The Rod Blog

Wherefore Art Thou RodBlogger?

2006-12-19T01:51:00.000-08:00

If you've been checking this blog occasionally to see what I'm up to - my apologies. Of late, I've taken to photo-blogging instead, which hasn't left any room for this blog.

Have a decko at my Photoblog.

The Sorcerer’s Apprentice

2006-11-20T04:01:00.000-08:00

To err is human, to forgive, devine. But to really stuff up, you need a computer.

And anyone can stuff up a bit, but to really stuff up, takes talent. And of course, to for a bigger stuffup, it helps to have a bigger computer.

In my case, the big computer was Black Betty, down in the basement, darkly lurking, waiting for the klutzy-fingered adventurer to enter the inner sanctum.

The only way in was via arcane incantations known only to The Sorcerer.

You could tell how difficult this was by the litter of horrid corpses of those who’d failed.

And so it was one night at the end of a long day I accepted The Challenge. I’d been chasing this intermittent bug for months.
It was an S106 ABEND in COBOLII module IGYxxx.

Now if you know what that means, then you too must be student of the dark art of the mainframe. My condolences.

I’d been waiting for ages for this bug to reappear. Once something tripped it, it’d continue to recur. What I needed was an opportunity to catch the sneaky little bugger (oops, a pun) in what’s called an “SVC Dump”.
This’d show me the contents of memory, hopefully allowing me to diagnose it.

So there I was, late-ish in the evening, candles flickering, when the bug popped up.
Knowing my apprentiship status in these things, I tried to contact The Sorcerer. He’s that grey-bearded old fellow up in the keep, and the only one really authorised for spells of this power.
But his messenger owl must have been off on an errand, and he didn’t respond.

Now at this point I should have remembered Mickey with the enchanted mops and buckets, but hey, this can’t be too hard.
So I reached for The Book of Extra Potent Spells (guess where this is heading…).
And believe it or not, I still have it in my leather-bound volume of notes.

Here it is.

SLIP SET,COMP=106,ACTION=SVCD,JOBNAME=xxx,MAXLIM=n,ID=xxx,ENABLE,END

This so-called “SLIP” command triggers a dump every time it matches until you turn it off. A similar command is required to turn it off.

Note the comma before the END.

Just a little comma. An insy-teeny insignificant little comma. Don’t forget it, or the command traps everything.
Yes, everything, and remember, this is not some puny little PC, it’s Black Betty the mainframe, running Everything.

Guess who forgot the comma.

Within seconds a message appeared. Something along the lines of “SLIP TRAP PROCESS BLAH BLAH BLAH” (I forget the rest).

I should explain that I was on a command-line terminal, and this message blocked whatever command I was currently typing.

Then another, and another. AAAARRRRGGG, I thought. I’ve got to turn that off asap! But every time I started typing a command, the blasted message would wipe it out.

Desperately I tapped the keys for another go, and after several tries, managed to get in:

SLIP SET,ID=xxx,DISABLE END

Hooray! I’m saved! …but wait. Have you spotted it?
The comma…? Remember the teensy insignificant little comma?

Darth Vader: voice…Noooooooooooo!!
I’d just set a second trap…Nooooooooo!!

Now the castle was full of mops and buckets, and I’m sloshing around in an ocean of trouble.
The poor mainframe, big-arsed that it was, was struggling mightily to dump the memory of every running process.
And in-between times it was sending me more SLIP messages. Then came the flood of “SYS1.SVCDUMP IS FULL" error messages.

Things were now really desperate, so I grabbed the emergency communicator owl, and called Lurch, The Sorcerer’s hunchback assistant.

(Slithery voice..) “Ah, Rod. We thought you might call.”

Lurch might have poor personal skills and vile breath, but this day his voice was music.

Within minutes he’d sprinkled the necessary potions and the cursed mops and all their buckets were swept away.

At least he didn’t require a human sacrifice.

Grandparents

2006-11-10T02:57:00.000-08:00

Today is Grandad's birthday. In a couple of days it will be Grandma's.

In their memory I am posting the eulogy I gave at Grandad's funeral.

Success.
What is success? How does one measure the success of a life?

A prestigious car, sleek lines and well appointed?
A grand house, an ediface impressive to the visitor?

A name, well known, often spoken in the right circles?

A title and an office of status?
These are fine things, not to be rejected if offered.
But what are they without love, honour, and compassion; without wisdom, wit and humour;

time spent with family and friends; admiring the beauty and wonder of the world; speaking out for that which is right?

Grandad led a simple life, uncluttered by the most obvious trappings of success.

But was he successful? It was once put to us, my mother and I, that he was not.

He lacked the usual tags by which one might measure these things. The suggestion was, of course, a tactless one, and we vigorously refuted it.

By all the measures we hold most important, Grandad was a success. Grandad’s life was noticable for his love.

He loved life. He loved his family and his friends. To know Grandad was to know that this was true.

Most of all, he loved his wife. After Nana’s death, he spoke of her, often with a tear. They were partners to the end when in times of temporary marriages, this is an achievement of note.

Grandad led a life of honour. His sense of honesty and justice were quite plain to me, though he rarely spoke directly of such things.

Although society has changed much over Grandad’s lifetime, these are immutable values which I believe are visible in the generations which follow him.

What measure of success could be greater than this?

Grandad loved to garden. My earliest memories are of wandering among neatly tended garden beds; fine red tomatos and Nana’s chutney. I recall tapping on the pipe in the fish pond to summon the goldfish to feed on biscuit crumbs.

These images will remain with me forever, becoming more precious as I grow older.

In those things that matter most, Grandads life is one worth emulating.
As one of the younger generation, I feel that his is an example to follow. One could not do much better.

We all feel a sense of grief; a sense of loss at the passing of someone special.
But let us also feel a sense of joy, a sense of victory, even a sense of elation at the thought of a successful life.

Relative Ethics

2006-10-30T03:09:00.000-08:00

Just got back from a trip to West Lewis Island, off the far North-West coast of Australia, so it's been quite from me lately. It's so hard getting back into the routine, even after a short break.

Do you ever have a conversation with someone, and it doesn't occur to you till later, that they said something that doesn't quite gel?

Michael made the off-hand remark that he was pretty unimpressed with Bill Clinton.
It occurred to me later what I might have said.
Which is worse: a few sleazy episodes on the side, or the slaughter of tens of thousands of people in an utterly pointless and inept war?

He's probably right about Clinton, but I know which I find the more offensive.

Flight of the Maggie

2006-10-04T05:44:00.000-07:00

I do love the Australian magpie (the real magpie, not the English false magpie; real swans are black, not white).

But most Australians will also know the joy of being swooped by one.What a pest they can be! Here's one, snapped with me in his sights.

One of my early memories is of being at a picnic park somewhere.
On the edge of a grassy slope was the nest of a very stroppy maggie who seemed to get great entertainment from whacking the back of any passing heads.

So my brother and I thought it'd be fun to run full-pelt, down the hill, swirling a willow branch over our heads.
I still remember the feeling of it making contact with the bird as he made for us each time we made a run.
I seem to recall we tried a few times, probably until we got bored and went to pull the wings of some poor bug.
Ah, the joys of childhood.

By the way, did you know that a maggie can sing two notes simultaneously, and has a range of four octaves? Cool, huh! One of the most beautiful songs of any bird.

Classic Katie

2006-10-04T04:46:00.000-07:00

This entry is from Katie: it's a sketch of a story idea she had when she was 12.
Pretty cool, eh?
(I've had to reproduce the text because it's too hard to read it in the pictures.)

Introducing Horatio. He slips through carelessness and falls into oil. Comes out on conveyor belt, falls into sugar with donuts,and frightened worker throws him in bin.

Wakes up. Tail, ears, and whiskers partly gone, one eye blind, fur nearly all gone. In awful pain. drags himself out of the bin, and is unconcious behind it for weeks.
Recovers and sees himself in shard of mirror. Is horrified at his appearance.Goes to his home. They are don't recognise him. His own father sends him away.

Joins circus.He meets leader who takes pity on him.
Does not enjoy job because he is lonely and sad.Leaves circus.
Sees Exterminators coming. Fights their cat. Foils their plan. Is a hero.
The factory rats elect him leader. He marries circus leader, and is happy and contented.

MumInBootsInArabba

2006-09-25T03:41:00.000-07:00

Hello All

Finally found an internet point and its as slow as a wet week I just typed you a lovely long email and the damn thing timed out and ate it so here we go again!!!!!

Luckily the weather here has been good so we have done heaps of walking up and down the mountains. We did an interesting walk the other day, right up through a mountain to the top. This area was a front between Austria and Italy during WW1 and the Austrians were on top of the mountain chucking bombs down on the Italians in the pass so the Italians dug a tunnel right up through the rock to the top of the mountain underneath the Austrian position and blew the crap out of them. Wars are so dumb but the tunnels are still there and now you can climb up through them to 2752m it is very steep with a wire rope to haul yourself along and steps. We had to wear helmets and head torches as it is also very dark inside a mountain!

Missing you all, although I am still having fun. We have 1 more day of walking here then off to Padua then Ill get the train to Ancona which Im not looking forward to at all. I wish Id never agreed to it now!! Then I fly back to London then up tho Scotland to visit Cathy then over to Ireland then back to London and finally home. I cant wait to bore you with all my piccies and stories!!

Better go before the computer eats this message.

A Shithouse Movie

2006-09-23T06:14:00.000-07:00

One quick thing before I start...I did suspect, but now I know.

Claire's a basket case.

Katie & I just got back from watching the Australian move Kenny.

It was great! Go and see it.

Oh - "shithouse"? That's a silly joke. You'll need to watch it to find out.

It reminds me a little of the classic The Castle.

Rather interesting in the light of the current waffle about "Australian values". Whatever that is, it comes through in this film. The wonderful, raw sense of humour.

And then, when I got home, there was a story about Terry Hicks, father of David currently rotting, without any proper legal process.
Australian values? Phhhhhhhaaa!

MumInBootsInVenice

2006-09-18T05:53:00.000-07:00

We have done loads of excellent touristy things in Venice gawping at churches, St Marks and the Dogos Palace and the Camponella and the canals and all the funny little narrow streets.

It’s really easy to get lost and you can wander around back alleys for ages going up and down and around in circles and because all the buildings are so tall you can’t see where you are and then suddenly you come upon another square or canal.

I’ve been for a ride down the grand canal on a ferry but not on a gondola.

The train ride down from the top of the mountains from Chamonix to Switzerland was really spectacular very steep along the sides of a huge gorge and lots of tunnels on a very small train with rack and pinion to help it up and down the steep windy bits.

It has been very wet in Venice and that plus the high tides have caused lots of flooding. Half of St Marks square was under water the other day.

I’m glad Im not walking in the mountains in it we were amazingly lucky wjth all the good weather we had on our 2 weeks in the alps. It is supposed to be improving so I hope the Dolomites wont be washed out.

We are picking up a car tomorrow and driving up there. Phil went back to Ireland today and Paul is still with us he is coming to the Dolomites for a few days. I will go over to Ireland and spend a couple of days after Ancona and also go up to Scotland and visit Cathy.

Sinking in the deep end

2006-09-17T06:16:00.000-07:00

Well that was interesting.

There’s nothing like jumping right into the deep end. Let’s not start with L-plates, I’ll hope straight into the sports car, and hit the first corner at 200kph.

I conducted my first ever radio interview yesterday. I might have started by going to the church fete, and interviewing somebody about their flower arrangements. But no, it had to be the communications director of a major international aid agency to discuss the most dire topic of the crisis in the Congo.

There’s nothing like a bit of naivety… correction…did I say a “bit”?...make that a truck load. Good ol’ Rod, here he comes. Knows little about interviewing, stuff-all about the Congo, and even less about international aid. Launch him towards a long-time media veteran. French, patronising, somewhat arrogant, and clearly annoyed by the simple fool interviewing him.

And I thought the worst I could get would be the single grunts of someone not talkative. But the problem wasn’t his lack of words. Instead, it was the little gems like the one when I asked him what is the budget of his organisation. This was the only time he paused. Then he said “that is not a clever question”!

I’ve got to say it was not a pleasant experience.

I may have been – be ignorant, but he was completely unhelpful about one of the key things I wanted to understand. That is - how do you sustain any sense of hope when things are so utterly bleak.
Of AIDS, and of child soldiers, and tragic circumstance. It is hard enough look into the face of a starving child, but when you feel powerless to help it becomes unbearable.

And of course, through all my chewing over a bad experience I know there are people out there who are really suffering: people who would gladly swap a little ego-anguish for a good meal.

Creative Depravity

2006-09-10T03:54:00.000-07:00

It’s been said that Isaac Newton was sitting under an apple tree when a naked woman fell on him. And so he discovered the law of depravity (boom boom!).
Okay, not really. Perhaps you know it was actually the law of gravity.

George de Mestral went for a walk, and got the idea for Velcro from the hooked seeds in his dog’s fur.

More recently, some bright spark must have been watching some people throwing frisbees. I was reading about it in today’s newspaper, and he’s come up with this idea of a frisbee-like weapon. It whizzes around, delivering bombs to some target.

It quotes blurb which says “combatants in complex urban terrain and provide precision [fire] to neutralise…hostiles”.

“Neutralise” does, of course, mean to kill or mame. That’s “kill”, as in “to use lethal force against another human”.

I’d just like to pause a moment, and let that thought sink in. Here we have some creative person, perhaps sitting in a park watching kids throw a frisbee around. Hey!, he thinks. I’ve just thought up a new way to kill people!

Doesn’t that strike you as weird?

News from MumInBoots

2006-09-08T06:16:00.000-07:00

Well here we are in Switzerland we walked 20km today over the Col Ferret (very high mountain pass) from Italy across the border which is at the top of the Col down into Switzerland.

There were no eidelweiss but we were moved to sing all the sound of music songs any way. We are staying in a very small village in the mountains called La Fouly, in the Eidelweiss Hotel. There is a little hut with internet, amazing.

My knees are pretty sore after all the ups and downs today and yesterday but luckily tomorrow is reasonably level and then we are in Champex and have another rest day so they should get me there.

There were a lot more people on the trail today but most disappeared of into the hills after we reached the top of the Col and were obviously day walkers. There are a few people in groups of 2 & 3 who we bump into along the way who are doing "the tour" the most amazing thing that happened was that we met am older English couple in a refuge (Motetts) in France which we literally staggered into at 7pm just as dinner was being served after an exhausting 9 hr day climbing up from Les Contamines via the Col Des Four and down again.

We didn't talk to them much as we were so tired, then the next day they set off ahead of us to the next Col and then waited for us at the top and we toook a couple of photos together and we went down a short way and stopped just after lunch (at the Refuge Elizabetta) as it was starting to rain they went on to Courmayeur. Then the next day we walked half way to Courmayeur and then caught the bus the rest of the way as Jenny was sick.

The next day we were heading off for our amazing cablecar trip and bumped into them as they were setting off for Refugio Bonatti (where we stayed last night) and we were chatting and it terned out he was Kev Reynolds and she his wife (only the man who wrote the guide book which is our TMB bible) So we took a couple of photos together and completely forgot to get him to sign our books we were so overwhelmed, we won't get the chance now as they are a day ahead of us now.

We are still having a great time, there is a big storm brewing and lots of thunder so we might be walking in the rain tomorrow, luckily we are down low all day so we won't be missing any views.

Yesterday we arrived at the refuge in the early afternoon and we were sitting out the front enjoying a well earned beer and admiring all the snow capped peaks and glaciers opposite and suddenly there was a big rumble and an avalanche came down the glacier near Mt Blanc.

Mum in Boots on Blanc

2006-09-05T04:40:00.000-07:00

This posting care-of Mum who's somewhere around Mt Blanc at the moment. With simulated graphics of the scene supplied by you-know-who.

"Wonderful to read all your news you are all busy and apparrently coping well without me I am pleased. Sorry I can't reply to you individually but this is the only internet connection ie 1 computer available in Courmayeur and it is very expensive for only 45 minutes and very slow took me half an hour just to load and read all your excellent news.

Had a brilliant day today the weather was superb and we caught a series of cable cars to the top of the Aiguille du Midi 3842metres high and right next to Mt Blanc!!!!!

The veiws over the top of the Alps were absolutely spectacular and yes I took lots of photos! We went right over the top of the Alps from Courmayeur in Italy to Chamonix in France by cable car and then came back to Italy by bus through the Mt Blanc tunnel right under the Alps, how cool is that???

My knees are much better and I got some elastic support bandages for them too, Jenny is over her bug so we are all set to stride off into the mountains again tomorrow!"

Ritual combat with drums

2006-09-02T06:04:00.000-07:00

Claire and I just got back from a Drum Tao concert.

Amazing! Perhaps the most remarkable display of pin-sharp controlled agression I've seen.
I cannot adequately describe the disciplined energy these performers throw into their playing. They wallop these massive big-arsed drums with full force and perfect timing.

At one point they came out with these drumsticks - and I'm not exagerating - they were bigger than baseball bats, and proceeded to clobber the bejeebers out of a drum the size of a small barn.

Huge fun. I am confirmed fan of Japanese taiko drums.

Flash Pics

2006-08-26T04:48:00.000-07:00

No Story today. Just a collection of some of my favourite pics.
Only the first one is taken with my new fancy pants SLR. The others from my old 3mp Samsung.

2006-08-20T04:54:00.000-07:00

This month marks the first anniversary of The Rod Blog, and I pause for a moment to ask why I do it. Tap away at some random topic for God-knows what purpose.

In my very first entry I questioned whether I'd stick with it. Knowing my habit of meandering from one project to the next, it is a reasonable question. But I guess the random bite pieces suits my short attention span.

Having one blog story broadcast on ABC radio, and another published in the Herald is certainly has been rewarding. The opportunity to marry digital photography with my spontaneous warblings is lots of fun; and sometimes my readers seem to enjoy it too.

I’ve thought quite a bit about this topic and could write major essay on it. But I feel I am already starting to bore you. I mean, how far would you really want to gaze into the Rod Navel?

Ergo, you can skip all the above, and read the following abridged version in thirteen words.

The Rod Blog is a kind of graffiti. It says simply

I exist

Santa calls

2006-08-19T04:48:00.000-07:00

The deed is done. I've been putting off the expensive digital SLR for a long time. A kind of reverse snobbery on my part. I like having taken nifty pictures on a really basic camera.
I'm looking forward to finding out what new tricks are possible with the up-market baby.

Hey! I just discovered you can take blury shots with an expensive camera. Cooool!

Bereft!

2006-08-17T05:14:00.000-07:00

Bereft, I am! The heart-wrenching pain of separation!
I had to get up this morning in time for the bus to meet the plane to take my precious bundle off to the UK. For nearly eight weeks we are to be parted, oh woe!

Yes, my camera is off on a European holiday. Oh, yes, and I should also mention – the camera is attached to the Peg Master, Anne.

What a generous girl. She’s said it’s okay for me to go looking. We have a very honest relationship like that. So tomorrow night I’m going into town to see if I can find another, more upmarket model that will make me feel young again. One of those sexy new things which responds enthusiastically to deft handling. But do you think I am buying myself into trouble here?

I think I’ll go for a Canon 350D digital SLR. Very swish. Nearly all the pictures on the blog so far have been taken with a fairly modest 3 Mega pixel Samsung. It might be pretty basic, but I think I’ve caught some pretty cool pictures with it. Let’s see how we go with the new fancy-pants job.

Right now, Anne’s been airborne for about 7 hrs, which puts her about a third of the way there. International flights, oh what a drag. And we’ll be interested to hear the news on how it goes with all the new security blah-de-blah.

The Rod Belch is National News!

2006-08-04T05:56:00.000-07:00

Woo hoo! Much excitement tonight!
Anne & Claire are down the coast. Claire for a performance, Anne to do some work.

I was just preparing for bed, and went to fetch the crossword for my nightly wind-down ritual...and guess what! I spotted the Sydney Morning Herald, there's the Health & Science section - and it's has my story in it!

I sent this off a couple of weeks ago, and forgot about it. They didn't tell me they were going to publish it, so it was a bit of a surprise. That means the Rodblog has been on national radio and newspaper.

Okay, brag, brag, but I'm excited. I even got my own cartoon.

But I know that Rod's law says that every ego boost is invariably followed by an ego boot of the same proportion. This means that within the next few days I will do something that makes me feel like a complete git, and then everything will be back to normal. Balance restored.

The SMH story is reproduced for your pleasure. Originally titled "On with the Wind".

.........................

I never thought there was such a thing as a life-threatening belch until I discovered gastric reflux. Family members learned to recognise the signs. It probably starts with a facial expression which fortunately I can’t see. Then walk away with hand on stomach, emitting a long buuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrp. On a bad day it’d go on for minutes, to the point where I’d feel nauseous.

People experience reflux in a variety of ways, and it seems remarkably common. Basically, it’s caused by an ineffective valve at the top of the stomach, allowing gastric acid to escape. You’d expect to then encounter heartburn, as the acid tries to digest your oesophagus, but for some reason I almost never get this.

Being a man, I put up with this for ages before seeking medical advice. The specialist explained that I am swallowing air as my body produces its own natural antacid – saliva. Simply eating often helps too, since it also absorbs the acid.

But eating – there’s the rub! What do you eat? Launching into my favoured comfort food – cakes, alcohol, beer, fatty food can make it worse. This is where I and my condition are at war. I can’t resist daring it to bite.

One day I made a deep incursion into Reflux territory. Beer, chips, and a small salvo of malt whisky. Bad move. The reprisal was not particularly swift, but it was merciless. The next day I was a misery of searing stomach pain. Reflux let me know it would not tolerate such transgressions without consequence.

Subsequent examination revealed an oesophageal ulcer, but thankfully no “Barrett’s oesophagus”. Good thing: you don’t want a visit from Mr Barrett because it can be a precursor to cancer.

Thankfully the ulcer healed quickly and, to my delight, I have discovered that I can tolerate the occasional nip of whisky. A glass or two of beer is usually fine, and I have become good at judging the signs of when I can push it.

One of the drugs that is supposed to help me sounds like it belongs in a nuclear research facility. The technical blurb for omeprazol casually calls it a “proton pump inhibitor”. This simply means that it suppresses the secretion of stomach (hydrochloric) acid.

It sounds weird to have no stomach acid, but apparently with a modern diet, you don’t need it anyway. I certainly have never noticed any side effects, and internet research has convinced me that it’s pretty safe. So even though I always avoid drugs if I can, I have few qualms about popping these when the belches are looming.
Oddly enough, studies have shown that a drug like this means you are more likely to suffer colds. Fewer bugs survive the acid journey through the stomach.

In the early days I was nearly driven mad by the endless gassy episodes, to the point where I even investigated surgery. The specialist told me the old-fashion O-ring around the top of the stomach is, well, old fashioned and not recommended.

Then I discovered a thing called “fundoplication” where the surgeon wraps the oesophagus with a portion of the stomach, helping to tighten the seal. A variant is called the “toupee wrap”, which only goes part way around.

The former sounds like a mathematical procedure; the latter like Turkish take-away. They both sound like hospitals, pain, and expense. Besides, I was concerned about other possible consequences of this internal tweaking, so I decided to give it a miss.

These days the reflux and I live in an unsteady truce. I still lob in the occasional naughty, and by some weird logic of its own, it either ignores it, or pays me back double. And then on other days it, even though I’m good, it’ll bung on a turn just to let me know who’s boss.

Good and Evil

2006-08-02T05:00:00.000-07:00

One thing that I really struggle with is the extremes between the good and the bad of people. The vile, stinking, shitty things that people do leave me despairing against the shining, inspirational acts of others.

It’s easy to fall into a sense of hopelessness about the crappy side of human nature. The endless news reports of murder this, or war that. I try to switch it off, but the fetid stuff leaks though the media.

I walk though pretty parks and look away from the rubbish dumped by some thoughtless turd who can’t be bothered.

Last weekend Katie and I went for a walk through a nearby plantation and found that half a dozen trees had been maliciously chopped. Why, oh why! Maybe not a big deal in the scheme of things, but if you saw only these things one could despise humanity.

Luckily I also have an eye for the wonderful works of people and nature, and acts of friendship truly make the world worthwhile.

Cash gives better value

2006-08-02T04:33:00.000-07:00

Another day for laps. I arrive at the pool, and music is playing over the PA…if you could read my mind / what a tale my thoughts would tell… (it’s hard to sing in text). The singer is powerful and on key, and backed up by the driving accompaniment of a big band.

By odd coincidence I’d just been listening to the same song at my desk. This singer could not be more different. His creaky, wavering voice struggles to hold a note. He’s backed only by a strumming guitar.

The big sound of the glitzy version reminds me of the interior of a shopping mall. All chrome and glass, but lifeless in spite of the lavish production. It sounds like the triumph of marketing and money over something less tangible.

I am far more affected by the low budget effort. The lone singer expresses with a soulfulness I finding moving. Even the teenage girl who sold it to me said as much.

This is why I did something new recently. Don’t tell anybody: this can be our little secret. I bought a Country music album!

Johnny Cash’s America V was made in his bedroom during his last days and, in spite of the obvious effort it took him, his honesty shines through.

For my money, the flashy edifice is easily beaten by the humble shack.

Happy Birthday Michael!

Tic..tic..

2006-07-29T02:28:00.000-07:00

The clock tics for us all and one of them will be your last.
Anne is devoting a great many of hers at them moment to secret business in the lab.
It entails tanks of captive cockles being fed various metals, and then dissected and fed into expensive pinging machines to see how their little bodies have suffered.

Every so often she will dip into the tanks to retrieve the next victims.
I picture them all nervously huddled together, quivering in fear. Down the corridor boom deathly footsteps, and her terrifying back-lit features loom over the edge of the tank. Each prays that it won’t be them, that this does not announce their final tic.

Regardless of the fate of the cockles, it has been going well for Anne. It looks like she’s over the major hurdle for her study, and will be able to fly off to Europe in just over 2 weeks time. She’s very excited about that.
I hope she has a good time, but more importantly, that she leaves us with a 7 week supply of frozen dinners.

The cockles may be suffering for science, but some of their estuarine neighbours did win some revenge by launching a suicide attack on her legs a few weeks ago.

Wading in the shallow water looking for cockles, she stirred-up sea lice in the sediment. Some soon found themselves sitting on her legs, and out of water. So, thinking they needed to re-bury themselves, they burrowed into her legs. A few hours later she broke out in the most horrible sores which took weeks to heal.

The Magna What???

2006-07-18T05:22:00.000-07:00

The Magna Carta established one of the pillars of modern democracy and civil society. This is the primacy of the law. Nobody should be above the law, or outside the law.

Ivan Milat, convicted of seven murders had his days in court.
Martin Bryant slayed 35 people. His guilt was never in doubt, and yet he went to court.

So it's deeply worrying that those who are meant to be the chief law makers in our country cheerfully discard the protection that all should be entitled.

The incarceration of David Hicks represents a disdain for democratic values, and undermines the core of what is valuble in a society.

Spunky No Sparky

2006-07-18T05:06:00.000-07:00

Spunky had a bit sulk a few mornings ago.
Three grumpy cylinders, and one which flat refused to get out of bed.

Bad Spunky! No buscuit!

Robbed!

2006-07-09T03:49:00.000-07:00

Huh!
Lousy cheap fairy. Two miserable dollars. This fairy clearly doesn't understand that we're operating in a global market. Next time I'm going to a buyer who knows the full value of the merchandise.

They took my wisdom

2006-07-08T05:12:00.000-07:00

Here’s a tip for you. If you don’t want bad news, don’t look. Global warming? Destructive wars here and there? Your superannuation? If you don’t look, the world is rosier, and you will feel less pain.

Nature is a bit of a nasty bastard. It endowed us with the ability to savour our own suffering with piquant delight. We are the only species that knows our death is inevitable. The doubled joy of anticipating the woe before it happens. Ergo, if you don’t look ahead of time, your suffering will be halved.

My very first blog story was about a grisly trip to the dentist and at the end, I promised not to tell more dentist stories. Well I lied.

I went for a checkup this morning; wanted to see that the expensive crown fitted that day was going okay. (Hell, you’d expect a crown to be expensive, wouldn’t you!)

Well my crown is still there, and my regal stature remains… but, what about that ugly gaping hole in the wisdom tooth! And the useless thing hangs in space anyway, since the one under it never appeared.

Without a partner, it reaches into space in a futile attempt to find a mate. It will never know companionship in joining with a partner to prepare food on its way to Sustain Rod. A lonely life watching its neighbours happily paired with a tooth below.

So it was the most humane thing, really. Whip it out!

I’m pleased to say it wasn’t at all painful. But still, the weirdest experience, and now I almost feel a sense of loss. In a tiny way, I am now an amputee. Boy, does the Tooth Fairy owe me BIG TIME, or what!!

But enough of me. In the scheme of things this one doesn’t rate a mention compared to what other people are going through.

Last week, a friend in the neighbourhood called to say she has breast cancer, and requires a full mastectomy. Another’s daughter barely survived a major car accident. And yet another’s son broke his pelvis falling into a construction site (and was roughed by the cops for his trouble).

And right now, Anne’s on the phone counselling a friend who’s just discovered her sister also has breast cancer.

A couple of Panadol, and I’ll be right in the morning.

Enter The Magpie

2006-07-02T05:44:00.000-07:00

One of the great things about living in Australia is the magpie. Not the pretend variety found in England, but the original Australian maggie that sings a beautiful warble. At this time of the year the young males congregate in groups of a dozen and so, sorting out their hierarchy for the coming mating season. To my ears the accompanying warble is the most wonderful sound, but perhaps in maggie terms it really represents jeers and jibes.

That’s not a beak. THAT’s a beak.
You and who’s army?
And so on.

Every so often one or more would take off, and dive-bomb the others. Or several at a time launch themselves into spectacular aerial combat.

I find it gratifying to see them do this to each other since, as every Australian knows, they love doing it to humans during nesting season. There’s nothing quite like an innocent stroll across a park, to be whacked on the back of the head by a stroppy maggie. The kinder ones warn you first by swooshing their wings and clacking their beaks. The sneaky ones go straight for the back of your head.

Meanwhile, the young males are also congregating at the neighbour’s house. Flocks of them revving their noisy cars hoping to attract a mate. Their cars are mobile bowers adorned to bring on the females. The auto-equivalent of their scent markings are the fresh rubber tyre marks at the front of our house.

A Visit to the Digital Doctor

2006-06-20T04:06:00.000-07:00

Helpful reader David seems to have decided that the picture of the One Who Blogs was too complimentary. Huh!
Get thee to a knackery, foul knave!

So he's sent me a rival version which, quite frankly, is not up to scratch. However in the interest of balance, I have decided to publish it, albeit after minor surgery from the digital doctor.
Very minor.

A little tweak helps the features.

A bit more of a tweak makes them even better.

But nothing quite beats a radical Rodofaciaplasty.

Happy Birthday

2006-06-14T03:49:00.000-07:00

For the best Dad in the whole universe.

Behold, The-One-Who-Blogs

2006-06-12T00:34:00.000-07:00

My God, look at this handsome visage!
The penetrating, eye, the steely jaw...

Do you hate photos of yourself? Here's a trick, illustrated here.

Take a picture (duh!) - hopefully one in which you look passably ok. Open it with your favourite image editor, and do the digital fiddle.

This one, I hit with the 'pastel' effect, and voila! Transformed: one very ordinary dial.

And, yes, for the bright sparks out there, I did have to trawl countless pictures for step #1 above.

The Holy Order of the Stainless Peg

2006-05-30T04:50:00.000-07:00

The best journeys are known to be a time of spiritual discovery, when we cover great tracts in mind and miles. And into the inner zone I went last year, with the flashing white lines taking me beyond the bland reality of daily existence. We pondered the Deep things, David and I, and I was forced to face the sad fact of my failed enlightenment in the Way of the Peg.

No matter how hard I tried: oh how I’ve tried, and now I wear the shame of a clueless novice. I woke early each morning. Barefoot, I walked across ice-crusted grass carrying heavy loads for Anne, my Zen Peg Master. I would see how effortlessly she would snap the pegs in that certain way. The great harmony of the universe would rhythmically align with the clothes. The socks nestling neatly in a niche of energy lines.

She’d beat me, and visibly despair at my ham-pegged jamming of jocks in a way that jarred. I knew it was wrong, but somehow, it seemed always just beyond my grasp. The mediation and the daily ritual brought me no closer.

Until my Journey, that is. As is often the way with these things, it happened suddenly, when I wasn’t even trying. It was a moment of desperate necessity brought on by a pair of wet jeans when no peg was handy.

And thus was founded the Holy Order of the Stainless Peg. One day, historians may look back on this as a seminal moment in the Zen of Peg.

Block your ears

2006-05-21T03:06:00.000-07:00

You know those organised dinners where you sit at the end of a table with a group of people you mostly haven't met before; you try to shout a conversation, and by the end of the evening your ears are ringing. A few nights ago we went to one of those. It was okay.
At one point, the proprietor visited our table. He told us he was born in Portugal, and raised in France.
I couldn't resist boasting. "Oh, I can swear in Portuguese!"
"Really. Tell me."
I didn’t want to blurt out something excessively offensive, but he said it was fine.

“Puta que pariu”.

Apparently that’s nothing, so I asked him for something that would really make my Portuguese tutor blush.

A little while later, he returned with this piece of paper. If Portuguese profanities upset you, you’d better avert your gaze now.

Just wondering - if you can’t read the language, is it still swearing?

PS - I'm really not sure what this means, but you'll observe an F-word in there.

Emerging signs of genius

2006-05-16T05:25:00.000-07:00

Mum just sent me some of my old school books.
I'm not sure you'd be fascinated to see reams of this stuff, so I'll just post this one.

No signs of emerging genius at this stage (as of May 2006, that is).

In Training

2006-05-14T05:02:00.000-07:00

Anne's in training for her Mt Blanc walk in September. And Autumn is beautiful in Canberra, so it's a good excuse to go for a good long walk up Black Mt, and then around the lake.
Hello Jenny...I hope you're doing lots of training too.

And of course, a mandatory part of the training is a visit to somewhere where we can compensate for lost calories and cafeine. At the botanical gardens, in this case.
There I had a long conversation with this fish, but it didn't seem very interested.

The Legend of Spunky

2006-05-03T05:05:00.000-07:00

Here's a picture I took on the way to work yesterday. Winter is on its way, which is a cue to tell you about how Spunky came into my life.

We have in our family a thing we call a Spunky Adventure. Every encounter with Spunky is an adventure. And of course you’ll all know that Spunky is my car.

Once, before my dotage, I rode my motorbike to work every day. I didn’t even own a car. Rain, snow, sleet, or hoards of Mongol riders attacking the motorway, it was just the same. On with the gear, and onto the bike.
I kid you not. Canberra winters are to be sneezed at – by which, I mean, they really do get cold.

One morning, it was minus 8C. Serious! My visor froze over, and my face was blasted with arctic air. On another morning, it hailed buckets, and icy water bearing a flood of hailstones washed over the road. Note my use of the word ‘bearing’. This is appropriate since hailstones are a pretty good imitation of ball bearings. Yeeehaaah!

I tolerated this for about ten years until one day, I said words resembling ‘f-it’, and went in search of a cheap car. The legend of Spunky was born. Spunky I was a 15 year old Corolla, and here began my daily adventures. All was good, but Spunky’s age started to show, ushering in the Spunky II epoch.

My daily Spunky adventure now sees me on the edge with a slightly newer Mazda 323, and double-digit below zero days are a mere trifle. And Mongol riders simply bounce off my bonnet, although I try to avoid that because they tend to clog the radiator.

But poor, poor old Spunky I came to an inglorious end. I sold him to Tegan, the school-aged daughter of a friend. She enjoyed a few months of adventures with him until some utterly repulsive, bog-headed scummy excuse for a dog’s dropping stole him. Spunky was found dumped, maliciously slashed and abused. Headlights, engine, and the interior were all wrecked. But, spunky to the end, I believe his last words to his attackers were something like “If you strike me down, Darth, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine”. Maybe one day they'll be found with the ghostly imprints of a Corolla up and down their arses.

Collateral Damage

2006-04-30T04:27:00.000-07:00

Have you ever killed someone? Of course not. Do you know someone who has? Extremely unlikely. Can you imagine what’d it’d be like? I don’t think I can. It would have to change you profoundly. Your life would never be the same.

Early on in the Iraq war, I watched footage of soldiers in the back of a truck at night. Heavily armed, nervous, they are surrounded by a place and people they don’t understand. Any one of them could be the enemy. Any one of them could be lethal if they get close enough. Behind them, a car approaches. The soldiers wave their arms, and shout for them to back away. The driver either doesn’t hear, or doesn’t understand, and drives close to the back of the truck.

The soldiers rapidly become agitated, shouting with increasing urgency. Back off! they yell, aiming their guns to make their point. I don’t know what the driver was thinking, but he didn’t seem to get the message. Not good.

The soldiers are panicky, and inevitably, one starts fires, setting off a cascade of fire from the other troops. The night streams with tracers and the sound of gunfire. They’re shooting at us! one yells, and there’s a desperate air of adrenalin as the fight-to-survive instinct kicks in.

Today, these sorts of scenes pass for entertainment on television and in cinema, but I just find them sickening.

I really pity the soldiers in Iraq. A filthy little war, with virtually no chance of success. A survey by the New England Journal of Medicine of more than 800 US soldiers, nearly half reported killing an enemy combatant, and 14 percent had killed a civilian. Of nearly 800 also surveyed, 28 percent said they’d killed a ‘non-combatant’.

There are about 150,000 US soldiers in Iraq. God knows how many affected Iraqis.
All those dead and damaged people, and the most likely outcome is another dictatorship.

Until now I’ve shied away from political comment for fear I’d just annoy my audience. Goodness know, there’s already plenty of around without me joining in. Today I’ve made an exception because it matters to me. Don’t worry, normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.

The Rippling Rod Pecs

2006-04-26T05:27:00.000-07:00

In an earlier blog I complained about some of the indignities of one must endure with aging.
But I’m not doing too badly - I still have an impressive sixpack. It’s right there next to the frozen peas. But don’t complain to me, soldier this perfect physical physique doesn’t come without sacrifice. Up and down the pool, lap, lap, lap.

On a good day I drift into ‘the zone’. Way back in evolutionary history two bacteria decided to form a pair. Two instead of one, no one was going to pick on these dudes. Back off. Touch my mate, and you’ll have to deal with me too.
And so, over time, the pairs grew into gangs, and the gangs had the tough guys, the smart guys, and the guys who just hung round to make up the numbers.

The end of the lane, another lap. The muscle gangs work in time like little rowers in a Spanish galleon. Boom boom boom, in time. Their little heads are bobbing, and hence, my rippling pecs. Our bodies are these massive colonies of these little cooperating workers. And while this wondrous teamplay goes on, I contemplate the equally gigantic community of stuff in our heads. Lots of little voices all singing different parts, and yet we seem to hear a single tune. Or do we? Not always.

I have long been fascinated by the contractions built into each of us. The apparently incompatible facets of our personalities. The monster who will smile and smile, and be a villain. I dip my hand into the water. A smooth kick, breathe, and glide which is completely at odds with the ad hoc way I do some things. My bowling team partners told me I was way too stylish to be in their team. But they needn’t have worried. It’s one thing to bowl like a ballet dancer, and another to lift your score above mediocre (I didn’t).

So do you do this? One day you’re full of beans, and the life of the party. Another, you’re quiet, shy, and mope in the corner. The sharp-witted expert, firing off incisive remarks, or the slow dunce who’s lost the plot.

I’m joined in the lane by some slick super hero. He sails past effortlessly, and leaves me spinning like a dinghy in the wake of a supertanker. I’m sure his sixpack really is rippling, and I hate him with a passion. And when he’s not in the pool, he’s probably a complete dick. But it’s my final lap, and I put in one last spurt of effort for the day. Oh, look who it is. It’s Peter. Cool. Peter’s really cool, and I haven’t seen him in ages. We have a happy animated chat before I climb out of the pool.
I wander back to work hoping I’ll be the expert today, and not the dunce.

We went the whole lentil

2006-04-17T04:11:00.000-07:00

Just got back from the Four Winds musical festival in Bermagui. Very pleasant and earthy, sitting in the sunshine enjoying the superior music.
This one's an upmarket we-paid-off-the-kids-and-mortgage event.

Also very nice to see Den & Geoff, who are shortly moving to Hobart. Always good to visit distant friends.

I took these pictures from the nice little garden at the back of the Motel.

Bushhats and Blundstones

2006-03-26T01:28:00.000-08:00

It’s a big day at the farm, and I’m out of uniform. The cockies are all here, with bush-hats and blunnie’s to-boot, and hopefully something in-between.

In case you’re not up to date with Aussie lingo (language), blunnies are Blundstone boots. These are standard attire for a ‘cocky’, also known as a farmer. Their sun-cragged faces and worn hands contrast with my office tan and keyboard-calloused fingers.

But the day is not mine, and I try to meld into the background. The day belongs to Anne’s Dad as he hopes to sell everything on the farm. Thirty-odd years of toil, turning soil for broccoli and cauli. Time to pay the diddler. It’s auction day, and everything must go. Muddied tractors, combine-harvesters, bolts and pins; the old bent vice from the workshop.

I watch the knowing cockies, who flocked from miles around. They sniff a sale, and travel far for that special farm device. The fifteen-disk bed former and the weeder-spray. They scratch their chins, and look thoughtfully at each opportunity. A few mutter in amazement at the old Catepillar dozer parked in the ferns. It’s a sorry sight alright, but the amazement is, that soon somebody will buy it.

Nearby, disappearing into the growth is a Series-One Landrover. The bracken grows right through the floor. Around the corner is a Vanguard car, almost completely collapsed into rust. It has sat there some thirty years under a growing cloud of blackberries. I prod a dangling body panel with a stick daring it to drop, but like a determined old man it hangs on.

I wander through the weeds followed by shades and memories. The old dog kennel lies on its side. The dogs are long gone. Here is where we stood, watching the cow being born; its legs protruded for a while, then it dropped in an untidy heap on the ground.

The rattle-gun auctioneer is in full flight. He’s pumping the crowd, working up their enthusiasm for a bargain. I can’t believe anybody can talk that fast. The words fly out like a shooting train. I’ve recorded a segment of his spiel, and even playing it back I can barely keep up with him. The cockies are still scratching their chins. Now it is the tension of a good deal; whether it’s time to go for that next bid. Some of my pictures capture their arms-folded consternation.

I enjoy the atmosphere for a while, but soon it’s time for a break. Up to the house for a cuppa. We say everybody has at least one skeleton in their closet. Well guess what – we do too, and if you think I’m joking, have a look at the picture. Sorry to disappoint, but it’s not great-aunt Maude, but a relic of medical student days. And now it’s ours, and we have to do something with it. Any suggestions? The bin may be a bad idea. Can you image trying to explain that one away?....”police investigate human remains”….

It’s a long day for Anne and her Dad. But it’s been a good one, and nearly everything of significance has been sold. Dad’s walking off the farm to tour the nation in a big, comfortable bus.

Friday 24th March: Note the Date

2006-03-20T01:28:00.000-08:00

Catch it while it's live: the RodBlog goes to air on ABC Radio National Perspective program, on Friday 24th March.
Details below.

Coins for the ABC

2006-03-06T02:48:00.000-08:00

A few days after the previous story, I read a column about how our poor ABC is...poor.
Of course I was obviously joking about the limousine thing, but it is a bit cruel when the organisation has been so starved of funds in recent years.

I would be more than happy to pay a few more tax dollars to keep it alive.

Now today (the 7th), I went into the studio to do the recording. They usher me into... a broom closet! But soon I discover there's a microphone and headphones (behind the mop).

ABC-ers call this the "Tardis", and reassure me that it usually returns visitors to the correct spatial/temporal coordinates.

But all is good, and I am ably assisted by Sue, operating remotely in Sydney, keeping me calm. Remember to take a breath. It doesn't sound good to forget this, and keel over in the middle.

I don't yet know the date, but the recording will first be aired at 4:55am, and repeated at 5:55pm on a weekday. It will then go out on Radio Australia, in Asia, Europe, and the constellation of Plaedes. It will also be available in text and podcast from http://www.abc.net.au/rn/talks/perspective.

The Rod Blog on National Radio!

2006-02-24T02:14:00.000-08:00

A big black limousine glides by. In the back is the head honcho, grand poo bah of ABC Radio National. A fat cigar, and two beautiful assistants. They’ve just heard about the Rod Blog. “I want him on my station. See to it.”, and a team of lackeys is sent forth to find The-One-Who-Writes.

At 11am I get the call. My people talk to their people, and the deal is done. An episode of the Rod Blog is to be aired on the ABC Perspectives program, broadcast at 1755 each week day. It is an adapted version of Of Failure and a Christmas Wish, posted on Christmas day.

I’m very excited about this. I’ll need to make sure I do lots of practice reading to make it as good as I can get it. I’ll post the broadcast date when I have it.

Footnote:- parts of the preceding story may contain minor inaccuracies, or be fabricated.

The Uncertain Lineup

2006-02-21T02:54:00.000-08:00

How would you feel to see someone sent to the gas chamber based upon your evidence? That’s a bit extreme, but what about if it was only a few years in gaol?

I was first-hand witness to a crime the other night, and these thoughts have come to me since then. Yes, the crime was minor, but it got me to thinking about how what would it be like to be called to a line-up?

I was just readying myself for bed when my attention was caught by a loud screech and thump. Our neighbourhood has aged a bit, and is now at the stage where there are noisy youths in noisy cars wipe trails of black rubber around the street. This was one of those, but the driver had parked his (actually his passenger’s father’s) car into the next-door’s trailer.

Now we had two quite drunk youths, obnoxious and possibly violent. And they did not want to face the consequences. I’ll spare you the detail, but it was all a bit sordid, with lots of shouting and drunken swaggers. If you’ve read my August 2005 blog “A frightening experience”, you’ll know that we’ve already had a near-violent encounter with a stranger, and you’ll understand why I was very wary of a repeat.

Eventually, our drunken boofheads managed to get their car going again, and shot off at high speed, doggedly pursued by a police van. Well, we thought, that’s the last we’ll see of them but, would you believe, they soon reappeared, and screeched up the dead-end street where we were standing. The blue-flash and siren was not far behind. A shower of sparks, a thud, and moments later there was the shouts and grunts as the coppers wrestled them to the ground. They’d buried their car into a neighbour’s garage door. At times like these, I have only sympathy and respect for the police.

Now, only minutes later one of the miscreants is being interviewed by police. I should recognise him easily, I was there for about ten or fifteen minutes with their boozy blustery behaviour. But suddenly the realisation strikes me. If this person walked passed me in the street, I don’t think I’d recognise him. What, not recognise a face? Honestly, I don’t know where my attention was, but his facial features did not leave a mark. And already I was confused about which one was driving.

Is it just me? I know I can be a bit forgetful, but the idea was a bit worrying. God help me if I ever have to do a real line-up, because frankly, I don’t think I’d trust myself.

What a hoot!

2006-02-09T03:08:00.000-08:00

Katie’s book launch was an absolute hoot! We packed out the bookshop, and sold every copy.

A special thanks to Maxine McArthur for coming along and delivering a fine introduction.

But best of all, was to share this moment with fine friends, many of whom went out of their way to join us. It felt like our wedding day, with the atmosphere fairly frothing with good will. And Katie lit up with a sparkling speech, a blend of heartfelt gravitas and cackling wit.

My eternal gratitude to you all,including those whocouldn’t join us, but sent their best wishes.

Smokey Reminiscence

2006-02-06T01:42:00.000-08:00

My eyes are itching and my throat burns.
Outside the sky is a burnt brown, orange and red. It is a reminder of the horrible days just over two years ago when our city was under seige from bushfires.

I saw these remarkable smoky tendrils on the way home, and since my camera was handy, I could grab this shot.

I hope it passes soon.

The Vanishing Symphony

2006-01-24T01:42:00.000-08:00

In times of bleak I find great solace in beautiful music. This afternoon the radio is playing Beethoven’s Pastoral symphony. The announcer tells me that among the performers is Geoffery Lancaster playing [some technical term] piano.

I can just hear him if I listen carefully, but I wonder what the difference would be if the part were removed. Let’s not stop at the piano. What about the oboe. The horn. The drum. Inch-by-inch the symphony wastes until at some point it dies. It’s hard to predict when, but we know that sooner or later a critical moment will come, and it will lose whatever it is that keeps it alive.

Thus it is with complex things. Would your car notice missing hubcaps? No, but keep unbolting random parts: a wobble here, a squeak there. Never mind, turn the radio up again and hope for the best. But you know where this is headed: it’s unlikely to involve motoring happiness.

Another day, another news report. This bird is about to go extinct. In a remote location somewhere, some cuddly, furry animal is in trouble, but it lives in the domain of lentil-eating, middle-class bushwalkers, and has no economic impact. Elsewhere a coral reef is bleeched by nutrient runoff and warming seas.

Now here’s the economist: we’re in trouble because of our declining birthrate. Have one for the nation. And all the while I wonder how many parts we can discard before our craft falls out of the sky.

Thurra

2006-01-16T03:20:00.000-08:00

Oh the pain of returning to routine. But such a nice time away, in a beautiful location.
Thanks to Anne, Chris, Claire, Eva, Julia, Katie, Kristen, Leon, and Luke.
No preachy message today, just some of the nicer pictures.

Of Failure and a Christmas Wish

2005-12-25T02:52:00.000-08:00

It is a notable trait of American culture that they like to sing of their success. Of how they overcame impossible odds to come out on top. I like this; we need these stories to help make it though the challenges of life.

I was reading a blog the other day, of how one such person came to defeat a bully. I thought of my own experiences with bullies and in particular, of how I failed to deal with one. But today I want to tell a different story. A story of failure, but perhaps failure is essential ingredient of success.

At age 14, my best mate was Craig. We did all the boy things that boys love. We jumped our bikes, and got up to all sorts of mostly harmless mischief. We tried making bombs and rockets out of home-made gunpowder, but mostly they just fizzed lots of smoke. I’ll never forget Dad coming into the kitchen just after one of my recipes had caught fire, filling the room with thick smoke. Oh crap, I thought, I’m toast. But Dad was waaaay cool. He just looked around, waved his arm, and said ‘hmmmm’. And then he just walked out again. Thanks Dad, I don’t know how I was going to explain that one.

So one day I’m up at Craig’s place, which backs onto a reserve. Up there are a couple of younger kids: I’d say, maybe 9 or 10 years old. Much smaller than us, also mucking around doing boy things. I don’t know who did this, but one of us picks up a small rock, and lobs it at the other. Yay, that was fun, but in a flash, here comes one back again. Well we can’t have that, here’s another one for you. Ow! That hurt! Pretty soon the rocks grow bigger and faster, and the aim gets deadlier and nastier.

The air is swarming with flying rocks, and we run from tree to tree looking for cover, flinging missiles as we go. This can’t be right, we have overwhelming physical superiority. We’re far bigger and stronger, but these kids won’t back off.

One in particular is a plucky little so-and-so. I score a direct hit. He gets one back. It’s me and him. Damn! I want him to stop. Bang, I hit with another. It must of hurt. The way to defeat him must be to apply my superior force, but wait, he’s run into our yard, arm cocked. We’re ready for a Trafalgar battle broadside, so I jump the gunwales and pin him to the ground. I’ve got my hands around his neck, and he’s pinned helplessly to the ground, but still he won’t yield. I’m furious and desperate, knocking his head on the ground. His eyes are fairly popping, and tears are streaming down his cheeks.

I am appalled and sickened by my own savagery. How did we get to this? Why doesn’t he give up? I am crushing him by force, and yet through teary eyes he stares back at me with unrelenting determination. We’ll make a deal, I tell him. I’ll stop if you stop. Let’s call it quits. Okay, he says. We’ve found a way out, and cautiously I release my grip. True to his word, he slinks off bruised, cursing, and defiant all the way.

I never meant for it to get to this, it just sort of got out of hand. My physical strength was not enough against such a determined opponent. My only escape was to surrender some pride. But the real shame was that I allowed it to happen in the first place.

And now I look at the world, and I see this story repeated on a global scale. Just being stronger is not enough. If I have a Christian message for this time of the year, it is to be prepared to take a slap on the face, and not feel obliged to return it. I despair at those who think the ultimate violence of war is the way to repair the world.

May the spirit of Christmas be with you.

Mitigating risk through a customer-focussed, future-proofed strategy

2005-12-19T13:43:00.000-08:00

Words are wonderful things. Each captures a unique idea. The best words are a pot of rich flavours you can almost taste. Some words are like a thick bowl of sludge.
Gloop, gloop, you have to wear gumboots to wade through to the other side.

Whyfore this warble? I have before me a magazine article. In the title it promises to tell us about proactive human capital management.

I feel the need for a periscope under this dollopy glop.

Twas brillig and the slithy consultants did gimble in the stategic framework…

His dusty shoes are his Cadillac - or Pounding the Pavement in Search of a Sale

2005-12-11T04:08:00.000-08:00

For you young ones, the former part this entry’s title is a quote. Anybody like to have a guess?

People say to me, now that KJ’s book is on the way, I can look forward to becoming a man of leisure. Well, what a fine idea that is; I’d be willing to give it a try but here is where myself and reality collide. Unfortunately, I’ve noticed that reality usually wins. Not sure what to do about that.

Getting The Land of Bad Fantasy accepted by a publisher was amazingly easy, compared to the stories I’ve always heard. Tales of years gone by, and growing piles of rejection letters. But for us, the planets lined up, and there it was.

Each year we go away for a camping trip, and KJ wants to read us her story. Yes, okay, we’ll humour her. Read the story if you really want to. Well, what do you know? This one wasn’t half bad. You should try to publish this one, we say.

So we pops a couple of chapters into envelopes, and launch them in the scatter-gun into the mailboxes of 47 different publishers. Let’s see what comes back. Time passes. A few rejection notes, but some positive comments. Sorry, we like the story, but not much use for a maths book. Should have checked what sort of publishers they were first.  And then, tick-tick-tick on the line. And another. And whoa! Another.  That’s three who are keen. Then <a few bits in between> we have a contract with an agent, and then one with Omnibus (Scholastic).

So, when’s he going to explain the title? Okay, now. Getting the book published is just the start. We’ve got to do our best to make it a success. Margins are tight, so there isn’t a huge bucket of money for marketing. We’ve got to shake our booties, wriggle our botties, and get out there and pound the pavement. Schools and bookshops.

Let’s make sure the bookshops have LOBF in stock. No point in printing a fine book, telling the world about, and then finding that nobody can find it.  Now here’s Emma. Emma’s a company man; works for a big chain bookshop company. Are you interested in supporting a local author? NO. Quick as a flash, not a moment’s hesitation, no. Well, Emma, I’d love to see the panicked look on your face as the cranky crowd rushes your door, wanting to know why you don’t have a copy.

A humbling experience, it is, to ‘cold canvas’ in search of a sale. Feeling pretty comfortable about yourself?  Well give this a try.  What, don’t have a book to sell? No worries, we have one right here.

Home again, jiggidy jig

2005-11-26T17:45:00.000-08:00

...and this little piggy came home. 7,600km, good thing I'm tough (unlike this one, who couldn't cut the distance). The final episode in the adventure was a major dump of rain 5 minutes from home - a Sydney Harbour of water tipped in one burst, but I wasn't going to stop even though cars were pulling onto the verge with their headlights on.

Now to the wierdness of returning to ordinary life.

A special thanks to everyone who showed me such fine hospitality.

Nelson, the first greenie

2005-11-22T15:50:00.000-08:00

Now in a little holiday spot called Nelson, on the SA/Vic border. Quite nice, and an attractive river for an afternoon cruise.

I ask the local about phone access. The greenies, phhhffff! are objecting to a mobile phone tower in a paddock. They don't like it (apparently) because they think holiday spots should be away from things such as mobile phones. Doesn't sound remotely like a green issue to me. But what an insult, to be a greenie.

Of dust and flies and things

2005-11-20T03:44:00.000-08:00

Oh tales of woe and malady. This is what you need for entertaining travel stories, so it is with great regret that I have none. No Kalashnikov-bearing border guards or goat-eyeball feasts with bearded natives. Just another day, another beer by the sunset and a D&M with master chef travelmate David. Sadly, David’s now left me, but I am in Adelaide with Jeanne & Jason for a couple of nights. It’s really nice to visit friends & relo’s while travelling.

And now, the tough job of digging up a disaster or two for your enjoyment. Why would you want to ride the Nullarbor, people asked me. Well, I wouldn’t want to do it for a living, but I thought it was a hoot. It’s one of those rites every Australian should do at least once, especially on a motorbike. The only low point is the dustiest, windiest camp site I’ve every seen. Impossible to put anything down or it’ll blow away. Dust drilling its way into every nook of your body and luggage, up your nose and in your jocks. But the views were beaut and we kept our cheer despite.

David is the Iron Chef, and the best I can do from my lowly kitchen-hand rank is keep him supplied with chopped veggies and clean utensils. So we arrive in Pemberton, and the local dam is chockers with marron (cray). This is my big chance. I will go hunting-and-gathering and, by God, whatever it takes I’m going to return with some for dinner, or die in the attempt! Yeah, right. They show no interest in my delicately prepared chicken pieces, and my elaborate trap made from a cheese grater is useless. An early demise is not my prefered option, I go over the road and buy some. It was them or me and besides, they taste better.

Okay, hardly a disaster, but did I tell you about the flies? The flies! Aaagh! I’m riding down to Yorke peninsula, and blat-blat-blat on my visor smearing their oily little bodies in little coloured paint blots. Very amusing, thinks I, this will make a quirky picture for my collection. And, in due course I arrive at the national park where I will set my tent, crack a bottle, and admire yet another wondrous sunset (sadly sans-David). But as soon as I’m off the bike, news is out. Fly newsflash. Here’s some new nostrils to explore! Eyeballs, ears and mouth. Dodge the ineffectual flapping arms, and get ‘em while they’re fresh.

Blow that for a joke (oops, a pun), I’m outa here. Take your stinking park, and I’m back to the caravan park for a civilised stay at a cabin (with, would you believe, a TV & DVD).

Last week of my trek now. A few days along the southern Vic coast, and home on Saturday.

The Slings and Gins of Glad Fortune

2005-10-29T03:31:00.000-07:00

There’s nothing quite so grand as messing about on bikes. And what a joy it is to leave the Victorian nagways. Can you imagine having your most tiresome nanny following you everywhere. Microsleep can kill in seconds. Take a break. Don’t speed. Slow down. Clean your teeth. Drowsy drivers die. Distracted drivers die. Bridge out ahead. After a while you ignore them, but I am reminded of the adage that if you treat your people like fools, eventually your people will be fools.

So I did – in the interest of the public good - promise to ride the desert training sipping martinis, but Eva the lovely barmaid didn’t know how to do one, so here I am doing my duty to a gin & tonic.

And now we’ve been spending a few quiet days at the folk’s place, relaxing and watching the sunsets. Very tough. And no mention of the W place.

Heading south in a couple of days.

Drip Drip

2005-10-22T19:13:00.000-07:00

The rain commeth. A brief dump in Beaufort. A few rain patches, but not too bad.

And mishap #1. The poor bike got a little tired and lay down for a rest.

We're at Jason & Jean's place in Adelaide, just about to head off to the train.

Poop Poop!

2005-10-17T05:23:00.000-07:00

Yikes! The first chance to wield a car. Here we go with the driving lesson thing.

Hey, the wheel's shaking. And where did that pedestrian go?

And on Wednesday, it's my turn. Off across the nation on the Big Blue Bike. Six weeks with David, we'll train the bikes across the Nullabour, sipping martinis and admiring the desert. Then tour around a bit and ride home. What a hoot!

The Ant

2005-10-06T05:00:00.000-07:00

In the last few years we have been waging a small war against little black ants that have been invading our house. In the warmer months we find small hoards of them invading our honey, or seeking moisture in the shower recess. They come into the bedrooms and cluster around any scraps they can find. One day, years ago, we found a nest they’d built behind the loosening tiles in our bathroom. We swiftly dispatched them with chemical warfare and other weapons of ant destruction.

Right now, it’s winter, and we rarely see the blighters. But this morning, I felt the need – as you do - for a little quiet contemplation. I’m reading the newspaper – as you do – waiting for nature to take its course. Across the floor I see the ant, small and black. The first I’ve seen for a while, but I know in spring they’ll be back in force. Foraging, no doubt on behalf of its nest-mates.

My first reaction is to squash the annoying so-and-so. It’s just in front of my boot, and all it will take is an easy movement of my leg, and my overwhelming superiority will convert to a little mush of wriggling legs. But I am struck by the sight of this tiny Mawson struggling his way across the Antarctic wasteland of my bathroom floor; the bright faces of its poor children, waiting in vain for the next meal; the tearful eyes of his lady fearful for her ‘man’, and for the future of her children.

Okay, here I’m getting a little fanciful, but I could almost see our brave little ant toiling across the vast territory of my bathroom floor, towing a weighty sleigh of supplies, having survived his less hardy travellers.

The newspaper article’s almost finished now, so I tidy up, lift my boot and squash him. Just like that. Heartless? Okay, not really. I let him go. Off he went and, I imagine, has now finished his great trek across the tiles. Presumably back to his nest where he can tell tall tales of daring deeds, and how he tricked the terrible ogre.

Hopefully, he will also tell of how clean our tiles are, and there’d be no point in returning next summer. But some how I doubt that, and soon it will be time again to deploy the WMD.

Footnote: I actually wrote this some time ago, pre-blogging. Getting a picture of the ant was hard work - these things carry formidable weapons at both ends. On a lucky day you could be bitten as well as stung.

Another fine day

2005-10-03T02:04:00.000-07:00

We all took the pink pill.
Val's place, Tharwa, 3 Oct 2005.

Katie's Book Cover

2005-10-02T05:26:00.000-07:00

Release date 1 Feb 2006. Very exciting!

More Rain

2005-09-28T06:19:00.000-07:00

No sermon today, just a couple of night-rain shots I snapped a moment ago.

The girls are on the go this week: all in Melbourne. Anne is at a conference, Claire is meeting a recorder teacher about her post-school studies, and Katie is talking to a couple of people about publicity events for her book launch in February.

Fortress Town

2005-09-26T04:19:00.000-07:00

Today after work, I took a picture containing this image. Can you guess what it is? A Celtic pattern hidden within what was intended to be a clip of ugliness, to be included in another ramble upon what seems to be a recurring blog theme.

I was going to compare the modern town centre to a fortress. Bunkered within our cities are these places where we do commerce. You go there to do trade, to shop, to collect your bundles of goods then leave. If you’re not buying or selling, then what are you doing there?

Perhaps it’s just a Rod-weirdness, but I find the interior of these places sterile and depressing. Chrome and glass and unfriendly. I am, of course, talking about the mall. But others don’t seem to mind. Maybe I’m just getting behind on my therapy.

Now have a look at the exterior, and this is where I see the fortress. Stark, impenetrable blocks, surrounded by a moat of traffic. If you didn’t arrive by vehicle you’re in real danger. Now I am young enough and my feet are still fleet, but I’d hate to be old and doddery trying to skip my aged bones across the path of speeding cars.

But seriously, I don’t think I’m entirely off the wall here; consider what it means to a community to have such unfriendly town centres. It breaks down the opportunities for chance meetings; it brings a cold, impersonal feeling to a place. It builds upon the sense of alienation that many people feel towards society.

Up the creek

2005-09-26T03:06:00.000-07:00

At last, lots of rain, and our creek is full of water again.

After a fearsome drought, it looks like our dams are starting to fill.

What happens to a city when it runs out of water? It's a worrying thought. And it makes me wonder about those who think that never-ending population growth is desirable as an endless way of priming the economy.

On the many insults

2005-09-21T04:54:00.000-07:00

And as the mileposts wizz by on my slide towards decrepitude, I suffer the pangs and pains of mounting years. Perhaps you know the feeling: parts of you want to get bigger shrink while the bits you want to shrink grow. The places you want hair lose it, mocked by the odd new places it finds to grow.

Now standby to receive a new word of the modern variety. Not long ago I had to upstrength my reading glasses. In only a matter of weeks I found I could no longer easily read text of almost any size. So off we go to the optical people, and soon enough, with the vacuum cleaner applied to my wallet, I now have a brand new pair. Strong enough to spot distant quasars, the frames are constructed of a special metal called unobtanium.

Did you spot my new word? That’s fully sick, apparently (so totally). In the language of the new generation, I’m told this means good.

Soon it will be time to downscale my day’s activities, and head off to bed. I hope your eyes are good enough to read this without glasses.

Dad in hot water

2005-09-17T18:05:00.000-07:00

I used to think my dad was completely bonkers when he would say just how remarkable it is that we can turn on a tap and get hot water out. Well what on earth was he going on about? Everyone just knows that that is where hot water comes from.

I’ve heard it said that to forgive your parents you must have children yourself. I think there’s an element of truth to that, but there’s also the joy of inflicting your personal neuroses and annoying habits on the new generation.

So now, as I enjoy my slide into the role of grumpy old man, it is my duty to ponder the significance of hot water from a tap. And why each basin in the gent’s is required to supply such, for the soft, office-coddled hands of those who can’t bear the strain of unheated water. This, at a time when the poor planet is creaking and groaning under the weight of so many souls.

Congratulations! Having read this far, you are now the proud owner of a Rod-induced neurosis. Perhaps you will now go forth and unleash one of your own upon a victim of your choice.

Brain Drained

2005-09-13T03:47:00.000-07:00

Q) What does an engineer call a creek?
A) A drain.

Today’s photo shows what happens when you convert the disorderly, meandering line of a creek into a straight-edged concrete jacket. All neat and tidy, this is the love-child of someone who hangs their tools on a shadow-board. Not the haphazard toolbox you’d find in my garage.

The drain has done its job. Water is efficiently whisked away, out of sight, and the hydro-rationalist can park his bulldozer at night, satisfied that all is well.

Similar thinking grips the minds of some the name of economics. Society is a collection of individuals who are units of consumption. The more they consume, the more money flows through the economy, and the more workers we need to provide for them. So round, and round we go in a bloody great perpetual motion machine.

In physics, we know we can’t have perpetual motion. But luckily for us economics is different, and there’s no chance our little planet will end up squeezed dry like an old lemon.

PS: my apologies to any engineers. I’m sure the modern engineer probably really is environmentally aware.

Happy Birthday

2005-09-09T21:46:00.000-07:00

How’s this to top your list of useless birthday gifts? Can’t eat it, can’t drive it, can’t fend off burglars with it. But it does add to the karma of our house.

Lab Rat with a Camera

2005-09-09T05:57:00.000-07:00

Last Sunday I went into the lab with Anne. This allowed me to see her project in progress, and twiddle the caps on many little vials. It also gave me the opportunity for countless attempts at arty lab pictures.

Some results attached.

Book Tour Day 1

2005-09-09T05:43:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday was an exciting in one in family history. But before I tell you about it, a short diversion into an aging memory.

I would have been about 8 years old and, walking along a beach encountered a poodle with a litter of puppies. Very cute, we thought, so I did what kids want to do, and tried to pat one. Well, I was shocked when the mother (dog, that is) rushed at me growling and sharp teeth a-snapping. I was nonplussed –only wanted to pat it. Mum (human, that is) explained that it was only trying to protect its babies. The quickest cut to vulnerability or pride is via our children.

Roll on to 2005, and I’m sitting in a classroom of year-7’s, and grinning like a fool. Katie has been invited to talk about writing, and her new book which will be on the shelves in Feb 2006. This is the first of many such events she’ll need to do in marketing her work.

Amazingly, the kids actually seem quite interested. Or at least this is my conclusion, having not noticed any paper aeroplanes, spitballs, or other airborne objects.

We’re looking forward to seeing the actual book. I’ll post an image of the cover soon.

The Zen of Peg

2005-08-28T04:37:00.000-07:00

We’re each born with our own buckets of talent. Some are full, some are empty, and some are in-between. One of the traits of growing old is peeking inside those buckets and seeing where nature left you endowed or, perhaps left you a little sparse. With wisdom, one can be sanguine about it. Oh well, filthy rich, nuclear physicist, symphonic composer I will never be.

These, I can accept. But the one that has taken me longest to deal with is clothes-hanging. Yes I am here before you, in a public forum, announcing that I am unlikely ever to advance beyond the 3^rd-dan, brown-peg. Lack of the innate talent, I think. And my gender will always be a barrier, even with prosthetic surgery.

Anne, is the high-master, one who transcends the mere physical world of the peg, the clothes, and the line. Cosmically arranged, they link in multi-dimensional dance beyond the ken of a simple peg-clunker like me.

One must know the peg. One must feel the peg. And still, this is not enough. One must be the peg.

Recently, a short koan was found on the wall of an ancient laundry.
Joshu asked the master “how must one hang the peg?”. “The coffee and the mollusc are one and the same”, the master replied.

Makes no sense to me and if you think likewise, then perhaps it’s time that you too, faced up to the reality of your pegagogic ineptitude.

A frightening experience

2005-08-15T03:15:00.000-07:00

The human mind sits upon the continental plates of the primitive brain. Most of the time we are unaware of it, but we can see its affects through the mountain ranges and rift valleys that hint at tectonic forces below. Occasionally it ruptures the surface in a more spectacular fashion, letting us know just how delicate the crust can be at times.

Yesterday we were assaulted by a stranger. Mad, ranting, psychotic. We beat a tactical withdrawal but, as he closed on me from behind, I turned to face him. Perhaps not the best move, but I was not prepared to be chased through the suburb by a madman.

We came within seconds of blows but to my great relief, he retreated shouting all the while 'stop looking at me'. And then, once we held a safe distance, I rang 000 and delivered a semi-coherent report. My last view was of him throwing himself in the path of passing cars, spitting abuse in violent, primitive eruptions.

Poor Owl

2005-08-13T03:15:00.000-07:00

This poor barn owl I found dying near my office last week. As it lay twitching in its death-throws I marvelled at its soft, downy feathers. I wasn't game to pick it up since I know they carry formidable armoury. Should have checked it for a band, but when I went back it’d gone.

Oh, and about the tooth. Yes, an item of national importance. The next day the temporary filling broke. Okay, no more tooth stories.

Greetings Earthlings

2005-08-11T02:33:00.000-07:00

This is my first go at a blog. Don't know whether I'll stick with it, or if anybody will ever read it, but never mind, it's not costing me anything.

A new experience yesterday. A crown. No, not one with jewels, etc, but one inside my mouth. It wasn't that bad, even with the smell of burning bone, and the banshee wailing of the drill.

Fred the Dentist was doing fine until he got distracted, and had to attend to another matter. I'm sitting in this chair, mouth agape, waiting while he rushes out. I discovered why when I went to pay the bill.

Meanwhile I'm left pondering the weirdness that is a visit to the dentist. Have you ever considered the unusual circumstances involved? A near stranger, with their assistant, hands buried up to the fists in your mouth along with thousands of dollars of hi-tech do-dahs; glues and gums, and metal scrapy-things, and the awful whiny drill. No room for modesty here.

So it's all done, I'm off the chair, and out to pay the bill. Here is where I discover Fred's distraction. It sounds like the dungeons of the Spanish Inquisition. The moaning and wailing emanating from some poor soul. I haven't heard such torment since wandering the halls of the maternity ward.

Okay, that's all for now. I promise not to fill my blog with dentist stories. Sorry if you're squeamish about such things.