friendly tracks (“Yankee Rose”) but it also veers off into stuff like Frank Sinatra’s “That’s Life”, a sort of early rap-fusion track “Big Trouble”, and the cool and smoky “Lady’s Night In Buffalo”. I recently discovered the Spanish version of the album, and it’s actually very good, perhaps better.

Roth seems to have dropped out, and Van Halen continues to go through singers, becoming ever more main stream and irrelevant. There were rumors of reunions a few times, but nothing ever came of it. Far too late now. When people look back they will only remember Roth as part of Van Halen, and Van Halen will always be remembered for Roth, as much as for Eddie or Alex Van Halen.

And that’s all I know about that.

Snazzy Colour Collector's Issue

The Blog So Far

Well the blog is 51 days old today, so what better time to look back on all the joys and sorrows we’ve gone through together over the past almost two months.

Umm, let’s see…well the cartoons haven’t gotten any better, the writing continues to be mediocre and narrow…basically Joe, you’ve been phoning this in, haven’t you?

Joe: well I have a lot of pressure at work
Blog: bullshit, I thought writers worked best under pressure
Joe: that’s a myth. Besides, I'm not a writer.
Blog: Hemmingway wrote The Sun Also Rises while contemplating blowing his own head off. That’s pressure, you pussy.
Joe: I added new links
Blog: What? The Win Prizes link, what a lame grab for page numbers. And the Translate This link is because you’re too lazy to use a translator. Cripes, you could have just looked at the original page you swiped the picture from. You fraud.
Joe: Hey!
Blog: Shut Up. That Manual Transmission guy you linked to is pretty funny and I like that Barmaid one too, the optimistic fool. But all in all Joe your own work really hasn’t improved has it?
Joe: No sir.
Blog: And what is your long term plan?
Joe: More of the same! Like now, I’m listening to David Lee Roth’s Spanish version of Eat ‘Em And Smile , smoking my medication, and pecking out my feeble, misguided thoughts. Then I rip-off a picture that sort of goes with it and presto! Pretty good eh?
Blog: (sighs) you're an idiot.

Oh no, they're coming back

The Vines are making a “comeback”. They were just here, how far could they have gone? When was it last year or the year before? The Vines were the darlings of the critics who cooed popular music had finally returned to its rock and roll roots. Back were leather pants and the verse-verse-chorus-guitar solo-verse-chorus to fade format. Suddenly Lead Guitar was a real occupation again…Richie Sambora also threatened a solo “comeback album”. But like a strip of magnesium in a grade 10 science class, the Vines went PHOOP and were gone in a brilliant flash of light without heat, leaving a faintly acrid smell. Maybe its not a comeback, maybe they just forgot their keys.

In other news Powderfinger remains disbanded though, surprisingly, the band continues to suck.

From the newsdesk...

Which of the following was NOT in today’s Sydney Morning Herald ?

1) Under pressure from conservation groups to manage problem feral animal populations, the Australian government has begun issuing permits to hunt the following animals: feral pigs, goats, dogs and cats, as well as foxes and hares – all introduced species. Hunters may use modern rifles, black-powder rifles, hunting bows, or dogs. A spokesman for hunting groups said hunters hunted for a variety of reasons -“meat, trophies or for the social aspect”. At this point the wild ‘brumbies’, or feral ponies made famous in the film The Man From Snowy River, are not included on the list.

2) Immigration minister Amanda Vanstone today announced children of refugees being held in the desert detention facility at Woomera will get a visit from the Easter bunny in early April. The mostly Muslim children will be brought individually to receive coloured eggs in a small reception area at the prison. Those children too traumatized by their current surroundings to interact will recieve a colouring book instead.

3) Australian prime minister, John Howard, has stated as part of his workplace reform package workers could be fired for “excessive complaing”.

4) Australian study finds wearing of bicycle helmets actually a public health risk. Although helmets prevent head injuries, this is offset by the number of people who would ride for exercise, but do not because they feel wearing a helmet makes them look like a dork.

If, Then

If, Then

Mr. Fixit Visits Factoryland

My boss has paid for a consultant to give us some advice on efficiency (see: Cheatin’ Heart). I walked him around for two hours, explaining every procedure and practice in the Factory. In that two hours I had the installer call twice with problems, the painter decided to take his break in the middle of an urgent task that would only have taken him 5 minutes - but ended up delaying the truck, someone else came to me with a plan from the office that made no sense in some areas and was patently incorrect in others, a customer I had never heard of called to raise shit about some quote he was expecting and hadn’t received, and a supplier called to say the stuff I ordered 5 weeks ago was not coming today as promised but was, in fact, lost somewhere in the container port in Sydney.

And at the end of the two hours his only advice was we reduce the distance one of the machine operators has to walk.

Now the boss wants a report. Do I tell him he wasted his money (might just push him over the edge), or do I implement completely arbitrary and irrelevant procedures to make him happy, while continuing to fix things myself (risky if it goes wrong)?

I wonder what these 'consultants' make a year…

It's those bastards in the UFO again!

Better do something topical for a change…

You hear about these dudes on an island in the Bay of Bengal, about 1000 miles west of Borneo? Stone age tribe, last time anyone tried to land on that island was in the 1700’s, and the buggers killed two of them before they could get back to the boat. The Chinese met similar results before that. Couple of weeks ago two poachers were fishing nearby and landed on the island. The islanders promptly killed them, buried the bodies in shallow graves and ran into the bush. Helicopters sent to survey the situation were hit with a barrage of stones. The island falls under India’s jurisdiction and now the Indian government has a problem. Technically the Islanders should be tried for murder, except they have no concept of the outside world, nobody knows their language, how many of them there are (estimates between 50-200) and then there’s that thing where they savagely attack anyone who tries to land…they can’t even get the bodies back. And because the area is strictly no entry, the poachers sort of had it coming.

Its basically an episode from Star Trek.

Dick's Got A Chainsaw!

I got this neighbor, we’ll call him Dick, as that is his name. He once accused me of stealing his dirt. He had tenants upstairs who I was friendly with and who had borrowed my wheelbarrow. One Sunday afternoon I went over and was wheeling back my empty wheelbarrow and shovel, when Dick pops his head out and says “Oi! You’re not taking any more of my dirt!”. And then he popped his head back in and slammed the door. I stood there a full ten seconds working out what had just happened.

He mows his lawn thrice weekly until its just dirt with a fuzzy green crew-cut. Often when he does his, he’ll do a strip of mine…just to point out that I don’t give a fuck about my lawn, which is true. Australian lawn grass is insidious…when it meets a barrier, long creepers sprout, searching for purchase. We had heavy rain then sun last spring and my concrete path disappeared over a weekend. Once I tried to dig a hole for a tree, and found a patio buried under the lawn. So, unlike Dick, I’m happy just to keep the grass at bay. Although the dogs are fussier, they won’t shit in the grass if its too long. They’ll often leave you a reminder at the back door when the grass is too long for their precious sensibilities.

Jesus Murphy! Dick’s got a chainsaw running out there…I gotta go.

The Hard Truth

The Hard Truth

Translator Please

This is not mine. I found it in a Google Image search. High school French fails me. ("Joan says don't ? in the Skookum universe") What the hell is that?

Its like when Homer found his face on the Mr. Sparkle box.

I gotta know what it says! Where does it come from? Someone tell me!

Gently, grasp gently

I stopped wearing a hat. Like most of my generation I wore ball-caps from my teens on, but I changed jobs a couple years ago – when I came to the Factory – and just decided no more hats. As I age my face is becoming gaunt, my eyes deep-set and searching. As my brain shrinks, the resulting vacuum is causing my head to cave in at the temples. Now, in a ball-cap, I look like Ron Howard with more hair – but not quite so albino-ish.

I have the physique of an Indonesian fisherman, spread over 6’4”. Like a stick-insect I can lift twice my own weight, and sometimes devour the young of competing males –no wait, that’s lions. Ok I’m like a stick-lion. A prowling stick-lion without a hat. Actually I never was much of a prowler…more of a lurker, really. A lurking hatless stick lion. Yes, that describes me perfectly.

Male Stick Lion enjoys lurking, wiping out blood-lines, long walks and lazy Sunday afternoons. Seeks female stick lion, or other, must be hatless. Loves children (must be disease-free and not too bony).

Bus Crash August 23, 1949

They Were That Day.

I once did a very stupid thing. I rode a bus, well several busses, from Panama City, Florida to Toronto, Ontario (994 miles, 1600 km, 864 nautical miles). It took 39 hours and the thing that makes it stupid is that I chose to take the bus. I flew down and had return tickets, but no, I thought the bus would be fun, see the countryside, across the USA from south to north. From a balmy 25C in Florida to -20 with the wind shrieking off the lake in TO. The trip began at 10pm and finished at 6am, 2 days later

In Birmingham, Alabama a baggage guy yelled at me because I stepped across some painted line and retrieved my bags “Wait until I put them on the curb, sir” but by then I already had them so I asked if he’d like me to put them back, pointing out this would require crossing the painted line of death once again. In fact, nobody was smiling in Birmingham that day. I assume other days, its a very cheerful place, but not that day.

I never stopped any one place for more than 15 minutes before it was time to get on the next bus. It’s a well planned system. Each and every driver made the same announcement, no smoking on the bus, or the police will be called! Yikes. Luckily they didn’t say anything about vodka, which I shared for about 400 miles with a guy who had just had his big toe sewed on where his thumb used to be. It was really quite remarkable.

Kentucky, Tennessee, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New York. I forget the rest; after about 28 hours on the bus it felt like I had always been on this bus, I got protective of the back seat which I had managed to claim through stealth and timing. The back seat is THREE seats wide, which means you can assume a position sort of like lying down, which allows something like sleep. Amish people got on in Pennsylvania.

I was dozing at about 3am, next stop Buffalo NY, gateway to the Borderlands, when I sensed we were stopping. There already? Excellent. But no, we were pulled over on the interstate, at 3am, next to a Burger King…and it was open. And everyone quietly rose and filed off the bus into Burger King. No No No, this is bad…we are so close now…we should keep going…oh god, maybe I really do just travel on this bus forever.

I had a cheeseburger, and the thumb-guy had an orange drink and bummed my last cigarette off me. Didn’t matter, no smoking on the bus. The last change was in Buffalo, then customs, Niagara Falls and Toronto…only two more hours.

It was cold and grey in the Buffalo pre-dawn, but that was perfect. I found my bus and knew I was close when the driver came out and said “How’s it goin? Look I gotta go do some paperwork eh, then we’ll be off. Would you please ask the other passengers to put their bags next to the bus? Jeez I’m sorry I can’t open ‘er up for you, she’s cold this morning. Be about 10 minutes.”

Well, I would have waited up to twenty minutes for such a fine, fine human being. But he was only 5 minutes after all, and then me and two guys from South America were heading for Canada. I crossed the border with no passport, just the secret salute, eh. The SA guys apparently didn’t have visas and they got to go back to Buffalo, and I had the entire bus to myself as we entered Toronto just in time for breakfast. I had a very vague sense of how a POW must feel upon repatriation. It had snowed while I was away, shut down the city and I missed it, but people on the street were smiling in the sun that day. I assume they are not always so cheerful, but they were that day.

Times Were Tough

Times Were Tough

Adapter

I have an American friend. University educated, from Cincinnati. One December I wrote her an email where I mentioned how hot it was in Australia, being summer in the Southern Hemisphere. This blew her away “so what month is it there? When do you have New Year’s?”. But anyway, it got me thinking about acclimatization, adaptation to the environment.

An Australian will work outside - no shirt, no hat - in 45c (113F) temperatures under a sun that can cause birds to burst into flame mid flight, but at the first drop of rain they run for cover. NOBODY works in the rain. In Vancouver if you don’t work in the rain, then you don’t work -because it rains 8 months of the year. People from Vancouver come here in summer and simply can’t function from the heat. They look at you amazed, forlorn and wilted, mouthing silently “its so hot” over and over. They gulp at glasses of water and stare into the white sky, or down at the floor, defeated. Now and then they look up and say “you’re not hot? Its so hot.”

I did that at first. One day I couldn’t stand it anymore and went and sat in the car with the air conditioner running until the sun went away. At first you pray for the sun to go away; cloudy days are good, rainy is a small miricle. These days, though, I don’t hardly ever feel hot, but I need a sweater if it gets below 22c (72F). I used to walk to school in minus 35c (-31F) weather, now I don’t even own a jacket. I still like rain, but I’m finding I dislike getting wet…

I’m a very good adapter.

Deepest Darkest Scotland (or: Heart of Haggis)

I’m not making this up, I have a half-step-cousin. That is my half-sister’s step-sister’s cousin. I know this because I went to her wedding in Scotland some years ago where I ran into a lonely bottle of Canadian Club, all on its own in the heart of kilt-country.

Being from Canada I wasn’t invited to the ceremony (I watched Beverly Hills Cop on VHS instead) but I did get to go to the party afterwards. I’d been hanging out with a lad named Brian, who was also possibly related to me and let me take a ride on his motorcycle. He didn’t mention it had no brakes until I got back. “I joos roob me foot an the whe-ul”. He had a collection of British porn magazines under his bed that he was very proud of. Over-white, saggy women with hair like bleached Brillo™. But hey, you take what you get in Scotland, it’s a harsh land of rugged beauty - which also makes it difficult to get around when you’re pissed.

About an hour into the party, I went up for a beer and spied that sad, dusty bottle way up on the top shelf, far right. Poor thing had been there years and never even opened. Canadians over-seas should stick together I just now say, so I asked the surly Scots barman if he would take down that bottle right then and there, open it and pour some in a glass for me. After a bit of grunting and pointing I helped him locate the bottle which he brought down carefully, as though it might morph into a snake at any moment. He read the label with cock'd brow, and asked was I sure about this, laddie? Well when I asked him to mix it with Coca-Cola™ he looked like he thought this was some sort of put-on. I finally got two double shots of rye which I took over to Brian, placing one in front of him. Have a bit of this I said, and we did. He didn’t like it much, so I had to shame him into having a few more…

Promptly at 10pm the party was over. That was it, everyone just quietly got up and headed for home. What had been a raucous gathering of drunken Scots, turned into people leaving after a movie on a work night. Young Brian, bless him, was still playing his little gag where he pretends to fall asleep under a table in his own vomit (should have told me about those brakes, big guy). But me, I was not going quietly, no me and Mr. Club, my bestest buddy decided we wanted to explore the village…

It fades out after that, though I remember being involved in some sort of running street battle where I was hit with a rock and, later, finding myself inexplicably out on the moors with not a house or light in sight. There was a strange bird calling, with the full moon low on the horizon, glowing green behind thin cloud. Finally I stumbled (literally) across a river that I knew ran through the village and followed that back. I eventually found Brian’s house, though I wasn’t completely sure until morning when I woke to see him still asleep, dried puke in his hair. Later that day the neighbor's chimney caught fire and we all went for a look. My shoes were wrecked, but all in all it was a very nice time.

Baby's Got A Good Left

I got an 8 yr old girl. Not the Mole (see: oh god, I can’t feel my eyes!), the other one. Built like a short stick, weighs about 30 pounds with her shoes on. Last year an older boy whacked her with a real stick at school. She took it off him, broke it over his head and made him cry – and she had a broken arm at the time (gymnastics minus coordination = fracture).

Last week another girl smacked her in the mouth. This time she told a teacher. The other kid claimed ‘accident’ (kid excuse #004 in the handbook). Teacher said there you go, and that was the end of it. Understandably my kid was outraged at this clear lack of due diligence on the teacher’s part, and stated this clearly and succinctly at the time…

Tomorrow I gotta go see the school-man. Gotta take time off for the school-man. If he thinks her use of the common colloquial term “bullshit” is something to get worked up about, wait till I tell him what’ll happen next time some kid smacks her. She’s got a mean temper when she’s been wronged…arm’s all healed too.

Hey Peter! He fell for it!

There is a Christian, science-skeptical, blog floating around the blogosphere which is running excerpts from this article about Noah’s Ark possibly being still buried up on Mt. Ararat, Turkey.

Now look, there is one simple, fundamental problem with the whole idea. The spot they figure the Ark landed is over 15,000 feet above current sea level…that’s 2.8 MILES above sea level.

I tried to do the math and hurt myself. But it’s safe to say that’s a lot of water, no? Where is that water now? If it was locked in the poles as ice, it would have to be hundreds of miles deep - you could climb into space.

Of course the mountain may have risen since Biblical times, but 10,000 years is nothing in geological time, so it was already about the same height it is now when the Flood is supposed to have occurred.

No, the answer is clear. God tricked Noah. Made him climb up a mountain and build a boat. God said later “Cripes, I didn’t think he’d really do it. What an idiot.”

Of Princesses and Prisons

I rescued a princess once. Rescued her from a guy with a moustache while he was relieving himself in the woods. I’d been playing pool with the guy all afternoon, in the end I owed him two beers. He asked, instead, would I give him and his girl a ride to prison? They were going to visit a friend in prison. Sure, what the hell. Another of his friends was meeting them there (big party at the prison, being a Tuesday) and I pulled up behind his car, outside the prison gate. They transferred their gear over to his car then the two guys went off to take a piss in the woods by the road.

The girl suddenly said “Those guys picked me up three days ago and won’t let me go home! Will you give me a ride to the bus depot?”

I said “Ok, get your shit quick before they come back”. She ran over to the other car, grabbed her bag, and jumped in the front of my car. The guy came running out of the woods, doing up his zipper and yelling “She’s a bitch, man! She’ll fuck you around, little BITCH!” He tried to reach in the window after her, but I was already moving (Skoda) and we left him yelling in the road while his friend stood patiently waiting.

There was no bus for a few hours, so I took her back to my house where we smoked marijuana and had a bath together, as you do. She didn’t seem to see the irony so I didn’t point it out. Instead I fed her and put her on a bus the next day…off to go get rescued again, no doubt.