I was on the phone today with someone who reminded me of an occurrence that took place quite some time ago. After laughing I remarked that I really must blog about it whereupon the someone said 'oh no mate, don't identify me'. So I won't identify you, mate!
Unfortunately I wasn't present when this story took place so you'll have to take the word of someone else, related many times over the past three and a half decades. On the other hand, once you've read the story, you might agree with me that it was fortunate indeed that I wasn't present.
Our anonymous actor lived, at that time, in a small house in Williamstown with his folks. Over the back fence was a small theatre occupied by a smaller amateur theatre company. I'm sure you'll remember your nonage, when such things as fences and locked doors presented no moral impediment to exploration. When one is a dozen years old who cares about such things?
So it was that our anonymous actor and his friends of similar age were wont, during the holidays, to scale the back fence and explore the old theatre. I'd have done the same had there been an old theatre nearby to explore. Alas, all I had was the old salmon canning factory, the lemonade factory, the glass works - you know, come to think of it, I wasn't all that badly off!
One afternoon they either broke into, or found unlocked, the costume room. I prefer to think someone had forgotten to lock it. And so our anonymous actor and his friends found an old fur coat. I imagine they strutted around in it for a few minutes, tried on silly hats and bandannas and generally made complete dags of themselves. And it might have been just as well had it stopped there. But no, not for our anonymous actor. He conceived the evil idea of leaving a small calling card in the pocket.
We really don't want to think of a future pillar of society dropping his trousers and taking a crap in the pocket of this coat but, alas, that is apparently what happened.
One can only imagine the feelings of the poor real actor, member of that amateur theatre company, upon trying on the costume for their next production and placing his hand in that pocket.
But if it were a comedy production his wildest dreams will have come true, for that simple act thirty five years ago has provided me, the anonymous actor and all our friends with countless hours of amusement.
And there ain't nothing wrong with a bit of innocent laughter!
Showing posts with label Nostalgia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nostalgia. Show all posts
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
A bowl of chicken soup
For some obscure reason (read, I don't know why) it was a tradition in my family that we, the kids, were given money to buy lunch on Mondays. The rest of the week we took jam sandwiches, or sardine sandwiches, or salami sandwiches to school, but on Mondays we trooped off, the proud possessors of two or three shillings, ready to make up our own minds about what we'd eat for lunch.
I can only imagine what a sacrifice those few shillings were. I seem to remember that money was always short (when isn't it?). I recall my mother making sacrifices to raise the half a guinea needed to make me a member of the local YMCA in 1960 so it's not much of a jump to connect 3 bob (shillings) in the same year with a major sacrifice. Yet she made it. There's a mothers love for you! I'm seeing much the same thing here in 2008 in the way my wife will make all kinds of excuses for Morgan when any dispassionate outsider (myself for example) would pronounce a sentence of 'let her stew her in her own juices'!
But I digress. Back then, in 1960, I'd take my precious three shillings up the road from school and around the corner into Barkly Street, to a pie shop, and buy a pie. The pies weren't quite as good as the ones my grandmother (with whom we lived) made, but that hardly mattered. The pleasure was in fronting up at the counter, all of 6 years old, asking for a pie and plunking down a bob or two.
For the benefit of my American readers I'm talking of a meat pie. I'm not quite sure how it is that my new homeland has missed the pleasure of the meat pie but miss it they surely have! Mystery meat and gravy locked in a savory pastry, food fit for the gods! Alas, I had far too few pies in Australia a couple of months ago, but I *did* have lots of fish and chips!
Pie in hand, hot enough to burn through the waxed paper, I'd emerge into Barkly Street and blow frantically on it to cool it enough to eat. I honestly don't remember tomato sauce involved but I'm quite sure it was. I also don't remember having to choose between a dozen varieties of pie; there was just the one. Meat!
A few years later, 1963 or thereabouts, somewhat more sophisticated, my friends and I used to patronise a small shop right next to the railway line in Yarraville. The building is still there and I walked past it a couple of months ago. These days it now looks like someone lives in what was once a low end diner. I imagine the space where we once played the posh gent, nine or ten years old and with all of three bob in our pockets, is now their lounge room. Could they even imagine the pretensiousness of it all?
I remember one lunchtime we, my friends and I, Peter, Bill, Carl and possibly Cliff, graced that restaurant with our custom. I ordered the chicken soup and it was marvellous! Soup and whatever they ordered consumed we paid our bill and exited, to have a smoke in the backlane a street or so away from school. Time had gotten away from us and the hour, which usually seemed more than adequate to wolf down a few sandwiches, exchange the odd joke and have a smoke, was up before we knew it.
We came perilously close to 'the cuts'[^] that day. Old Mr Powell (he had the same name as the street the school was in and I've always suspected his name wasn't Powell at all), wasn't all that vigorous at ringing the bell, though rather more vigorous at dropping us in it when he had the opportunity. Thus, dimly, I heard the bell ringing a street or so over, and alerted my pals. Some doubt at first; had I really heard it? This, incidentally, is how I know it was 1963; it had to be before my first wristwatch and I received that on the day that JFK was shot[^]. We ran like hell and got back to class with barely a moment to spare. That half a cigarette stubbed out in blind panic was forgotten for the nonce!
I can only imagine what a sacrifice those few shillings were. I seem to remember that money was always short (when isn't it?). I recall my mother making sacrifices to raise the half a guinea needed to make me a member of the local YMCA in 1960 so it's not much of a jump to connect 3 bob (shillings) in the same year with a major sacrifice. Yet she made it. There's a mothers love for you! I'm seeing much the same thing here in 2008 in the way my wife will make all kinds of excuses for Morgan when any dispassionate outsider (myself for example) would pronounce a sentence of 'let her stew her in her own juices'!
But I digress. Back then, in 1960, I'd take my precious three shillings up the road from school and around the corner into Barkly Street, to a pie shop, and buy a pie. The pies weren't quite as good as the ones my grandmother (with whom we lived) made, but that hardly mattered. The pleasure was in fronting up at the counter, all of 6 years old, asking for a pie and plunking down a bob or two.
For the benefit of my American readers I'm talking of a meat pie. I'm not quite sure how it is that my new homeland has missed the pleasure of the meat pie but miss it they surely have! Mystery meat and gravy locked in a savory pastry, food fit for the gods! Alas, I had far too few pies in Australia a couple of months ago, but I *did* have lots of fish and chips!
Pie in hand, hot enough to burn through the waxed paper, I'd emerge into Barkly Street and blow frantically on it to cool it enough to eat. I honestly don't remember tomato sauce involved but I'm quite sure it was. I also don't remember having to choose between a dozen varieties of pie; there was just the one. Meat!
A few years later, 1963 or thereabouts, somewhat more sophisticated, my friends and I used to patronise a small shop right next to the railway line in Yarraville. The building is still there and I walked past it a couple of months ago. These days it now looks like someone lives in what was once a low end diner. I imagine the space where we once played the posh gent, nine or ten years old and with all of three bob in our pockets, is now their lounge room. Could they even imagine the pretensiousness of it all?
I remember one lunchtime we, my friends and I, Peter, Bill, Carl and possibly Cliff, graced that restaurant with our custom. I ordered the chicken soup and it was marvellous! Soup and whatever they ordered consumed we paid our bill and exited, to have a smoke in the backlane a street or so away from school. Time had gotten away from us and the hour, which usually seemed more than adequate to wolf down a few sandwiches, exchange the odd joke and have a smoke, was up before we knew it.
We came perilously close to 'the cuts'[^] that day. Old Mr Powell (he had the same name as the street the school was in and I've always suspected his name wasn't Powell at all), wasn't all that vigorous at ringing the bell, though rather more vigorous at dropping us in it when he had the opportunity. Thus, dimly, I heard the bell ringing a street or so over, and alerted my pals. Some doubt at first; had I really heard it? This, incidentally, is how I know it was 1963; it had to be before my first wristwatch and I received that on the day that JFK was shot[^]. We ran like hell and got back to class with barely a moment to spare. That half a cigarette stubbed out in blind panic was forgotten for the nonce!
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Ancient History
Whilst flipping through the fortnights movie lineup on TCM the other night I couldn't help noticing they're running Help![^] (and have a few times recently). Not really my cup of tea; it was made before the Beatles became an interesting group. Nonetheless, toying with the idea of recording it if only so I could say I gave it a try, I checked the 'Guide' synopsis. Quite a shock! For it read thusly 'John, Paul, George and Ringo (The Beatles)...' and so on.
I suppose it's true there's at least one generation for whom the recitation of those four names does not instantly conjure up the word 'Beatles'. Possibly two.
A couple of years ago Sonya and I were on our way to Los Angeles for Thanksgiving weekend. We happened to catch up with Morgan and Andrew, with their father, at a MacDonalds on the way. Yes, I hang my head in shame, I ordered Maccas. I do about once a year; it serves to remind me how bad food substitutes can really be. Anyway, a Beatles song was being piped into the 'restaurant' and I asked Andrew if he knew it. 'Sure' he replied, 'it's that song from Ferris Buellers day off.'.
Uh huh. I really am getting old!
I suppose it's true there's at least one generation for whom the recitation of those four names does not instantly conjure up the word 'Beatles'. Possibly two.
A couple of years ago Sonya and I were on our way to Los Angeles for Thanksgiving weekend. We happened to catch up with Morgan and Andrew, with their father, at a MacDonalds on the way. Yes, I hang my head in shame, I ordered Maccas. I do about once a year; it serves to remind me how bad food substitutes can really be. Anyway, a Beatles song was being piped into the 'restaurant' and I asked Andrew if he knew it. 'Sure' he replied, 'it's that song from Ferris Buellers day off.'.
Uh huh. I really am getting old!
Sunday, August 03, 2008
Remember the Alamo
Many years ago my grandmother told me that there was some family connection to The Alamo[^]. I would have been about 6 or 7 at the time and I suspect the only reason I have even the vaguest memory of her mentioning it was through having probably heard the word Alamo in the context of cowboy films.
Thirty years later my aunt retold the story. I can't remember if I asked her about it or if she volunteered the information and, given that she's been dead thirteen years, I can't go back and ask. She, as it happened, had almost nothing to add beyond there being 'some family connection'.
I have to admit I thought it unlikely unless you also consider the possibility that I'm related to the last Tsar of All the Russias! Sure, I thought, there may have been a Manderson at the battle. (howmanyofme.com[^], at the time of writing, estimate there are a thousand Mandersons in the US) but a common ancestor had to have been some centuries ago.
I fear we sometimes forget in the age of the internet how much more difficult and expensive it was to keep in contact with people on other continents. According to the AT&T history page at att.com[^] the first phone service between London and the US (they don't say where in the US but I'll lay money it was New York City) was established in 1927, capacity a single call at a time, at $75 for the first 3 minutes!
At prices like that I doubt many people were discussing family minutiae.
So this 'family connection' with the Alamo always puzzled me. I had heard of no US relatives. Of course, I'd heard of precious few English or Scottish relatives either so that didn't count for much but if you know much of Australian Colonial History and attitudes you'd realise that it was far more likely we'd know about (and have) British relatives than American ones.
A couple of weeks ago, whilst indulging in ego-surfing, I found what I suspect is the answer to the mystery.
There's a tiny town in Wyoming called Manderson. I know it's tiny because Wikipedia says it has a population of 104. I'd suspect it was small even without Wikipedia if it's in Wyoming, the US state with the smallest population of them all.
And guess what? Uh huh, you guessed it. Before it was renamed Manderson that little town was called Alamo!
Of course, I now have to figure out how my grandmother heard of Charles Manderson, former chief counsel for Burlington Railroad. We've still got the immense unlikelihood of an American Manderson (myself excluded since naturalisation) being related!
Thirty years later my aunt retold the story. I can't remember if I asked her about it or if she volunteered the information and, given that she's been dead thirteen years, I can't go back and ask. She, as it happened, had almost nothing to add beyond there being 'some family connection'.
I have to admit I thought it unlikely unless you also consider the possibility that I'm related to the last Tsar of All the Russias! Sure, I thought, there may have been a Manderson at the battle. (howmanyofme.com[^], at the time of writing, estimate there are a thousand Mandersons in the US) but a common ancestor had to have been some centuries ago.
I fear we sometimes forget in the age of the internet how much more difficult and expensive it was to keep in contact with people on other continents. According to the AT&T history page at att.com[^] the first phone service between London and the US (they don't say where in the US but I'll lay money it was New York City) was established in 1927, capacity a single call at a time, at $75 for the first 3 minutes!
At prices like that I doubt many people were discussing family minutiae.
So this 'family connection' with the Alamo always puzzled me. I had heard of no US relatives. Of course, I'd heard of precious few English or Scottish relatives either so that didn't count for much but if you know much of Australian Colonial History and attitudes you'd realise that it was far more likely we'd know about (and have) British relatives than American ones.
A couple of weeks ago, whilst indulging in ego-surfing, I found what I suspect is the answer to the mystery.
There's a tiny town in Wyoming called Manderson. I know it's tiny because Wikipedia says it has a population of 104. I'd suspect it was small even without Wikipedia if it's in Wyoming, the US state with the smallest population of them all.
And guess what? Uh huh, you guessed it. Before it was renamed Manderson that little town was called Alamo!
Of course, I now have to figure out how my grandmother heard of Charles Manderson, former chief counsel for Burlington Railroad. We've still got the immense unlikelihood of an American Manderson (myself excluded since naturalisation) being related!
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Crap!
My stepfather kept pigeons from 1967 onward. I'm sure he'd have loved to keep them before then but the house in which we lived at the time, in Seddon, had hardly enough room for us let alone a pigeon coop. But once we moved to St Albans he had all the space he could desire and so the pigeon coop was born. I recall helping him build it, little knowing the misery that damn coop held in store for me.
His interest in pigeons didn't come as much of a surprise; as the youngest of a large family he had ample example in his older brothers. At least three of them, as far as I can remember, kept pigeons and we'd always end up standing beside the cages when we visited, gravely discussing the merits of that 'blue' or this pink one.
And of course they raced the pigeons. Small sums wagered each week and form gravely argued over. The locals in Yarraville and Footscray even had a 'pigeon fanciers' club house; a strange brick building down by the Maribyrnong Wharves that looked, for all the world, like a council toilet block from the twenties. It may have been exactly that at one time. (I just checked on Google Earth and it seems to have gone; I will, of course, double check in 68 days when I'm there again). But heck no, I'm not counting down the days.
It fell to my lot to clean the cages out every fortnight or so. I think he had 25 or 30 pigeons in total at any one time and you wouldn't believe how much shit they could produce in a week! A nasty smelly job at the best of times but particularly bad in summer. The thing being that it dries out fairly quickly and forms hard lumps all over the inside of the cage. We're talking a cage plenty large enough to climb into and an inch depth of dried shit. The technique was to take a plasterers trowel and hack away at the lumps. Then scrape it all up into bags. After fifteen minutes the air would be thick with dust which of course one breathed in. It got into my hair, stuck to my face; I swear it got into my underpants! And the smell was indescribable.
What I wouldn't give to go back and have to do it all over again!
Our two youngest cats, not kittens anymore yet not fully grown, haven't entirely outgrown the catbox. I don't know what Tiny's eating but when he leaves his calling card the odour is quite pungent. Unfortunately, due to space limitations, the catbox is close to where I sit when watching movies. Not much farther from there to where Andrew sits playing World of Warcraft. Strangely enough my smokers nostrils, 37 years older than his, seem much more sensitive.
I took it upon myself, much to Sonyas amusement, to teach Andrew the finer points of cleaning up a catbox. It seems only fair that he should make *some* contribution to the household but he doesn't see it quite that way.
Now there's the wasteful approach and there's the thrifty approach. I use the thrifty one; that's the approach where one doesn't toss out the entire contents of the catbox every day. It's perfectly possible to reuse most of the cat litter at least once by judicious removal of the lumps.
And if one is taking that approach there's the hard way and the easy way. The hard way is to pick em out with the bare hand. But I've been doing this for years and I'm an observant bastard. Taking a leaf out of the anti-doggie poo brigades book I use plastic bags. We haven't yet got the point of supermarkets imposing a surcharge on the bags so there are always too many of em around the joint. Would you believe it's next to impossible to get the checkout person to NOT put a gallon of milk in it's own plastic bag???
So you take a plastic bag in each hand, one open to receive the nuggets, the other around the nugget removing hand. It takes less than a minute to snag em all out of the kitty litter and at the end of the process one has a nice tidy bag of cat crap ready to be disposed of and a relatively odour free catbox. Sprinkle some fresh litter on top and the cats will be milling around waiting for you to get out of the damn way so they can have a crap!
The other night, on our return from dining out, we stopped by the supermarket to pick up a fresh bag of litter. Then followed the argument with Andrew about just *why* he should be the one to do it. I've given up with the persuasion; I tell him straight out that it's because he's the youngest and I don't care that it's not fair. Calling him Morgan also works!
Arrived home he rushed in through the door and made straight for the computer, doubtless in hopes that we'd have forgotten, in the space of three minutes, all about such unpleasant subjects. No such hope.
Reminded of the task that lay ahead he grabbed a bag and started picking out the nuggets aforesaid. I couldn't help laughing. 'Ok, what are you going to do now?' I asked, as he realised he had only the one bag and that wrapped around the busy hand.
Poor bastard had the grace to look sheepish.
His interest in pigeons didn't come as much of a surprise; as the youngest of a large family he had ample example in his older brothers. At least three of them, as far as I can remember, kept pigeons and we'd always end up standing beside the cages when we visited, gravely discussing the merits of that 'blue' or this pink one.
And of course they raced the pigeons. Small sums wagered each week and form gravely argued over. The locals in Yarraville and Footscray even had a 'pigeon fanciers' club house; a strange brick building down by the Maribyrnong Wharves that looked, for all the world, like a council toilet block from the twenties. It may have been exactly that at one time. (I just checked on Google Earth and it seems to have gone; I will, of course, double check in 68 days when I'm there again). But heck no, I'm not counting down the days.
It fell to my lot to clean the cages out every fortnight or so. I think he had 25 or 30 pigeons in total at any one time and you wouldn't believe how much shit they could produce in a week! A nasty smelly job at the best of times but particularly bad in summer. The thing being that it dries out fairly quickly and forms hard lumps all over the inside of the cage. We're talking a cage plenty large enough to climb into and an inch depth of dried shit. The technique was to take a plasterers trowel and hack away at the lumps. Then scrape it all up into bags. After fifteen minutes the air would be thick with dust which of course one breathed in. It got into my hair, stuck to my face; I swear it got into my underpants! And the smell was indescribable.
What I wouldn't give to go back and have to do it all over again!
Our two youngest cats, not kittens anymore yet not fully grown, haven't entirely outgrown the catbox. I don't know what Tiny's eating but when he leaves his calling card the odour is quite pungent. Unfortunately, due to space limitations, the catbox is close to where I sit when watching movies. Not much farther from there to where Andrew sits playing World of Warcraft. Strangely enough my smokers nostrils, 37 years older than his, seem much more sensitive.
I took it upon myself, much to Sonyas amusement, to teach Andrew the finer points of cleaning up a catbox. It seems only fair that he should make *some* contribution to the household but he doesn't see it quite that way.
Now there's the wasteful approach and there's the thrifty approach. I use the thrifty one; that's the approach where one doesn't toss out the entire contents of the catbox every day. It's perfectly possible to reuse most of the cat litter at least once by judicious removal of the lumps.
And if one is taking that approach there's the hard way and the easy way. The hard way is to pick em out with the bare hand. But I've been doing this for years and I'm an observant bastard. Taking a leaf out of the anti-doggie poo brigades book I use plastic bags. We haven't yet got the point of supermarkets imposing a surcharge on the bags so there are always too many of em around the joint. Would you believe it's next to impossible to get the checkout person to NOT put a gallon of milk in it's own plastic bag???
So you take a plastic bag in each hand, one open to receive the nuggets, the other around the nugget removing hand. It takes less than a minute to snag em all out of the kitty litter and at the end of the process one has a nice tidy bag of cat crap ready to be disposed of and a relatively odour free catbox. Sprinkle some fresh litter on top and the cats will be milling around waiting for you to get out of the damn way so they can have a crap!
The other night, on our return from dining out, we stopped by the supermarket to pick up a fresh bag of litter. Then followed the argument with Andrew about just *why* he should be the one to do it. I've given up with the persuasion; I tell him straight out that it's because he's the youngest and I don't care that it's not fair. Calling him Morgan also works!
Arrived home he rushed in through the door and made straight for the computer, doubtless in hopes that we'd have forgotten, in the space of three minutes, all about such unpleasant subjects. No such hope.
Reminded of the task that lay ahead he grabbed a bag and started picking out the nuggets aforesaid. I couldn't help laughing. 'Ok, what are you going to do now?' I asked, as he realised he had only the one bag and that wrapped around the busy hand.
Poor bastard had the grace to look sheepish.
Monday, February 25, 2008
When you run out of Cherry Ripes
what's left except to go to the source?
Yep, I've booked for another trip to Australia. Alas, it's almost 7 months from now but it'll give me something to look forward to, particularly considering it'll have been, by then, 3 years since I was last in Australia. Methinks Melbourne will have changed somewhat since then.
Frequent flyer points are a wonderful thing though this trip uses almost all of em up.
That poor bastard Heino gets to put up with me for a fortnight and I've already told him I don't want any of that gourmet food[^]; I want Aussie fast food for the entire two weeks. It'll have to last me a while.
Fish and Chips, Dogs Eye with Dead Horse (Pie 'n Sauce), Chiko Rolls, Australian Hamburgers, Sausage Rolls, Pasties, Snot Blocks (Vanilla Slices), Neanish Tarts, Roast Pork Sanga at Myers with lots of crackling, and Steamed Dimmos (steamed Dim Sims; you're not a lot wiser after that explanation are you?).
I'm positively drooling at the thought!
Followed by Violet Crumbles, Chokitos, the Cherry Ripes aforesaid, Flake bars, Aeros, Polly Waffles, Wagon Wheels and Golden Roughs etc.
I wouldn't want you to imagine all the above foodstuffs will be consumed at the same meal; it'd be physically impossible (and ones physician might also have a thing or two to say). But I do have to cram a few years of deprivation into one glorious fortnight!
To say nothing of the pleasure of strutting once more down Swanston Street, bearing left at Collins Street and thence through the Block Arcade and Royal Arcade. Even Gog and Magog (the saddest pair of wooden statues you've ever seen) will be a welcome sight!
I'm kinda hoping the cute girl who used to work at the pharmacy in the Royal Arcade is still there but somehow I doubt it; that was a decade ago!
I have to admit to a certain curiousity about Birrarung Marr[^] given that it was opened after I left Melbourne. Knowing that Angel[^] is there adds to the interest. I well remember sitting on a tram in St Kilda Road, when Angel was still at the National Gallery, and listening to two earnest young things raving about how 'plastic' it looked.
In short, I plan to do exactly what I've done in the past when visiting Melbourne after leaving; enjoy! And will I go look at the house I used to live in in Footscray[^]? You bet I will!
Yep, I've booked for another trip to Australia. Alas, it's almost 7 months from now but it'll give me something to look forward to, particularly considering it'll have been, by then, 3 years since I was last in Australia. Methinks Melbourne will have changed somewhat since then.
Frequent flyer points are a wonderful thing though this trip uses almost all of em up.
That poor bastard Heino gets to put up with me for a fortnight and I've already told him I don't want any of that gourmet food[^]; I want Aussie fast food for the entire two weeks. It'll have to last me a while.
Fish and Chips, Dogs Eye with Dead Horse (Pie 'n Sauce), Chiko Rolls, Australian Hamburgers, Sausage Rolls, Pasties, Snot Blocks (Vanilla Slices), Neanish Tarts, Roast Pork Sanga at Myers with lots of crackling, and Steamed Dimmos (steamed Dim Sims; you're not a lot wiser after that explanation are you?).
I'm positively drooling at the thought!
Followed by Violet Crumbles, Chokitos, the Cherry Ripes aforesaid, Flake bars, Aeros, Polly Waffles, Wagon Wheels and Golden Roughs etc.
I wouldn't want you to imagine all the above foodstuffs will be consumed at the same meal; it'd be physically impossible (and ones physician might also have a thing or two to say). But I do have to cram a few years of deprivation into one glorious fortnight!
To say nothing of the pleasure of strutting once more down Swanston Street, bearing left at Collins Street and thence through the Block Arcade and Royal Arcade. Even Gog and Magog (the saddest pair of wooden statues you've ever seen) will be a welcome sight!
I'm kinda hoping the cute girl who used to work at the pharmacy in the Royal Arcade is still there but somehow I doubt it; that was a decade ago!
I have to admit to a certain curiousity about Birrarung Marr[^] given that it was opened after I left Melbourne. Knowing that Angel[^] is there adds to the interest. I well remember sitting on a tram in St Kilda Road, when Angel was still at the National Gallery, and listening to two earnest young things raving about how 'plastic' it looked.
In short, I plan to do exactly what I've done in the past when visiting Melbourne after leaving; enjoy! And will I go look at the house I used to live in in Footscray[^]? You bet I will!
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
I'm definitely ready
for the return of summer.
Firstly, even if this is my 7th Northern Hemisphere winter it *still* feels wrong to be shivering in February.
But mostly I'm just tired of shivering. It's been getting as low as 40 F at midnight and that's way too low for my tastes. Stop laughing, those of you living in snowlands; I've never lived where it snows and I suspect I never will.
I do recall winter mornings (in July!) in the early 60's in Melbourne where it did get cold enough that the water in the puddles would be frozen if we got to school at 8 AM. That was the nearest we ever got to ice-skating. I remember walking to school past frost laden lawns and pretending that I was smoking. And I remember feeling miserable as I shivered then. I still feel miserable shivering!
Give me my Phoenix 100 F at midnight instead! I'm ready for it.
Firstly, even if this is my 7th Northern Hemisphere winter it *still* feels wrong to be shivering in February.
But mostly I'm just tired of shivering. It's been getting as low as 40 F at midnight and that's way too low for my tastes. Stop laughing, those of you living in snowlands; I've never lived where it snows and I suspect I never will.
I do recall winter mornings (in July!) in the early 60's in Melbourne where it did get cold enough that the water in the puddles would be frozen if we got to school at 8 AM. That was the nearest we ever got to ice-skating. I remember walking to school past frost laden lawns and pretending that I was smoking. And I remember feeling miserable as I shivered then. I still feel miserable shivering!
Give me my Phoenix 100 F at midnight instead! I'm ready for it.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
A bunch of ratbags
I said quite a while ago I'd been reading old books. Not so much reading them as wallowing in them. Some are old but new to me, some old even to me, but nonetheless I've been enjoying them. Part of the charm is in their very age. Many writers essay the historical but there is something about the, to me, historical, written by someone to whom it was not history. Hence the charm of, for examples, Dickens[^] or Gissing[^]. The last author in particular impresses me with the way he describes the London of the 1880's (like I'd know if it was accurate or not!). You can find a selection of his work at Project Gutenberg (or just click on the link over there --> under Literature).
But the book that sparked this particular wander down memory lane is 'A bunch of Ratbags' written by one William Dick. I've not managed to find a single link through Google that says anything about Mr Dick. I was impressed, however, by the filtering that Google apply; I half expected a plethora of links of a non-worksafe nature but was pleasantly surprised.
This is one of those books that's old to me; I first read it in 1968 when a teacher at Footscray Tech intimated that it might interest me. He was right. The charm was (and is) that it was written by a Footscray boy and the places he writes about are in and around Footscray. To be sure he disguised the name, calling it Goodway. I'm not sure why he changed it; perhaps he was writing a little too close to the time (it details his life from the late 1940's until the early 1960's and it was published in 1965).
But I know, from the descriptions, most of the places he wrote about; the house he lived in was at Errol Street, since demolished as part of the rebuilding of Mt Mistake[^] (the space is now occupied by an onramp to the Princess Highway). The Star theatre in his book is what was once the Trocadero on Barkly Street; the Gold was the Grand in Paisley Street. Interestingly enough he doesn't mention the La Scala in Leeds street but perhaps it wasn't there in the mid 1950's. It was certainly there in 1962 though not of much interest to us at the time; they ran Italian movies.
My friends and I used to go to the Saturday Arvo matinee at the Grand in 1963/64 - we preferred the movie at the Grand but the Troc had Tom and Jerry Cartoons in the first half so we'd buy our tickets at the Troc, sit through the first half and sneak in the backdoor to the Grand for the main feature. We thought ourselves clever young bastards but in later years I've suspected a shared management!
I think I've established that I know the milieu though I do confess I resorted to the Melways[^] online to be certain. (They obviously don't want people doing detail links).
I went to the same school and I have to say that, going by the description of life at Footscray Tech in the early 1950's I'm glad I wasn't there then! I probably wouldn't have survived the experience. It had a reputation as a 'tough' school in the 60's but I certainly didn't experience the gang life he describes.
He describes how he aspired to, and eventually made it, to the status of Bodgie[^]. I can just remember Bodgies at the end of the 1950's; sitting on a tram with my Grandmother and Mum and seeing these old people (remember I was five or six) dressed so differently, and with such strange haircuts. (How interesting that one of the things we judge people by is their hair). The other thing I remember is that they left us alone though I seem to remember my Grandmother being apprehensive.
But the thing that got us interested in reading this book in 1968 was the forbidden subject of sex! In a time when PersianKitty is a click of a URL away that seems quaint but it was certainly so in Australia, the 'summer of love' notwithstanding. We were so censored that when that silly song 'Snoopy and the Red Baron' was on the top 40 they'd bleep the word 'bloody' because it was a swear word in Australia! Indeed, as recently as 1972 the vice squad raided a prominent Melbourne Department Store (Myers) because they'd displayed a copy of Michaelangelo's David in the window!
And then this book was placed in our hands. It's pretty tame stuff these days but back then any literature that even hinted at the mystery of girls was avidly consumed. As an accomplished reader I was called upon to read the 'dirty' passages out loud. I vividly recall walking down Nicholson Street, away from the school and toward Footscray shopping centre, the book in my hands, reading it out loud to a half dozen or so schoolmates. Even more vivid, the feeling of embarassment when we encountered a group of young ladies from the Footscray Girls School and my friends insisted I keep reading, out loud!
Well, sequestered in a boys only school, what did I know of girls? How was I to know that they were every bit as interested in the opposite sex as we were? I had much to learn!
It was quite fun learning.
But the book that sparked this particular wander down memory lane is 'A bunch of Ratbags' written by one William Dick. I've not managed to find a single link through Google that says anything about Mr Dick. I was impressed, however, by the filtering that Google apply; I half expected a plethora of links of a non-worksafe nature but was pleasantly surprised.
This is one of those books that's old to me; I first read it in 1968 when a teacher at Footscray Tech intimated that it might interest me. He was right. The charm was (and is) that it was written by a Footscray boy and the places he writes about are in and around Footscray. To be sure he disguised the name, calling it Goodway. I'm not sure why he changed it; perhaps he was writing a little too close to the time (it details his life from the late 1940's until the early 1960's and it was published in 1965).
But I know, from the descriptions, most of the places he wrote about; the house he lived in was at Errol Street, since demolished as part of the rebuilding of Mt Mistake[^] (the space is now occupied by an onramp to the Princess Highway). The Star theatre in his book is what was once the Trocadero on Barkly Street; the Gold was the Grand in Paisley Street. Interestingly enough he doesn't mention the La Scala in Leeds street but perhaps it wasn't there in the mid 1950's. It was certainly there in 1962 though not of much interest to us at the time; they ran Italian movies.
My friends and I used to go to the Saturday Arvo matinee at the Grand in 1963/64 - we preferred the movie at the Grand but the Troc had Tom and Jerry Cartoons in the first half so we'd buy our tickets at the Troc, sit through the first half and sneak in the backdoor to the Grand for the main feature. We thought ourselves clever young bastards but in later years I've suspected a shared management!
I think I've established that I know the milieu though I do confess I resorted to the Melways[^] online to be certain. (They obviously don't want people doing detail links).
I went to the same school and I have to say that, going by the description of life at Footscray Tech in the early 1950's I'm glad I wasn't there then! I probably wouldn't have survived the experience. It had a reputation as a 'tough' school in the 60's but I certainly didn't experience the gang life he describes.
He describes how he aspired to, and eventually made it, to the status of Bodgie[^]. I can just remember Bodgies at the end of the 1950's; sitting on a tram with my Grandmother and Mum and seeing these old people (remember I was five or six) dressed so differently, and with such strange haircuts. (How interesting that one of the things we judge people by is their hair). The other thing I remember is that they left us alone though I seem to remember my Grandmother being apprehensive.
But the thing that got us interested in reading this book in 1968 was the forbidden subject of sex! In a time when PersianKitty is a click of a URL away that seems quaint but it was certainly so in Australia, the 'summer of love' notwithstanding. We were so censored that when that silly song 'Snoopy and the Red Baron' was on the top 40 they'd bleep the word 'bloody' because it was a swear word in Australia! Indeed, as recently as 1972 the vice squad raided a prominent Melbourne Department Store (Myers) because they'd displayed a copy of Michaelangelo's David in the window!
And then this book was placed in our hands. It's pretty tame stuff these days but back then any literature that even hinted at the mystery of girls was avidly consumed. As an accomplished reader I was called upon to read the 'dirty' passages out loud. I vividly recall walking down Nicholson Street, away from the school and toward Footscray shopping centre, the book in my hands, reading it out loud to a half dozen or so schoolmates. Even more vivid, the feeling of embarassment when we encountered a group of young ladies from the Footscray Girls School and my friends insisted I keep reading, out loud!
Well, sequestered in a boys only school, what did I know of girls? How was I to know that they were every bit as interested in the opposite sex as we were? I had much to learn!
It was quite fun learning.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
2010
24 years after it was released, and nearly 40 years after the movie it pretends to be a sequel to, I finally watched 2010 tonight.
Now I'll admit that when I first saw 2001: A Space Odyssey in June 1968, I came out with mixed feelings. I had no idea what the movie was 'about'. But I had no doubt whatsoever that what I'd just seen was magnificent. A couple of hundred viewings and the aforementioned nearly 40 years later I still don't know what it's 'about'.
And I don't really care. What's music 'about'? A painting? Why does a botrytis riesling taste so damn good when paired with blue cheese?
I thought, when I sat down to write this, that I'd already written about Kubrick's masterpiece but I find I haven't. Maybe a reference or two to the feeling, emerging on a bright sunny Melbourne winter afternoon, that we'd seen what it must be like to walk upon the moon; this a year before Neil Armstrong actually did it.
Now that might seem silly if you weren't a technologically minded teenager at the time but I had the good fortune to be just that and the way I remember it is that we seemed to be saturated with NASA. This wasn't all that much after the first international TV links were established and it was still quite the novelty to see footage, today, of something that had happened on the other side of the world on that very same day.
There was also a surfeit (in the pre-google age) of information relating to the Apollo program. I lapped it all up. Damned if I can remember the numbers anymore but at that time I could have recited the escape velocities of all the inner planets and the moon!
I still vividly remember riding my bike up Mulhall Drive, St Albans, just at sunset in December 1968 and looking up at the moon; knowing that the first manned orbit was happening. I think that was Apollo 8 (Wikipedia confirms that it was).
So I walked out of that first viewing of 2001: A Space Odyssey mightily puzzled yet elated. It was probably the most exciting movie I'd seen up until then and there have been very few more exciting since! Indeed, I suspect that the movie also got me interested in classical music; certainly I remember buying the introduction to 'Also Sprach Zarathustra' on a single the same year. Came as quite a suprise when I heard the entire work; the bit we all know even if we don't know we know it runs for all of two and a half minutes out of a total of forty minutes!
Did I enjoy 2010? You guessed that from my opening line 'the movie it pretends to be a sequel to' that I didn't much. Too much of a contrast with 2001. In the first nothing is explained; we're expected to make up our own minds. In the later movie too damn much is explained. Did I really need to know that HAL did what he did because he was forced to lie?
And that 'something wonderful is going to happen?'. Give me a break.
So no, I still don't think I know what 2001: A Space Odyssey is 'about'. And I'm perfectly happy with that. I'll treasure the memory of arguing with friends about whether this or that detail was 'correct' (the orange juice in the straw was my favourite - we never could decide whether air pressure was an adequate explanation for it's motion once Heywood Floyd stopped sucking).
And I'm quite sure the next time I play the movie I'll enjoy it just as much as I always have!
Now I'll admit that when I first saw 2001: A Space Odyssey in June 1968, I came out with mixed feelings. I had no idea what the movie was 'about'. But I had no doubt whatsoever that what I'd just seen was magnificent. A couple of hundred viewings and the aforementioned nearly 40 years later I still don't know what it's 'about'.
And I don't really care. What's music 'about'? A painting? Why does a botrytis riesling taste so damn good when paired with blue cheese?
I thought, when I sat down to write this, that I'd already written about Kubrick's masterpiece but I find I haven't. Maybe a reference or two to the feeling, emerging on a bright sunny Melbourne winter afternoon, that we'd seen what it must be like to walk upon the moon; this a year before Neil Armstrong actually did it.
Now that might seem silly if you weren't a technologically minded teenager at the time but I had the good fortune to be just that and the way I remember it is that we seemed to be saturated with NASA. This wasn't all that much after the first international TV links were established and it was still quite the novelty to see footage, today, of something that had happened on the other side of the world on that very same day.
There was also a surfeit (in the pre-google age) of information relating to the Apollo program. I lapped it all up. Damned if I can remember the numbers anymore but at that time I could have recited the escape velocities of all the inner planets and the moon!
I still vividly remember riding my bike up Mulhall Drive, St Albans, just at sunset in December 1968 and looking up at the moon; knowing that the first manned orbit was happening. I think that was Apollo 8 (Wikipedia confirms that it was).
So I walked out of that first viewing of 2001: A Space Odyssey mightily puzzled yet elated. It was probably the most exciting movie I'd seen up until then and there have been very few more exciting since! Indeed, I suspect that the movie also got me interested in classical music; certainly I remember buying the introduction to 'Also Sprach Zarathustra' on a single the same year. Came as quite a suprise when I heard the entire work; the bit we all know even if we don't know we know it runs for all of two and a half minutes out of a total of forty minutes!
Did I enjoy 2010? You guessed that from my opening line 'the movie it pretends to be a sequel to' that I didn't much. Too much of a contrast with 2001. In the first nothing is explained; we're expected to make up our own minds. In the later movie too damn much is explained. Did I really need to know that HAL did what he did because he was forced to lie?
And that 'something wonderful is going to happen?'. Give me a break.
So no, I still don't think I know what 2001: A Space Odyssey is 'about'. And I'm perfectly happy with that. I'll treasure the memory of arguing with friends about whether this or that detail was 'correct' (the orange juice in the straw was my favourite - we never could decide whether air pressure was an adequate explanation for it's motion once Heywood Floyd stopped sucking).
And I'm quite sure the next time I play the movie I'll enjoy it just as much as I always have!
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Touch this potato peeler and you die!
While Heino was in the air on his way here last September I remembered, too late, that I'd meant to ask him to get me a humble potato peeler of the kind we used to have in Australia years ago. They're made of plastic with the blade parallel to the handle. Unfortunately I've not managed to find anything quite like them here in the US. The most common one I've managed to find has the blade at right angles to the handle and they're a bloody nuisance to use.
Even when I found one in much the shape I wanted (and purchased it) it was about three sizes too big and made the peeling of a humble spud a much more involved process than it needed to be. Indeed, I've preferred the old fashioned method of using a sharp knife.
A week or so after Christmas Heino hinted that he had a package ready but he hadn't yet actually packed or sent it. Lazy bastard! And late last week I finally got the email intimating that it had been sent.
I suspected it was a DVD; either one of his homemade ones (and they're bloody good) or perhaps series 4 of Kath & Kim[^]. I felt the latter more likely and so it proved to be; his homemade DVDs usually come out before Christmas, not after.
8 new episodes of K&K; pig heaven!
Of course, Heino being Heino, he couldn't resist a surprise; the package contained not only the DVD aforesaid, it also contained an Aussie potato peeler! Of course I had to cook tonights dinner; cheesy potato bake as the centre piece.
How do I describe the peeling of those spuds? The skin practically slid off!
I told the family, as I cleaned the peeler and hid it away beside this computer, that if they touched it they'd die! Don't forget, these are the people who need, on average, one new mobile phone a year each because they drop em, lose em, leave em on the roofs of cars, leave em in pants pockets in the laundry and so on. I've had the same mobile for 4 years!
There's a reason the remote controls for my TV/PVR/DVD player are hidden away when I'm not using them!
Even when I found one in much the shape I wanted (and purchased it) it was about three sizes too big and made the peeling of a humble spud a much more involved process than it needed to be. Indeed, I've preferred the old fashioned method of using a sharp knife.
A week or so after Christmas Heino hinted that he had a package ready but he hadn't yet actually packed or sent it. Lazy bastard! And late last week I finally got the email intimating that it had been sent.
I suspected it was a DVD; either one of his homemade ones (and they're bloody good) or perhaps series 4 of Kath & Kim[^]. I felt the latter more likely and so it proved to be; his homemade DVDs usually come out before Christmas, not after.
8 new episodes of K&K; pig heaven!
Of course, Heino being Heino, he couldn't resist a surprise; the package contained not only the DVD aforesaid, it also contained an Aussie potato peeler! Of course I had to cook tonights dinner; cheesy potato bake as the centre piece.
How do I describe the peeling of those spuds? The skin practically slid off!
I told the family, as I cleaned the peeler and hid it away beside this computer, that if they touched it they'd die! Don't forget, these are the people who need, on average, one new mobile phone a year each because they drop em, lose em, leave em on the roofs of cars, leave em in pants pockets in the laundry and so on. I've had the same mobile for 4 years!
There's a reason the remote controls for my TV/PVR/DVD player are hidden away when I'm not using them!
Friday, September 14, 2007
Magpies milk
I've mentioned home delivery of milk[^] before.
When we moved to St. Albans, a Melbourne suburb, at the end of 1966, we lived in one of three houses huddled together in a little group; the next nearest house a mile or so away. At the time St. Albans was a 'new' suburb, though I note that parts of central St. Albans date back to at least the 1930s.
Isolated as we were we still got the daily milk delivery and it didn't take long to notice that the miserable bastard living next door had a thing about his milk. If a magpie had happened to peck out the tinfoil cap and helped itself to the cream he'd pour the milk away in a fit of anger. Never failed!
I'm sure you can guess what came next. Uh huh. In those days I was usually awake at dawn (the legacy of parental notions that 13 year olds ought to be in bed by 9:00). I can just imagine what would happen if we tried to enforce any such rule on Andrew. It's hard enough to endure the wailing and gnashing of teeth when we enforce a 10:30 room curfew on school nights!
Thus I was usually awake at about the time the milko came by. I'm not sure, at this distant remove, whether it might not have been the rattling of bottles in their crates that awoke me. Then a stealthy operation, sneaking out of the house, penknife in hand, to stab a hole or two in the tinfoil cap and, an hour or two later, the joy of driving my neighbour into a frenzy as he poured away yet another bottle of milk.
What a bastard I was.
It seemed to take him forever to notice the forensic evidence though I suspect that's because we're talking forty years ago and a kids sense of time. I certainly remember it as being months though I suspect it was no more than a couple of weeks, before he realised that those holes in his milk bottle caps looked like they'd been made by a knife.
He had no kids, the neighbours on our other side (we were the middle house) had no kids, so it probably took nanoseconds for him to realise who the culprit was. Thus the trap was set. Out I crept, one cold dark morning, penknife in hand. I still remember the horror I felt as the dark shape rose from behind the fence and a bony hand grabbed my ear. Cunning bastard waited until I had that damn milk bottle in my hand before pouncing! No chance of a denial of ill intent!
Let's not go into more detail of that frozen minute than is necessary to say that sitting on a hard chair at school that day was a trial!
And did my folks feel the need to run to the cops about him? To the best of my knowledge they still don't know about the incident. I certainly wasn't going to drop myself into it by complaining that our neighbour had kicked my backside! Experience told me they'd want a reason and would probably consider I'd got my just desserts.
I had, too!
When we moved to St. Albans, a Melbourne suburb, at the end of 1966, we lived in one of three houses huddled together in a little group; the next nearest house a mile or so away. At the time St. Albans was a 'new' suburb, though I note that parts of central St. Albans date back to at least the 1930s.
Isolated as we were we still got the daily milk delivery and it didn't take long to notice that the miserable bastard living next door had a thing about his milk. If a magpie had happened to peck out the tinfoil cap and helped itself to the cream he'd pour the milk away in a fit of anger. Never failed!
I'm sure you can guess what came next. Uh huh. In those days I was usually awake at dawn (the legacy of parental notions that 13 year olds ought to be in bed by 9:00). I can just imagine what would happen if we tried to enforce any such rule on Andrew. It's hard enough to endure the wailing and gnashing of teeth when we enforce a 10:30 room curfew on school nights!
Thus I was usually awake at about the time the milko came by. I'm not sure, at this distant remove, whether it might not have been the rattling of bottles in their crates that awoke me. Then a stealthy operation, sneaking out of the house, penknife in hand, to stab a hole or two in the tinfoil cap and, an hour or two later, the joy of driving my neighbour into a frenzy as he poured away yet another bottle of milk.
What a bastard I was.
It seemed to take him forever to notice the forensic evidence though I suspect that's because we're talking forty years ago and a kids sense of time. I certainly remember it as being months though I suspect it was no more than a couple of weeks, before he realised that those holes in his milk bottle caps looked like they'd been made by a knife.
He had no kids, the neighbours on our other side (we were the middle house) had no kids, so it probably took nanoseconds for him to realise who the culprit was. Thus the trap was set. Out I crept, one cold dark morning, penknife in hand. I still remember the horror I felt as the dark shape rose from behind the fence and a bony hand grabbed my ear. Cunning bastard waited until I had that damn milk bottle in my hand before pouncing! No chance of a denial of ill intent!
Let's not go into more detail of that frozen minute than is necessary to say that sitting on a hard chair at school that day was a trial!
And did my folks feel the need to run to the cops about him? To the best of my knowledge they still don't know about the incident. I certainly wasn't going to drop myself into it by complaining that our neighbour had kicked my backside! Experience told me they'd want a reason and would probably consider I'd got my just desserts.
I had, too!
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Noice
With a mere 22 days before Heino arrives I had the pleasure of finding a package waiting from him when I got home. He'd hinted it was on the way and, knowing that it was a DVD, I'd already asked my wife to check the mail daily; I suspect that this run of warm days would not do a DVD any good whatsoever.
Now you might wonder why I asked my wife to check the mail. Why can't I check it myself? Well, I can, but we have only one key to the mailbox and, since we live in a condo block and the mailbox is a quarter of a mile away, it can be inconvenient. And why do we have only one key to the mailbox? The key is stamped 'do not duplicate' and when I suggested to Sonya that it might be an idea for me to have a copy she said 'but we can't copy it!'. This from the woman who has no problem whatsoever ripping the labels off mattresses[^]!
I hope any Australian readers have already twigged as to what the DVD was; the title of the post should have given it away. It was a copy of the promotional DVD for the new series of Kath & Kim[^] given away with (I presume) the Saturday Age a couple of weeks ago.
I've just had an evening of pigging out on K&K - started with the new DVD and, those bones picked clean, I watched the entire third series again. Alas, I'll have to wait until the DVD release to see the fourth series, currently running in Australia.
And, quelle horreur (hope I spelled that right), check this[^] out. With all due respect to my new country, what are they thinking??? How will they translate, if they even try, my favourite line from the first episode 'up at the crack of sparrows'! That line perfectly captures the essence of the show. Mrs Malaprope couldn't have put it better!
The impending cultural massacre aside (and yes, I will check it out if only to enjoy a good cringe, should it actually make it out of planning and into reality) I had an immensely enjoyable evening. Thanks mate!
Now you might wonder why I asked my wife to check the mail. Why can't I check it myself? Well, I can, but we have only one key to the mailbox and, since we live in a condo block and the mailbox is a quarter of a mile away, it can be inconvenient. And why do we have only one key to the mailbox? The key is stamped 'do not duplicate' and when I suggested to Sonya that it might be an idea for me to have a copy she said 'but we can't copy it!'. This from the woman who has no problem whatsoever ripping the labels off mattresses[^]!
I hope any Australian readers have already twigged as to what the DVD was; the title of the post should have given it away. It was a copy of the promotional DVD for the new series of Kath & Kim[^] given away with (I presume) the Saturday Age a couple of weeks ago.
I've just had an evening of pigging out on K&K - started with the new DVD and, those bones picked clean, I watched the entire third series again. Alas, I'll have to wait until the DVD release to see the fourth series, currently running in Australia.
And, quelle horreur (hope I spelled that right), check this[^] out. With all due respect to my new country, what are they thinking??? How will they translate, if they even try, my favourite line from the first episode 'up at the crack of sparrows'! That line perfectly captures the essence of the show. Mrs Malaprope couldn't have put it better!
The impending cultural massacre aside (and yes, I will check it out if only to enjoy a good cringe, should it actually make it out of planning and into reality) I had an immensely enjoyable evening. Thanks mate!
Monday, August 27, 2007
The software 'expert'
It's bad enough being the family software 'expert'. I'm sure you know the deal, those of you in the software field. You're known to dabble in computers and suddenly you're the fount of all wisdom, whether it's your field or not. It's almost impossible to explain that software development is quite a different skill to system administration. As a result, you get lumbered with ridding someone's machine of whichever nasty malware or virus they contracted because they didn't follow your sage advice about internet safety.
It's worse when the solution actually turns out to be quite simple. I was tasked with just such a responsibility this weekend; Matt (Shelby's almost new husband) needed assistance with his laptop - it couldn't burn CD's anymore, nor could he reinstall iTunes software because the installer insisted, repeatedly, that the uninistallation of Gear software required a reboot. Reboot, try again and it still insisted.
The Gear problem was simple; there had to be a flag somewhere and my guess was the registry. A quick search on the product name and there it was, the DeleteOnReboot flag was set. A search of the hard disk (not quite so quick) failed to turn up anything in the way of Gear software, which hardly surprised me. Delete the offending registry key and suddenly iTunes was clogging up his system again!
The CD burner problem was almost as simple; somehow or other he'd managed to install software for a DVD-RAM disk whilst his burner was simple DVD-RW. He swears he never installed that software but we all know what the memory of a user is like. Uninstall that driver and voila, away we go! A pity it was so easy; I can't rely on the difficulty factor to ward off the next request. On the other hand, he's a builder and it's always good to have a builder in the family. Even better if one can trade skills and expertise!
Back in the 1970's, when I repaired TV sets for a living, I used, at parties, to tell anyone who asked that my occupation was interstate truck-driver. At least it got me out of having to try and diagnose ill described symptoms manifested by a brand of TV set my interlocutor couldn't remember. It always amazed me (still does) that someone can sit in the same room as the idiot box for years on end and have no idea what brand it is. Though perhaps that's merely professional overkill on my part.
At least the poor bewildered soul who views a computer as a tool has the right idea. My own computer (the one I'm writing this on at home) died a horrible death about four months ago. I'm pretty sure it was the motherboard. But whatever, it was a splendid excuse to upgrade to an Athlon Dual Core machine.
Two days later I was finally back to where I wanted to be but with one large change. I still haven't installed either Microsoft Office or any kind of development environment. I finally decided it was time to stop using a computer as an end in itself and start using it as a tool for the other things I'm interested in.
Is that my first wife I hear shouting in the distance 'about bloody time'???
It's worse when the solution actually turns out to be quite simple. I was tasked with just such a responsibility this weekend; Matt (Shelby's almost new husband) needed assistance with his laptop - it couldn't burn CD's anymore, nor could he reinstall iTunes software because the installer insisted, repeatedly, that the uninistallation of Gear software required a reboot. Reboot, try again and it still insisted.
The Gear problem was simple; there had to be a flag somewhere and my guess was the registry. A quick search on the product name and there it was, the DeleteOnReboot flag was set. A search of the hard disk (not quite so quick) failed to turn up anything in the way of Gear software, which hardly surprised me. Delete the offending registry key and suddenly iTunes was clogging up his system again!
The CD burner problem was almost as simple; somehow or other he'd managed to install software for a DVD-RAM disk whilst his burner was simple DVD-RW. He swears he never installed that software but we all know what the memory of a user is like. Uninstall that driver and voila, away we go! A pity it was so easy; I can't rely on the difficulty factor to ward off the next request. On the other hand, he's a builder and it's always good to have a builder in the family. Even better if one can trade skills and expertise!
Back in the 1970's, when I repaired TV sets for a living, I used, at parties, to tell anyone who asked that my occupation was interstate truck-driver. At least it got me out of having to try and diagnose ill described symptoms manifested by a brand of TV set my interlocutor couldn't remember. It always amazed me (still does) that someone can sit in the same room as the idiot box for years on end and have no idea what brand it is. Though perhaps that's merely professional overkill on my part.
At least the poor bewildered soul who views a computer as a tool has the right idea. My own computer (the one I'm writing this on at home) died a horrible death about four months ago. I'm pretty sure it was the motherboard. But whatever, it was a splendid excuse to upgrade to an Athlon Dual Core machine.
Two days later I was finally back to where I wanted to be but with one large change. I still haven't installed either Microsoft Office or any kind of development environment. I finally decided it was time to stop using a computer as an end in itself and start using it as a tool for the other things I'm interested in.
Is that my first wife I hear shouting in the distance 'about bloody time'???
Thursday, August 23, 2007
You coulda flawed me!
An old friend (Hi Terri) sent me a link to a real estate agents web page, featuring a house in the street I used to live in back in Footscray. She knows perfectly well that even if I'm living on the other side of the world, where the seasons are backasswards, I still take a keen interest in all that happens in Melbourne and Footscray.
This paragraph (no link, the page'll be gone in a month) fairly leaped out of the web browser at me.
'60-62 EMPRESS AVENUE
The sheer size of this property will flaw you it keeps going & going & going. With two of everything your guaranteed to suffer from a case of de-ja-vu, this home offers buyers enormous potential with a small amount of elbow grease....'
Lemme see, two malapropisms and at least one punctuation error.
Yeah, I know, everyone uses word processors these days but this copywriter doesn't even have the homonym excuse to fall back upon. Floor and flaw do *not* sound the same.
Picky bastard aren't I!
This paragraph (no link, the page'll be gone in a month) fairly leaped out of the web browser at me.
'60-62 EMPRESS AVENUE
The sheer size of this property will flaw you it keeps going & going & going. With two of everything your guaranteed to suffer from a case of de-ja-vu, this home offers buyers enormous potential with a small amount of elbow grease....'
Lemme see, two malapropisms and at least one punctuation error.
Yeah, I know, everyone uses word processors these days but this copywriter doesn't even have the homonym excuse to fall back upon. Floor and flaw do *not* sound the same.
Picky bastard aren't I!
Monday, August 20, 2007
A bigger mystery
So yesterday I mentioned[^] a minor mystery being solved. Not that big of a mystery but, having learned that 'Ring a Ring a Rosy' was apparently an allegorical reference to the Black Plague in London[^] one was naturally curious about other nursery rhymes. My curiousity on the subject was also piqued when I read a copy of Martin Greens 'The Annotated Alice', where he delved in great detail and wonderfully written footnotes into some of the more outré references Lewis Carroll used.
In short, grist to the mill of curiousity.
Filled with the trivia of Mary Sawyer I held it to myself until dinner time.
'Hey Andrew' I said, 'you know about Mary, the one with the lamb?'
A couple of grunts and he replied 'I think I've heard of it'.
That answer staggered me! I mean, okay, I know his interests are somewhat narrow, currently revolving around World of Warcraft but geeze, how could even he have forgotten the nursery rhymes of a mere decade or so ago?
Dinner yesterday was to be one mystery piled upon another; for Sonya piped up and informed me that they don't teach kids nursery rhymes any more. Apparently they use 'poetry' instead. Strangely enough I'd always thought that nursery rhymes qualified for that description. Shows what I know.
As for why? She didn't know. I don't know either but methinks some well meaning idiot decided that nursery rhymes were unsuitable for developing minds. Looking at some of the less admirable achievements of my generation and that of my parents they may have a point. But really! No wonder I'm having such trouble understanding Andrew; we don't have any common frame of reference to work within.
So I took it upon myself to teach him at least one or two nursery rhymes. The one about Mary and her lamb and the other about Old MacDonald. Let's see how it goes...
When Mary had a little lamb,
the doctors were surprised.
But when old MacDonald had a farm,
they couldn't believe their eyes!
It got a laugh!
In short, grist to the mill of curiousity.
Filled with the trivia of Mary Sawyer I held it to myself until dinner time.
'Hey Andrew' I said, 'you know about Mary, the one with the lamb?'
A couple of grunts and he replied 'I think I've heard of it'.
That answer staggered me! I mean, okay, I know his interests are somewhat narrow, currently revolving around World of Warcraft but geeze, how could even he have forgotten the nursery rhymes of a mere decade or so ago?
Dinner yesterday was to be one mystery piled upon another; for Sonya piped up and informed me that they don't teach kids nursery rhymes any more. Apparently they use 'poetry' instead. Strangely enough I'd always thought that nursery rhymes qualified for that description. Shows what I know.
As for why? She didn't know. I don't know either but methinks some well meaning idiot decided that nursery rhymes were unsuitable for developing minds. Looking at some of the less admirable achievements of my generation and that of my parents they may have a point. But really! No wonder I'm having such trouble understanding Andrew; we don't have any common frame of reference to work within.
So I took it upon myself to teach him at least one or two nursery rhymes. The one about Mary and her lamb and the other about Old MacDonald. Let's see how it goes...
When Mary had a little lamb,
the doctors were surprised.
But when old MacDonald had a farm,
they couldn't believe their eyes!
It got a laugh!
Monday, August 13, 2007
Melbourne's dry
It should come as no surprise that occasionally I use Google Earth to indulge in nostalgia. Melbourne may be some thousands of miles away but a refresh of the memory is good for the soul. Thus I can see the house I used to live in and I can also see that my neighbour has finally been able to finish his extension. That extension seemed to take forever; I recall him talking about it in 1999 when it seemed likely that I would die in that house in Footscray. In late 2002 when I left it was still not started because of council planning permission problems.
It may not yet be finished but viewed from a satellite some hundreds of miles above it certainly looks well on the way!
I can see no evidence that the carport my other neighbour, other side of the street and four houses up, wanted to build. I recall my surprise when a letter arrived from the local council asking if I had any objections to him building a single story carport at the back of his house. Given that it would be utterly impossible for me to see it from where I lived I had no objection whatsoever and I wrote as much.
From there to a view of Yarraville. The house I almost bought. The school I attended. And then down toward Newport and Williamstown and finally the beach. A sudden shock. It's so brown! The last time I saw Willy beach, September 2005, it was raining and the ground between the road and the bay, next to the Williamstown Football Ground, was green, green and green. Now, according to Google Earth, it's brown. Finally I believe all the reports I've been reading in the Melbourne online newspapers about how severe the drought has been!
It may not yet be finished but viewed from a satellite some hundreds of miles above it certainly looks well on the way!
I can see no evidence that the carport my other neighbour, other side of the street and four houses up, wanted to build. I recall my surprise when a letter arrived from the local council asking if I had any objections to him building a single story carport at the back of his house. Given that it would be utterly impossible for me to see it from where I lived I had no objection whatsoever and I wrote as much.
From there to a view of Yarraville. The house I almost bought. The school I attended. And then down toward Newport and Williamstown and finally the beach. A sudden shock. It's so brown! The last time I saw Willy beach, September 2005, it was raining and the ground between the road and the bay, next to the Williamstown Football Ground, was green, green and green. Now, according to Google Earth, it's brown. Finally I believe all the reports I've been reading in the Melbourne online newspapers about how severe the drought has been!
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Inkpots
I've been having a bit of a wallow lately in old books. Truth to tell, I haven't actually read a 'new' book in yonks. New to me, yes. New? Not likely. It's been a motley collection of Zola, George Orwell, Dickens and Harold Avery[^]. If you clicked on the link and read the page about him you know almost as much about him as I do.
Our school library had a few volumes of his. Even then, in the mid 1960's, they were old books. I can only remember the title of one of those volumes and that only because of the singular circumstance that I found a copy of one, 'The Triple Alliance' in a second hand bookshop in late 1968.
It became one of my favourite books so naturally Mum threw it out during one of her periodic cleanups[^] and for many years I checked bookshops, looking for the works of Harold Avery. Heck, I'd even forgotten the title and, if you'd asked me as recently as a month ago what the title was I'd have had no idea.
Indeed, a little over twenty years ago, I found a volume titled 'The Wizards Wand' by that illustrious unknown. Bought it on the spot with not a second thought. It turned out not to be a copy of my boyhood favourite but it was a good read anyway. In the light of my post regarding Harry Potter I should point out that, despite the title, it had nothing to do with magic; the wizard of the title was an inventor who had harnessed the new-fangled electricity to make his garden gate open by remote control!
A fortnight or so ago, just before our trip through New Mexico, I did a search on Harold Avery just for the heck of it. I've said it before and I'll probably say it again; the internet's a wonderful resource. There I found not just the meagre details of the mans life but, on Project Gutenberg[^], the text of none other than my boyhood favourite!
Almost at the end; I'm on the final chapter. Reading it again after more than forty years it's not quite as good as memory painted it. Always the way aint it? I remember being an enthusiastic fan of The Aunty Jack Show[^] during its first run in 1972. Sometime in the late 80's or early 90's the ABC ran it again and I, just as enthusiastically, watched the first episode. Watched the second. I used to like this? I didn't bother with the rest of the series.
I'm sure you've had a similar experience.
The last chapter of 'The Triple Alliance'[^] refers to inkpots. Up until about the age of eight we used pencils in our exercise books; our desks had these strange little holes at the front, on the right hand side, and ink coloured grooves to the left. We didn't know what the holes were for and I didn't wonder at the ink stains; they just were and at that age one accepts things without much question.
But in 1963, recently moved to fourth grade, we had to learn to write using a pen. It was then that we discovered the use of those strange little holes and why the grooves were ink coloured. It never occurred to us to wonder why the holes for the inkpots were only on the right; in those non politically correct days it was normal to try and force left handers to use their right hands! My own sister, Deb, a leftie, went through hell at school as they tried to force her to right handedness.
I think we were the last year to use pens dipped in inkpots; certainly, in 1964, we were expected to have our own Osmiroid[^] fountain pen.
The fountain pen was a great advance; once we graduated to it the only thing we had to do was blot the page before turning it; when we had pens dipped in ink and lacked the skill and experience to do better we invariably spilled ink in large blots on the paper. We were judged as much by the lack of blots on the page as by the calligraphy.
I still like using a fountain pen though I haven't actually touched one in nearly thirty years. Back in the days when I was writing music on paper I always used a fountain pen! I even drew the treble and bass clefs using one!
There was a minor privilege available back then. You remember my writing about school milk[^]? Being a milk monitor was good; being ink monitor was only so-so; but it was better than nothing. I spent a couple of inky weeks.
And yes, if you're wondering, I did stick the pigtails of the little girl sitting in front of me into the inkpot. The ink was there, the pigtail was there and it was the most natural thing in the world to put the one into the other. And now you know, more than two years after hinting at it, why I lost my coveted post as 'milk handler'.
I hope it was worth the wait! :-)
Our school library had a few volumes of his. Even then, in the mid 1960's, they were old books. I can only remember the title of one of those volumes and that only because of the singular circumstance that I found a copy of one, 'The Triple Alliance' in a second hand bookshop in late 1968.
It became one of my favourite books so naturally Mum threw it out during one of her periodic cleanups[^] and for many years I checked bookshops, looking for the works of Harold Avery. Heck, I'd even forgotten the title and, if you'd asked me as recently as a month ago what the title was I'd have had no idea.
Indeed, a little over twenty years ago, I found a volume titled 'The Wizards Wand' by that illustrious unknown. Bought it on the spot with not a second thought. It turned out not to be a copy of my boyhood favourite but it was a good read anyway. In the light of my post regarding Harry Potter I should point out that, despite the title, it had nothing to do with magic; the wizard of the title was an inventor who had harnessed the new-fangled electricity to make his garden gate open by remote control!
A fortnight or so ago, just before our trip through New Mexico, I did a search on Harold Avery just for the heck of it. I've said it before and I'll probably say it again; the internet's a wonderful resource. There I found not just the meagre details of the mans life but, on Project Gutenberg[^], the text of none other than my boyhood favourite!
Almost at the end; I'm on the final chapter. Reading it again after more than forty years it's not quite as good as memory painted it. Always the way aint it? I remember being an enthusiastic fan of The Aunty Jack Show[^] during its first run in 1972. Sometime in the late 80's or early 90's the ABC ran it again and I, just as enthusiastically, watched the first episode. Watched the second. I used to like this? I didn't bother with the rest of the series.
I'm sure you've had a similar experience.
The last chapter of 'The Triple Alliance'[^] refers to inkpots. Up until about the age of eight we used pencils in our exercise books; our desks had these strange little holes at the front, on the right hand side, and ink coloured grooves to the left. We didn't know what the holes were for and I didn't wonder at the ink stains; they just were and at that age one accepts things without much question.
But in 1963, recently moved to fourth grade, we had to learn to write using a pen. It was then that we discovered the use of those strange little holes and why the grooves were ink coloured. It never occurred to us to wonder why the holes for the inkpots were only on the right; in those non politically correct days it was normal to try and force left handers to use their right hands! My own sister, Deb, a leftie, went through hell at school as they tried to force her to right handedness.
I think we were the last year to use pens dipped in inkpots; certainly, in 1964, we were expected to have our own Osmiroid[^] fountain pen.
The fountain pen was a great advance; once we graduated to it the only thing we had to do was blot the page before turning it; when we had pens dipped in ink and lacked the skill and experience to do better we invariably spilled ink in large blots on the paper. We were judged as much by the lack of blots on the page as by the calligraphy.
I still like using a fountain pen though I haven't actually touched one in nearly thirty years. Back in the days when I was writing music on paper I always used a fountain pen! I even drew the treble and bass clefs using one!
There was a minor privilege available back then. You remember my writing about school milk[^]? Being a milk monitor was good; being ink monitor was only so-so; but it was better than nothing. I spent a couple of inky weeks.
And yes, if you're wondering, I did stick the pigtails of the little girl sitting in front of me into the inkpot. The ink was there, the pigtail was there and it was the most natural thing in the world to put the one into the other. And now you know, more than two years after hinting at it, why I lost my coveted post as 'milk handler'.
I hope it was worth the wait! :-)
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Unintended comedy
I'm old enough to remember the days when radio featured a lot of comedy. Well, perhaps not a lot, but certainly enough to keep me going. I used to love listening to 'Round the Horne', 'Hancocks Half Hour', an old Jimmy Edwards series whose name escapes me and, of course, 'The Goons'. We even had a home grown (Australian) series featuring a character named Greenbottle who was a smart arse after my own heart!
As much as I enjoy modern TV comedy I can't help feeling that we've lost something. *cue the old fart music again*. When all you had were words, sound effects and funny voices it left a lot of room for the imagination. As funny as Al Bundy could be, you were left with the concrete Ed O'Neill playing the role; but I'm sure all of us who've heard Henry Crunn or Neddy Seagoon have our own unique images of them.
I listened avidly, in 1969, to The Goons on Monday nights at 8:00 PM. It annoyed me greatly that my folks, a couple of months later, insisted I must attend judo lessons held in a local hall and which just happened to occur at 8:00 PM on Monday nights! That'd be right. I even, for a short while, entertained the notion that they could be persuaded to play the show over speakers while we tossed each other on the mats. Heck, I was even willing to transport my treasure, a 1952 valve (tube) radio for the purpose.
That plan didn't happen.
The other night as I was driving home I had the car radio on. Should I admit it was Bill O'Reilly? You get your comedy where you can! On came an ad. Let's see how I go transcribing it.
Bling! 'That's the sound of the email containing your picture arriving in your friends inbox'.
Bling! 'That's the sound of your friend forwarding your picture to her friends'.
Bling! 'That's the sound of your friends friend forwarding your picture to her boyfriend'.
Bling Bling! 'That's the sound...' well you get the idea. A few more blings and it becomes clear they're talking about a teenage girl sending a somewhat risque picture of herself in her underwear and how, once it hits the internet, it gets out of hand.
Bling! 'That's the sound of your father receiving...', and then they cut to the next ad in mid sentence.
'Hi. My name's Todd and I used to suffer from erectile dysfunction!'
I cracked up laughing!
As much as I enjoy modern TV comedy I can't help feeling that we've lost something. *cue the old fart music again*. When all you had were words, sound effects and funny voices it left a lot of room for the imagination. As funny as Al Bundy could be, you were left with the concrete Ed O'Neill playing the role; but I'm sure all of us who've heard Henry Crunn or Neddy Seagoon have our own unique images of them.
I listened avidly, in 1969, to The Goons on Monday nights at 8:00 PM. It annoyed me greatly that my folks, a couple of months later, insisted I must attend judo lessons held in a local hall and which just happened to occur at 8:00 PM on Monday nights! That'd be right. I even, for a short while, entertained the notion that they could be persuaded to play the show over speakers while we tossed each other on the mats. Heck, I was even willing to transport my treasure, a 1952 valve (tube) radio for the purpose.
That plan didn't happen.
The other night as I was driving home I had the car radio on. Should I admit it was Bill O'Reilly? You get your comedy where you can! On came an ad. Let's see how I go transcribing it.
Bling! 'That's the sound of the email containing your picture arriving in your friends inbox'.
Bling! 'That's the sound of your friend forwarding your picture to her friends'.
Bling! 'That's the sound of your friends friend forwarding your picture to her boyfriend'.
Bling Bling! 'That's the sound...' well you get the idea. A few more blings and it becomes clear they're talking about a teenage girl sending a somewhat risque picture of herself in her underwear and how, once it hits the internet, it gets out of hand.
Bling! 'That's the sound of your father receiving...', and then they cut to the next ad in mid sentence.
'Hi. My name's Todd and I used to suffer from erectile dysfunction!'
I cracked up laughing!
Friday, September 15, 2006
Doesn't time fly
when you're having fun.
Even 52 years into this life I find it hard, sometimes, to believe just how fast time passes. It seems incredible that it is, at the time of writing, exactly a year since I was last flying over the Pacific Ocean toward Sydney. That makes it 50 weeks or so since I last had fish and chips!
It's the little details that bring it home; remembrance of a very pleasant weekday morning spent in Fawkner Park.
Taking a photograph of the Flagstaff signage at the railway station of that name quite without knowing that it is now, and was then, illegal to take photographs in the Melbourne Underground Railway. Geeze the Bush legacy reaches far!
The early afternoon when I walked past the house I last lived in in Melbourne and, seeing my former neighbours car parked out the front, how I knocked on the door, got no answer and sat to enjoy a smoke. Emerging from the neighbours property I was confronted by the neighbour on the other side wondering whether I was casing the joint. Had to show the bastard my Victorian drivers license with my old address on it to calm him down.
The memory of standing on the inbound platform of Yarraville Station and seeing the slogan moulded into the facade of a circa 1880 building; 'Suum Quique'. My first thought, on seeing the slogan nearly four decades ago, was that it read just as 'sue em quick' and a Google search on the term, whilst not providing a definitive definition of the term does seem to confirm that first impressions were on the right track! The building houses a lawyers office!
Ah nostalgia, where would we be without you, sweet goddess!
Even 52 years into this life I find it hard, sometimes, to believe just how fast time passes. It seems incredible that it is, at the time of writing, exactly a year since I was last flying over the Pacific Ocean toward Sydney. That makes it 50 weeks or so since I last had fish and chips!
It's the little details that bring it home; remembrance of a very pleasant weekday morning spent in Fawkner Park.
Taking a photograph of the Flagstaff signage at the railway station of that name quite without knowing that it is now, and was then, illegal to take photographs in the Melbourne Underground Railway. Geeze the Bush legacy reaches far!
The early afternoon when I walked past the house I last lived in in Melbourne and, seeing my former neighbours car parked out the front, how I knocked on the door, got no answer and sat to enjoy a smoke. Emerging from the neighbours property I was confronted by the neighbour on the other side wondering whether I was casing the joint. Had to show the bastard my Victorian drivers license with my old address on it to calm him down.
The memory of standing on the inbound platform of Yarraville Station and seeing the slogan moulded into the facade of a circa 1880 building; 'Suum Quique'. My first thought, on seeing the slogan nearly four decades ago, was that it read just as 'sue em quick' and a Google search on the term, whilst not providing a definitive definition of the term does seem to confirm that first impressions were on the right track! The building houses a lawyers office!
Ah nostalgia, where would we be without you, sweet goddess!
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Leave the dust!
This morning I received an email from someone I met at Unisys Australia on my first day there. Bob, the office manager, took me on the whirlwind three hour tour. Deliberate sarcasm; I wasn't going to remember every face and name, nor would they remember mine.
After the first five or six stops I was introduced to Terri. Given that I included a link to the blog in my reply I expect her to read this which is half the reason I'm writing about it. She always chides me when I relate this story.
Bob did the usual 'Terri, this is Rob the new guy. Rob, this is Terri'. Then he added that she was the single most important person in the office. Get on her right side and all will go well.
Terri always blusters about what arrant nonsense that is but I think it's pretty close to the truth. Terri had and has her finger on the pulse; she knows what's going on and who to watch out for.
Along the way Bob also introduced me to the young lady at the reception desk and as we moved on to the next intro he took the opportunity of putting me on warning that she was his daughter! Warning heeded!
Over the course of a couple of years Terri and I became friends. I suspect it was my purchase of chips at the fast food joint out the back of the building that started it. It became quite the ritual during the second half of 1989 to swing by Terri's desk and offer her some chips. She was always gracious in accepting. Good times.
Whatever the process we became friends and the propinquity of my ending up living a ten minute walk away cemented things. I met her husband Greg and I reckon it took no more than a year for us (Greg and I) to become comfortable with each other. :-)
Whenever I return to Australia Terri and Greg are on my 'must' visit list.
In September 1994 we, my then wife Peta and I, and a few others including Terri and Greg went on a wine tour of the Coonawarra[^] region in South Australia. Unisys were paying accomodation and meals but we were expected to pay for whatever wine we carried home. Seemed fair enough; we still had a good weekend together.
The email that sparked this trip down nostalgia lane asked me what year that was. Like I'd forget! Though, truth be told, hit with the question 3 minutes after waking up I got it wrong; I thought it was 1993 but later reflection tells me it was 1994. Two years to the day after my attending the Melbourne premiere of Einstein on the Beach[^].
I took the opportunity of buying a couple of bottles of St George 1987 (but alas I can't remember if it was Cabernet Sauvignon or Merlot) on that trip. Wonderful drop. If I'm remembering rightly 1987 was one of 'the' years for Australian red wine. It seems that Terri and Greg drank a bottle of the St George '87 last night and Greg pronounced it 'bloody fantastic'. I heartily agree with that assessment.
Sometime in 1995 I found a couple of bottles of the St George '87 for sale at Yarraville Cellars[^]. They were marked down as 'old' stock! I think I paid about ten bucks a bottle when the cellar door price was about 20 bucks.
After I set the bottles down on the counter the saleslady whipped out a rag and wiped the dust off! I was mortified! I wanted that 8 year dust on the bottle; it increased the enjoyment of an already great drink!
After the first five or six stops I was introduced to Terri. Given that I included a link to the blog in my reply I expect her to read this which is half the reason I'm writing about it. She always chides me when I relate this story.
Bob did the usual 'Terri, this is Rob the new guy. Rob, this is Terri'. Then he added that she was the single most important person in the office. Get on her right side and all will go well.
Terri always blusters about what arrant nonsense that is but I think it's pretty close to the truth. Terri had and has her finger on the pulse; she knows what's going on and who to watch out for.
Along the way Bob also introduced me to the young lady at the reception desk and as we moved on to the next intro he took the opportunity of putting me on warning that she was his daughter! Warning heeded!
Over the course of a couple of years Terri and I became friends. I suspect it was my purchase of chips at the fast food joint out the back of the building that started it. It became quite the ritual during the second half of 1989 to swing by Terri's desk and offer her some chips. She was always gracious in accepting. Good times.
Whatever the process we became friends and the propinquity of my ending up living a ten minute walk away cemented things. I met her husband Greg and I reckon it took no more than a year for us (Greg and I) to become comfortable with each other. :-)
Whenever I return to Australia Terri and Greg are on my 'must' visit list.
In September 1994 we, my then wife Peta and I, and a few others including Terri and Greg went on a wine tour of the Coonawarra[^] region in South Australia. Unisys were paying accomodation and meals but we were expected to pay for whatever wine we carried home. Seemed fair enough; we still had a good weekend together.
The email that sparked this trip down nostalgia lane asked me what year that was. Like I'd forget! Though, truth be told, hit with the question 3 minutes after waking up I got it wrong; I thought it was 1993 but later reflection tells me it was 1994. Two years to the day after my attending the Melbourne premiere of Einstein on the Beach[^].
I took the opportunity of buying a couple of bottles of St George 1987 (but alas I can't remember if it was Cabernet Sauvignon or Merlot) on that trip. Wonderful drop. If I'm remembering rightly 1987 was one of 'the' years for Australian red wine. It seems that Terri and Greg drank a bottle of the St George '87 last night and Greg pronounced it 'bloody fantastic'. I heartily agree with that assessment.
Sometime in 1995 I found a couple of bottles of the St George '87 for sale at Yarraville Cellars[^]. They were marked down as 'old' stock! I think I paid about ten bucks a bottle when the cellar door price was about 20 bucks.
After I set the bottles down on the counter the saleslady whipped out a rag and wiped the dust off! I was mortified! I wanted that 8 year dust on the bottle; it increased the enjoyment of an already great drink!
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