Oooowwaaaafuckmedead!

A treat for all star-gazers. A 360 degree view of the Milky Way, provided by my friend Kiriakos, who works at the Very Large Telescope in northern Chile. (And to think God did it with the snap of his fingers!) Thanks, Kiri!

Where's my machine gun?

If you're a mildly observant chap or chapess, you'll have noticed the look of my blog has changed. A friend asked me if he could experiment with some new software he'd been testing, and, being a total ignoramus when it comes to all things computer, of course I said "Yes".

I think you'll agree he's done a wonderful job. I love the atmospheric theme he's imagined, designed and rendered. His name is Claudio Esposito, and he can be found at seism_graphics@gmx.com. If you're in need of any sort of web design, I couldn't recommend him more highly.

(OK, Claudio, you can take that tommy-gun out of my back now!)

Trench warfare

Well, call me an idiot, but standing around in mud up to one's elbows whilst listening to a drongo like the excerable Ben Harper doesn't sound a lot like my idea of fun. But that's what thousands of tripped-out punters did on Monday night at the Bluesfest, attesting to the theory that lousy ecstasy and lousy performers go hand-in-hand.

Meanwhile, your happy curmudgeon of a reporter was bunkered down in the ladies' change room at Kids' Korner (spelling not being a high point of Australian culture just yet) waiting for a break in the torrent that had turned Byron Bay into a mud-fest. I'd just seen the phenomenal Ruthie Foster deliver a set that could make a grown man (me) weep. I was standing there with a friend, and we just had to hug each other as the beauty and power of Ruthie's voice washed over us.

So why did the majority of the festival's punters trudge their way through the mud to see this Harper feller? One can only guess, but I'd say that Ben Harper is a mere symptom of the impending downfall of western society. He, and the atrocious John Butler, and a gentleman by the name of Xavier Rudd, etc etc, represent the colossally stupid end of the "new" music spectrum.

These are characters who are, undoubtedly, sincere. They write and perform songs that lament the extinction of gay aboriginal whales, and celebrate the idea that the world will be saved if only you will form a circle with your friends and chant in a made-up language.

All of these blokes, and more, have only one tiny downfall: their music is shit. Dumb, boring and repetitive, their tedious strummings have at best a soporific effect on the sophisticated listener. In my case, Ben Harper makes for a useful purgative. While various entrepreneurs made a killing at the fest selling gumboots to slide around in the mud with, I think next year I'll see if I can make some money flogging vomit bags and buckets to the discerning.

Anyway, none of this was to be the point of today's post. Apart from the mud and a few brain-damaged performers and their adoring minions, the Bluesfest was, for me, an Easter of perfect happiness. Why? Because I was surrounded by family and friends for a week in one of the most picturesque parts of the country, drinking wine, relaxing, and listening to some great music from time to time. One friend, whom I hadn't seen for a number of years, nearly hugged me to death when we met. These catching ups with old friends, the peaceful hours spent lazing about at our campsite at Lake Ainsworth, the sounds of hooting, chuckling and screeching emanating from Leigh's tent at 3.30 a.m. as he remembered yet another hysterical anecdote from the night's proceedings, and in turn had the rest of the campsite in fits of laughter - these are the phenomena that make the Fest my most enjoyable time of the year.

And, of course, there's some great music to be had. As usual, Angelique Kidjou was glorious. But so were Zappa Plays Zappa, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, The Blind Boys of Alabama, and the irrepressible Ruthie Foster. What a voice. Each one of these performers was worth the price of admission alone.

A highlight was the Voodoo Daddies - 30s and 40s swing, with a five-piece brass section that was amazingly tight and luscious. Tia sitting on my shoulders rocking and rolling as they launched into a version of Minnie the Moocher that would have had Cab Calloway sitting up in his grave yelling "Ho de ho de ho de ho!". When the cameras found Tia, she was plastered all over the giant screens, and waved to herself with frantic joy, singing the chorus at the top of her voice with about eight thousand others.

There were some quibbles, of course. The sound quality was poor, compared to previous fests. I have no idea why the sound at such a venue should be less than perfect, as there are no reverberation problems to overcome. Some acts, including Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, achieved brilliant sound, so one can only wonder at the state of ears/brains of other engineers behind the desk. As well, the whole mud thing was poorly handled. At one stage on Monday night I was wandering around shin-deep in the stuff. Rivers of slush were pouring through the site. There was not enough shelter provided to get people out of the rain. 

Nevertheless, I came home after a relaxing eight-hundred kilometre drive feeling energised. Can't wait for next year. Now, which gumboots? Cherries or leopards?

Little Red Riding Hood

Just check this out:

 http://dashes.com/anil/2009/03/this-is-how-we-should-talk-to-kids.html

Tell me you're not disturbed.

Get yourselves to "Darwin's Teapot"

A bloke called Scott runs one of the best blogs on the net. It is full of fascinating news from the world of science, astute observations on religion, politics etc., and is criminally under-utilised. I urge everyone to take a look - you'll want to put it in your followers list for sure. 

Darwin's Teapot - go there now!

...and get your kicks for free.

The Mormons introduced themselves as "Jim" and "Peter" from "The Latter-Day Saints".

To their surprise, I immediately asked them in. "Coffee?" I offered. "Er, no thanks," replied Jim, "but a glass of water would be nice."

"Now, fellers, what have you blokes got to say for yourselves?" I enquired, as we sat around the table while Jim got a dirty big book out of his briefcase - a tome that resembled a bible, but which was in fact The Book of Mormon, one of the stupidest wastes of good Tasmanian old-growth forest you might ever see.

"Do you know anything about our church, Laurie?" asked Jim, who was obviously the senior partner of the Jim and Pete show.

"Nothing at all," I lied, wondering what tale of idiocy would shortly be coming my way. Jim, who'd been to Mormon training school by the look of him, asked me straight off (and believe me, I was unprepared for this) "Are you worried by the prospect of spending eternity in hell, Laurie?"

Well, ten points for announcing your utter stupidity up front, I thought to myself. "Tell me about this hell you speak of, Jim," I replied more courteously. Jim launched himself into a tirade of imaginary horrors that would have done James Joyce proud. After three or four minutes of this I was becoming both impressed by his reserve of adjectives, and worried about his sanity at the same time.

Now, it just so happened that, a couple of days previously, I'd had a bit of an altercation with the limb of a tree I'd been removing down in the bottom paddock. The thing had fallen and twisted, sending a smallish branch in my direction. I'd turned to run, just as the branch came down and grazed my back. Nothing serious, but I had some pretty hefty cuts and grazes down my back that made it look like it had come in contact with a cat-o-nine-tails half a dozen times. To tell the truth, I was more pissed off with the thought that it had ripped to pieces a favourite t-shirt that proclaimed "God is dead - now let the bastard rest in peace, motherfuckers." A sudden thought came to mind.

"Jim," I interrupted as speckles of froth were starting to appear around the sides of his mouth, "there's a bit of a problem I see in your argument, if you don't mind me saying so. You see, I have a medical condition - well, to tell you the truth, it's a mental health issue - called Masochism Anxiety Disorder. I know, of course, that it's irrational, but my psychiatrist tells me there's no likelihood of a cure for it."

"Oh," said Jim, utterly perplexed. 

"Yeah, it's a bit of a bugger, actually," I continued, "because it's a condition that presents itself as a desire to have pain inflicted upon myself. I enjoy being hurt, to put it simply, and, quite frankly, this 'hell' you describe sounds like my idea of the ultimate fun-park. I mean, I've made up a few little devices I use down in the shed that involve whips and electric motors and such, but hell sounds like the mother of all torture chambers, and to tell you the truth, I can't wait to get there."

By this stage I could see Peter glancing around as if he was coyly assessing the best possible escape routes out of the place, and he had begun to go several tinges of a whiter shade of pale. Jim was studying his book of Mormon as if he was trying to find a verse or two dedicated to the management and care of the seriously deranged. Fat chance, I thought, as I ploughed on.

"I'll give you an example of what I'm talking about. A couple of days ago I had a good session with my cat-o-nine-tails machine I've rigged up. It was most gratifying, I can tell you," I said with a decidely lewd leer in Pete's direction.

I stood up, turned around and pulled my t-shirt up over my shoulders. By this stage, my wounds had become scabrous and evilly red, with blue tinges of bruises on the sides. It was a most prepossessing sight, if I do say so.

At this, young Pete jumped to his feet with a gasp of horror. It was a bad move, because what little blood had been left in his head cascaded immediately into his feet, and the poor bastard dropped like a rock in a pratfall that would have done Buster Keaton proud. He was out cold on the floor of my kitchen with blood trickling out of a nose that was never going to attract nice young Mormon ladies again.

Jim jumped to the aid of his mate with little cries of "Oh, oh, oh!", knocking his glass of water all over the open pages of his book of moronism. At the same time, his face had gone a distinct tinge of green, but, curiously, his ears were the colour of a beetroot. Fuck, I thought, trying to contain my joy, these two could just about pass as the Italian national flag.

I pulled an old bottle of smelling-salts out of the cupboard, and held the open bottle under Pete's flattened nose. He came to with the sort of startled cry that Uma Thurman affected in Pulp Fiction. It was a shame I didn't have a dirty big needle full of adrenalin, I thought. Young Pete would have been seriously discombobulated to wake up with something like that sticking out of his chest.

Eventually, he was conscious enough, and comforted enough, to whisper to Jim that it might be a good idea if they went home. Jim helped him out the front door, down the path, and into the Landcruiser. "Are you sure you don't want to take a look at my little chamber of horrors before you go? I enquired solicitously.

At that, Jim gunned the motor and did an impression up my drive of a Norwegian rally driver. I dusted off my hands and went inside, only to spy Jim's book of Mormon still sitting on the kitchen table.

"Ah, kindling!" I exclaimed. "These Mormons come in handy occasionally."

And, I must say, the Book of Mormon burns beautifully.

The prince of sports

A couple of years ago I retired from competitive cricket. My last year was as captain of the North Richmond 7th grade team, a position I was thrust into some years previously by the president of the club, a genial bloke called Ross Matheson, who must have been seriously deluded about my capabilities to have even considered the possibility that I would lead the team to glory, i.e. by actually winning a competition. (It never did, by the way.)

I'd played cricket as a youngster, of course, going up through the age grades and learning the trade. But cricket gave way to girls, surfing, taking drugs, playing in rock and roll bands, robbing banks, and generally being stupid.

When my eldest son finished his junior career, the possibility of blooding him in the seniors came along, and so I agreed to play with him in one of the lower grades. By this stage, Miles was a pretty damn good cricketer, and it wasn't going to be long before he climbed up to first grade potential. I, on the other hand, at the age of 45, was going nowhere, and was happy to admit it. The club got a team of fathers and sons together - six blokes of about my age with our sons, who were all pretty handy with the leather and willow by this stage.

I remember the first time I strode out to the crease, donned in new pads and gloves, and the most important bit of kit a bloke needs: the box. Cricket balls make a curious, crushing sound when they come in contact with a pair of unprotected gonads - a sound I'd heard once or twice while fielding at slips just before realising that that particular kid was going to spreading his genes in the future only by means of a syringe and a turkey-baster.

Anyway, I shaped up to this young bloke from the Glossodia team who came screaming in to the bowling crease at a great rate of knots. "This feels pretty good," I said to myself as I prepared for a comfortable front-foot drive into the covers, only to find that the bat was still at the top of its back-swing as the ball thudded into the keeper's gloves.

"What the fuck happened then?" I asked of no-one in particular, as the blokes in the slips cordon began tittering. The next five balls brought about similar results, until I was left bewildered at the end of the pitch checking that my bat did not have watermelon-sized holes in it. I realised, finally, that my reaction times were not as they had been twenty-five years before, and, more importantly, I was gonna have to do something about it, and quick. My son, who was opening the batting with me, just stood at the other end of the crease giving me a look that would have withered  Don Bradman.

"Okay, you smug little bastard," I thought, as he shaped up to the bowling, "let's see what you can do. Crack! The ball whistled past my ears at Mach 3 on its way over the fence at long on. The next ball he turned deftly to backward square leg and immediately yelled "Come on! There's three in it." I was running as fast as I could, and had just turned for my second, when he overtook me, already on his third run. "For fuck's sake, get a move on, Dad!" he said with an evil grin as he loped, elegantly, to his crease. Meanwhile, I was considering the time it would take for an ambulance to make a round trip from Windsor Hospital with a victim of myocardial infarction on board. Somehow I made it up and back once more before the square-leg fieldsman, fortunately a bloke also in his dotage, could return the ball to the keeper. I decided a good lie down on the grass was in order, and asked the umpire if rest periods between balls had been written into the official MCC book of the laws of cricket.

By the time I'd regained some composure and my stance at the crease, I was thinking that this really was a mug's game. I threw caution to the wind, and, seeing a ball that was slightly overpitched just outside off stump, thundered down the track, kept my bat straight, and hoped for the best. The ball struck the middle of the bat and whistled straight through the covers for four! I looked up at Miles, who was gazing at me with a mixture of consternation, scepticism and awe. It was a moment of pure bliss.

I scored 25 that day, and, of course, was hooked. And so, I soldiered on for another eight seasons, until creaking knees and one rather unfortunate injury gave me pause to reconsider.

I was 53 and opening the batting again. This time I was playing with my younger son, Blake, who was, like Miles, stepping up into senior cricket. He is a very fine swing bowler, and I'd had two seasons of captaining him in the seventh grade, to my great satisfaction. It was a game to see who would go into the finals rounds in first position on the competition ladder. A young, lanky fast bowler, who was all of 6'6" tall, came in to deliver the first ball. It was short, and reared up at what I thought was an excellent hooking height. I went for the shot, was too late, and the ball careened straight into my face at about 120 kilometres an hour. It dropped me like a brick onto the pitch, blood pouring out of a gash just below my left eye, and the left side of my face immediately swelling to the size of the ball that had just done the damage. I was only semi-conscious, but had the presence of mind to call out to the bowler, who by this stage was standing over me, "Is that as fast as you can bowl, mate? Pathetic."

Ross, the club president was there, and immediately bundled me into his car and took me off to hospital, where x-rays determined that I had fortunately not fractured my skull. It took a couple of weeks for the swelling to go down, and I must say the blokes from the other team were very good about it, with their captain and the bowler himself both calling me to see how I was. Two weeks later we lost the semi-finals against the same team, and I realised it was time to hang up the box for good.

I know it may sound silly, but I'm very proud and fortunate to have been able to play a real, competitive sport with my sons. We learnt a lot from each other out there in our flannels, and I hope that their abiding memories of me will include all that great fun we had together playing the prince of sports.