Back in 1975 Robin and I were going through an architecture phase, by which I mean that we were admiring buildings old and new and taking the opportunity, when it offered, of sneaking in and taking a gander at those parts not really open to the public.
As an aside I'll note that it *still* pisses me off when, having paid a few bucks for entrance to some grand old mansion or other, that all the interesting bits are off limits. Perhaps the example, par excellence, of this is at Chirnside House, at Werribee a few miles out of Melbourne. One can gawk all one wants at a drawing room filled with period furniture and old woodcuts but can one ascend into the tower? Of course not!
One afternoon in 1975, as aforesaid, Robin and I ventured into an old building on Queens Street. I'd guess it was built around 1920 and it had a staircase that wrapped around the lift well. This was back in the days when buildings still, occasionally, had lift attendants and this building, you guessed it, had such an employee. He was pretty old by our standards; I fancy he might have been as old as I am now. And he was adamant that we were not permitted to be in the building, given that we had no appointment with anyone and, indeed, hadn't even had the foresight to memorise a name or two on the upper floors from the building directory.
Well, just because some old bastard in a lift attendants uniform had said we should leave was not enough reason to leave. We faked a departure, waited until the lift ascended and took to the stairs.
The old bastard was ahead of us and, as we took the final turn in the staircase from the ground floor to the first, he was waiting for us. So down we went again. And down came the lift. A glare in our direction as we retreated out the front door and into the street.
Uh huh - not quite the end of it. This time we waited a couple of minutes and stuck our heads in. No sign of the lift and we made a dash for the stairs. This time we got to the third floor when suddenly the lift door opened and our adversary glared out. Thus up and down the stairs, followed by this pantomime demon and his glares. This went on for quite a quarter of an hour before we realised all he was doing was glaring and, thus emboldened, we made it to the top floor.
Which was quite disappointing. Just a row of office doors and no access to the roof so far as we could determine.
A few weeks ago Sonya and I were bored. So we went for a trip downtown. If you've ever seen Phoenix downtown you'll know we were bored indeed. Particularly when it was Sunday afternoon and I reckon you could fire a cannon down Central Ave and not a soul would notice.
We wandered over to the new convention centre, right next to Symphony Hall. To our surprise it was open (though it certainly didn't look it from the street) and we walked inside. No one around save for a few 'security' types and one young lady at the coffee shop who looked so bored that death might have seemed an attractive alternative.
The interior was much like any such conference centre anywhere in the world; acres of carpet, lots of large rooms, multiple floors and a bunch of escalators. We took one down, to what turned out to be the car park.
We came back up to the ground floor and then took another escalator up. And up. It does go up a fair way.
And on the down and ups we were followed, at a discreet yet obvious distance, by one of the 'security' types. Was she bored? Or did she really think we represented a threat?
I couldn't resist. As she followed us back down to the ground floor I stepped off the escalator at a landing and ducked into an alcove. Sure enough, a few moments later she came rushing past, frantically trying to find this middle aged terrorist obviously bent on bringing down the fabric of Phoenix society.
It was cruel of me, I know. As soon as she disappeared I took the escalator down, rejoined Sonya and we exited to the street. At least I gave the 'security' type something to while away the rest of the afternoon with; the task of finding the nonexistent intruder on the first floor!
What can I say?
Showing posts with label Robin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Robin. Show all posts
Friday, December 05, 2008
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Another year, another birthday
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Someone famous was born on that day after all
I'd be amazed if you remembered this[^] post. Humour me, go and read it, I'll wait.
Today whilst taking in my daily dose of internet websites I found an article bemoaning the difficulty of persuading a nation (the USA) to take an interest in the 200th Birthday of one of it's sons. Of course a great many Americans were born in the year 1808 but could you name many of them? I certainly couldn't have though I'd heard of this one.
I asked Sonya the same question and she had no idea. So I filled in a little detail; he was a first president. Quick as a flash she came back with George Washington. I fear that answer was more than somewhat innacurate; George died in 1799. One might have expected suspicions to be raised on such an obvious clue let alone the use of the term 'a first president' rather than 'the first president'. So she racked her brains some more. Thus through a ragtag assortment of other former US presidents. Not a one of them correct. So I gave her the other hint; not only was he the first president, he was the only one.
Bingo! Jefferson Davis[^] she blurted out.
What I found interesting was the US centric guessing; not a hint that there might have been presidents elsewhere.
So it seems that Terry Lane (to hark back to the original link up there) was wrong; someone of consequence *was* born on June 3. Robin will be delighted to hear of it!
Today whilst taking in my daily dose of internet websites I found an article bemoaning the difficulty of persuading a nation (the USA) to take an interest in the 200th Birthday of one of it's sons. Of course a great many Americans were born in the year 1808 but could you name many of them? I certainly couldn't have though I'd heard of this one.
I asked Sonya the same question and she had no idea. So I filled in a little detail; he was a first president. Quick as a flash she came back with George Washington. I fear that answer was more than somewhat innacurate; George died in 1799. One might have expected suspicions to be raised on such an obvious clue let alone the use of the term 'a first president' rather than 'the first president'. So she racked her brains some more. Thus through a ragtag assortment of other former US presidents. Not a one of them correct. So I gave her the other hint; not only was he the first president, he was the only one.
Bingo! Jefferson Davis[^] she blurted out.
What I found interesting was the US centric guessing; not a hint that there might have been presidents elsewhere.
So it seems that Terry Lane (to hark back to the original link up there) was wrong; someone of consequence *was* born on June 3. Robin will be delighted to hear of it!
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Impressing em
Writing in my last post about Ralph Vaughan Williams[^] reminded me of an afternoon in 1979. I'd just met Sue, who later became my first wife (Hi Sue!) and she'd taken me around to meet her best friend, who later became Robins wife.
As part of meeting Rosemary it was obligatory to meet her mother. Gwen was a well meaning woman but perhaps a trifle strait laced. She certainly didn't seem to appreciate meeting a long haired lower class geek.
As luck would have it her kitchen radio was tuned to 3AR, which in those days was still pumping out classical music on AM. ABC FM has long since taken over that responsibility and, as far as I can remember, being nearly four years removed from Australia, 3AR (Radio National) does religious programs and critical analysis. I miss 3AR!
But on that wintry day in 1979 they were playing classical music. A piece I didn't know but it had all the fingerprints of early 20th century British music.
So if Rosemary's mum notices that I'm listening to the kind of music she would never have thought I'd listen to it's time to play it up. As for why it's time to play it up I have no idea. It really wasn't important that I impress Gwen. Let's chalk it up to ego and a chance to take an example of smug middle class down a peg or two! Whatever.
A few educated guesses and some wankerspeak and I'd decided, out loud, that it was most probably Vaughan Williams Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis[^].
You could have knocked me down with a feather when the music ended and the announcer confirmed my educated guess!
Gwen struggled mightily with her middle class prejudices after that; somehow she could never get over the fact that I 'knew' classical music!
As part of meeting Rosemary it was obligatory to meet her mother. Gwen was a well meaning woman but perhaps a trifle strait laced. She certainly didn't seem to appreciate meeting a long haired lower class geek.
As luck would have it her kitchen radio was tuned to 3AR, which in those days was still pumping out classical music on AM. ABC FM has long since taken over that responsibility and, as far as I can remember, being nearly four years removed from Australia, 3AR (Radio National) does religious programs and critical analysis. I miss 3AR!
But on that wintry day in 1979 they were playing classical music. A piece I didn't know but it had all the fingerprints of early 20th century British music.
So if Rosemary's mum notices that I'm listening to the kind of music she would never have thought I'd listen to it's time to play it up. As for why it's time to play it up I have no idea. It really wasn't important that I impress Gwen. Let's chalk it up to ego and a chance to take an example of smug middle class down a peg or two! Whatever.
A few educated guesses and some wankerspeak and I'd decided, out loud, that it was most probably Vaughan Williams Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis[^].
You could have knocked me down with a feather when the music ended and the announcer confirmed my educated guess!
Gwen struggled mightily with her middle class prejudices after that; somehow she could never get over the fact that I 'knew' classical music!
Friday, August 11, 2006
Leftovers
I was brought up to eat whatever was on my plate.
I reckon my folks did a pretty good job of gauging what I could consume though; Mum was the one who ladled out the portions and it was mandatory that the plate be completely empty before we were allowed to leave the table. Not a difficult goal to achieve since the portions always seemed smaller than I wanted. The perils of bringing up a family on a very restricted budget.
These days of course I load my own plate and I do a pretty good job of judging ahead of time how much I'm going to want. Maybe once a month I misjudge and find myself full with two mouthfuls of mashed spud left.
Andrew has the luxury of loading his own plate but he *never* gets it right. Little bastard loads up with vegetables he knows he's not going to eat. No amount of browbeating changes him either. Pointing out that he can always go back for seconds if he's still hungry goes in one ear and out the other. Mom doesn't help of course; she cooks way more than any of us could eat whilst maintaining our svelte forms. Thus I'm constantly appalled at the wastage.
Uh huh; I've run into a cultural difference that I doubt I'll ever overcome. Andrew 'knows' that food can be wasted whereas I don't 'know' any such thing.
Here the restaurant portions are almost always at least twice as large as I can comfortably consume and it took quite some time to overcome that feeling of guilt when I'd reached capacity and quite half the food was still left! I never got into the habit of asking for a 'doggie bag' though the rest of the family have no problem whatsoever with the idea of taking half a steak, four ribs, a pile of mashed spuds and some cauliflower home.
And when they get it home what do they do with it? Stick it in the fridge of course! And then, a month later, it gets thrown out because no one ate it! Indeed, I reckon I could count on the thumbs of one foot the number of leftover portions that actually fulfill their destiny in this house! Doesn't stop em bringing them home though! Maybe they feel less guilty by playing the polite fiction. *shrug*
I suppose it could be worse. A friend, years ago, was prowling through his fridge and found some pineapple chunks in a container. When he opened it he was puzzled at the 'mayonnaise' on the pineapple but, with a shrug, he consumed the lot. When his wife got home he commented on the 'mayonnaise' only to be told that it was mold!
I reckon my folks did a pretty good job of gauging what I could consume though; Mum was the one who ladled out the portions and it was mandatory that the plate be completely empty before we were allowed to leave the table. Not a difficult goal to achieve since the portions always seemed smaller than I wanted. The perils of bringing up a family on a very restricted budget.
These days of course I load my own plate and I do a pretty good job of judging ahead of time how much I'm going to want. Maybe once a month I misjudge and find myself full with two mouthfuls of mashed spud left.
Andrew has the luxury of loading his own plate but he *never* gets it right. Little bastard loads up with vegetables he knows he's not going to eat. No amount of browbeating changes him either. Pointing out that he can always go back for seconds if he's still hungry goes in one ear and out the other. Mom doesn't help of course; she cooks way more than any of us could eat whilst maintaining our svelte forms. Thus I'm constantly appalled at the wastage.
Uh huh; I've run into a cultural difference that I doubt I'll ever overcome. Andrew 'knows' that food can be wasted whereas I don't 'know' any such thing.
Here the restaurant portions are almost always at least twice as large as I can comfortably consume and it took quite some time to overcome that feeling of guilt when I'd reached capacity and quite half the food was still left! I never got into the habit of asking for a 'doggie bag' though the rest of the family have no problem whatsoever with the idea of taking half a steak, four ribs, a pile of mashed spuds and some cauliflower home.
And when they get it home what do they do with it? Stick it in the fridge of course! And then, a month later, it gets thrown out because no one ate it! Indeed, I reckon I could count on the thumbs of one foot the number of leftover portions that actually fulfill their destiny in this house! Doesn't stop em bringing them home though! Maybe they feel less guilty by playing the polite fiction. *shrug*
I suppose it could be worse. A friend, years ago, was prowling through his fridge and found some pineapple chunks in a container. When he opened it he was puzzled at the 'mayonnaise' on the pineapple but, with a shrug, he consumed the lot. When his wife got home he commented on the 'mayonnaise' only to be told that it was mold!
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Getting older (again)
It's June 21 even here in the US and we all know what that means. It means that I've reached yet another birthday. Number 52 this time and I have to say that, given how much I drink and smoke, each fresh anniversary amazes me.
I won't yet say what's planned as this years birthday gift for two reasons; firstly it hasn't happened and secondly, it may not happen. But cross your fingers for me and I'll let you know if it comes to pass.
Let's not forget who[^] got here 18 days earlier than I did :-)
I won't yet say what's planned as this years birthday gift for two reasons; firstly it hasn't happened and secondly, it may not happen. But cross your fingers for me and I'll let you know if it comes to pass.
Let's not forget who[^] got here 18 days earlier than I did :-)
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Hiding the towel
In 1980 Sue and I shared a house with Robin. I've already written a little[^] about that time.
That's the only two storey house I ever lived in. Where I live now is multi-storey but it's a condominium, not a house. We have no backyard we can call our own and the Home Owners Association are most assiduous in suppressing any and all touches of individuality. That is, however, a story for another day.
One thing about that house back in 1980 that impressed me was the creative use of the space under the staircase; the owners had converted it into a bathroom. Let's not trip over language; I'm not talking euphemisms for that most necessary of rooms, the toilet. Nope, I mean a real bathroom with a genuine bathtub.
I'm perhaps a trifle overfond, when my wife says she's going to the bathroom, of asking 'oh, are you taking a bath?'. Andrew's become used to that question too. Myself? I never announce a visit to the bathroom; I'm off to take a leak or to bring another manager into the world and don't you forget it! :-)
It was very pleasant indeed to relax in a hot bath under the stairs and one could take a perverse pleasure out of stretching ones foot out against the sloping ceiling of that bathroom. Another kind of footprint[^] on the ceiling I suppose.
Robin became quite fond of long luxurious baths. After a few nights we (Sue and I though I suspect I was the main offender) had an evil idea and so I wrenched the door open one evening and grabbed all of Robin's clothes! Poor bastard emerged a few minutes later wrapped in a towel to beat a hasty retreat to his bedroom and dress in peace.
The next night we were prepared; the towel disappeared along with the clothes. Pleadings and curses from behind the door and we caved in to the extent of handing back the towel. This went on for a few days and then, one night, there were neither towel nor clothes to be found on the bathroom raid. Robin lay there laughing his head off at our consternation.
I soon stopped his laughter, by the simple expedient of reaching under the water to pull the plug! We were called more things than bastards that night! :-)
A night or two later we discovered the secret. You understand that we'd seen him walk, fully clothed, into the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder. Somewhat later there he was, quite evidently not fully clothed, in the bathtub with nary a sign of clothing or towel. The clothes we found in a plastic bag stuck behind the pipe leading from the wash basin. The towel was more artfully concealed inside a plastic stool. And so, on the night we discovered the secret, the plastic stool and the plastic bag both left the bathroom with us. More pleading and cursing.
The following night he was strangely unperturbed when we repeated the performance. Imagine our surprise when he emerged fully dressed and dry from the bathroom when we thought we had his gear!
He'd outwitted us again. This time he had smuggled in two towels and one change of clothing, knowing that we'd abscond with what we could. The second towel and the change of clothing had been in the tub with him, sealed in a plastic bag beneath his knees!
It stopped there. Neither of us really wanted to be sticking our hands into the bathwater and grubbing around that close to his backside!
That's the only two storey house I ever lived in. Where I live now is multi-storey but it's a condominium, not a house. We have no backyard we can call our own and the Home Owners Association are most assiduous in suppressing any and all touches of individuality. That is, however, a story for another day.
One thing about that house back in 1980 that impressed me was the creative use of the space under the staircase; the owners had converted it into a bathroom. Let's not trip over language; I'm not talking euphemisms for that most necessary of rooms, the toilet. Nope, I mean a real bathroom with a genuine bathtub.
I'm perhaps a trifle overfond, when my wife says she's going to the bathroom, of asking 'oh, are you taking a bath?'. Andrew's become used to that question too. Myself? I never announce a visit to the bathroom; I'm off to take a leak or to bring another manager into the world and don't you forget it! :-)
It was very pleasant indeed to relax in a hot bath under the stairs and one could take a perverse pleasure out of stretching ones foot out against the sloping ceiling of that bathroom. Another kind of footprint[^] on the ceiling I suppose.
Robin became quite fond of long luxurious baths. After a few nights we (Sue and I though I suspect I was the main offender) had an evil idea and so I wrenched the door open one evening and grabbed all of Robin's clothes! Poor bastard emerged a few minutes later wrapped in a towel to beat a hasty retreat to his bedroom and dress in peace.
The next night we were prepared; the towel disappeared along with the clothes. Pleadings and curses from behind the door and we caved in to the extent of handing back the towel. This went on for a few days and then, one night, there were neither towel nor clothes to be found on the bathroom raid. Robin lay there laughing his head off at our consternation.
I soon stopped his laughter, by the simple expedient of reaching under the water to pull the plug! We were called more things than bastards that night! :-)
A night or two later we discovered the secret. You understand that we'd seen him walk, fully clothed, into the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder. Somewhat later there he was, quite evidently not fully clothed, in the bathtub with nary a sign of clothing or towel. The clothes we found in a plastic bag stuck behind the pipe leading from the wash basin. The towel was more artfully concealed inside a plastic stool. And so, on the night we discovered the secret, the plastic stool and the plastic bag both left the bathroom with us. More pleading and cursing.
The following night he was strangely unperturbed when we repeated the performance. Imagine our surprise when he emerged fully dressed and dry from the bathroom when we thought we had his gear!
He'd outwitted us again. This time he had smuggled in two towels and one change of clothing, knowing that we'd abscond with what we could. The second towel and the change of clothing had been in the tub with him, sealed in a plastic bag beneath his knees!
It stopped there. Neither of us really wanted to be sticking our hands into the bathwater and grubbing around that close to his backside!
Monday, April 17, 2006
The day Robin 'got' me
The way I've written about Robin you might imagine that it was entirely one sided and that I was always the smart arsed victor. 'Taint so.
One winters day in 1982 Robin came over to our house which was, at the time, opposite Monash University in Wellington Road. The location is immaterial but I've gotten so completely into the habit of thinking the where as well as the when that the words just flow out of my fingertips. I'm sticking to that story! :-)
In he walked, strange grin on his face. The first question out of his mouth was 'do you like knock knock jokes?' I can take em or leave em. But I said yes. 'Ok', he said, 'you start'. So I started.
'Knock knock' I said.
'Who's there?' he replied.
At which point my mind went a blank and he exploded into laughter. I'm sure I reddened as the realisation dawned that I'd been had!
One winters day in 1982 Robin came over to our house which was, at the time, opposite Monash University in Wellington Road. The location is immaterial but I've gotten so completely into the habit of thinking the where as well as the when that the words just flow out of my fingertips. I'm sticking to that story! :-)
In he walked, strange grin on his face. The first question out of his mouth was 'do you like knock knock jokes?' I can take em or leave em. But I said yes. 'Ok', he said, 'you start'. So I started.
'Knock knock' I said.
'Who's there?' he replied.
At which point my mind went a blank and he exploded into laughter. I'm sure I reddened as the realisation dawned that I'd been had!
Saturday, April 15, 2006
A way of using canned peaches I'd never have thought of
I'm not sure whether my failure to imagine it is a bad thing or not. You can decide :-)
I've just been watching a silly episode of a silly TV series, Married... with Children[^]. I honestly can't remember when I started watching it; I suspect sometime in 1995. Confession time, I've always thought Katey Sagal is incredibly sexy. Tonights episode, recorded some weeks ago, involves that strange sport that Americans play, Gridiron Football. I can't make head or tail of it as a sport. I suspect I need some American to explain it to me in infinite detail and then maybe I'd understand what the heck a touchdown is. On the other hand, I don't think I could muster enough interest in the subject to remain awake through the explanation!
As one does when watching something one lets the associations roam free. On this occasion the association led to the memory of a porn film I once watched, with Sue, at the encouragement of a friend. We'd gone over to his place on a social visit. He was newlywed at the time but it seemed that his interest in certain kinds of, um, literature, was unabated.
He was most insistent that we really needed to see this particular example of the genre. So he stuck the tape into the VCR, hit play and left the room. We sat down to watch. First story involved an American 'football' player, which is what triggered the memory. Silly story that I won't relate.
It was the second story that got us laughing! Sexy young 'innocent' female and stud. Stud has a can of peaches. He opens the can and proceeds to pour the contents into her underwear. My friend stuck his head through the door at what he doubtless imagined was an appropriate moment to find Sue and I rolling around on the floor doing things best done in private. Well he did find us rolling about but he was quite surprised that we were still fully dressed and laughing our heads off!
What a pair of bastards we were!
I've just been watching a silly episode of a silly TV series, Married... with Children[^]. I honestly can't remember when I started watching it; I suspect sometime in 1995. Confession time, I've always thought Katey Sagal is incredibly sexy. Tonights episode, recorded some weeks ago, involves that strange sport that Americans play, Gridiron Football. I can't make head or tail of it as a sport. I suspect I need some American to explain it to me in infinite detail and then maybe I'd understand what the heck a touchdown is. On the other hand, I don't think I could muster enough interest in the subject to remain awake through the explanation!
As one does when watching something one lets the associations roam free. On this occasion the association led to the memory of a porn film I once watched, with Sue, at the encouragement of a friend. We'd gone over to his place on a social visit. He was newlywed at the time but it seemed that his interest in certain kinds of, um, literature, was unabated.
He was most insistent that we really needed to see this particular example of the genre. So he stuck the tape into the VCR, hit play and left the room. We sat down to watch. First story involved an American 'football' player, which is what triggered the memory. Silly story that I won't relate.
It was the second story that got us laughing! Sexy young 'innocent' female and stud. Stud has a can of peaches. He opens the can and proceeds to pour the contents into her underwear. My friend stuck his head through the door at what he doubtless imagined was an appropriate moment to find Sue and I rolling around on the floor doing things best done in private. Well he did find us rolling about but he was quite surprised that we were still fully dressed and laughing our heads off!
What a pair of bastards we were!
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Blockbusters
Robin has always been drawn to the blockbuster. Give him a choice between a movie with a plane crash or one with characters and he'll go for the plane crash every time. So it follows as naturally as night follows day that as a movie writer/director he'd be planning movies with big scenes.
A laudable goal if you can pull it off. To pull it off you need lots of dollars, an experienced crew, brave actors and some luck. Mostly you need dollars; if you have those the rest can be purchased!
Of course it helps to have a story. Peter Jackson got lucky; he had the budget and a great story to tell in 'The Lord of the Rings'.
Robin didn't have either. I have no recollection of the production for which he needed a helicopter but I do remember him describing how he was going to make one out of papier mache in his backyard. I think it was Dave who asked the killer question; 'what if it rains?'.
Cut to Robins face; puzzlement intermixed with frustration.
Another production bit the dust!
A laudable goal if you can pull it off. To pull it off you need lots of dollars, an experienced crew, brave actors and some luck. Mostly you need dollars; if you have those the rest can be purchased!
Of course it helps to have a story. Peter Jackson got lucky; he had the budget and a great story to tell in 'The Lord of the Rings'.
Robin didn't have either. I have no recollection of the production for which he needed a helicopter but I do remember him describing how he was going to make one out of papier mache in his backyard. I think it was Dave who asked the killer question; 'what if it rains?'.
Cut to Robins face; puzzlement intermixed with frustration.
Another production bit the dust!
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Sharpening a pencil
About 1975 Robin bought himself a rather expensive video tape recorder. This was before the days of Beta and VHS; it was reel to reel, bulky, black and white and, frankly, crap. But he was very proud of it because he was the only one of our gang who owned his own VCR - the rest of us had to make do with government funded communal property at the video centre.
Heino's been on my back for a while now to write about Turtle Video and I really do want to but it's not easy to start without driving away those few loyal readers I have. So I'm going to ease into the subject over the next couple of months. It was a big part of both our lives in the second half of the 1970's so consider this fair warning! :)
Anyway, Robin was magnanimous in the extreme by lugging this bulky and not very good video recorder around. We had Sony Portapaks that were just as good, half the weight and a quarter the size but we were happy to have yet another VCR at our disposal. Well, we did for a while. But suddenly the recorder started losing resolution at an alarming rate and it was hard on our tapes. Much scratching of heads without any solution coming to hand.
Until one night, over a bottle of Brandavino (a vile alcoholic drink that cost 2 bucks a bottle and was worth a quarter of that) the truth came out. Dave was sharpening his pencils by holding them against the video head as it span.
What a bastard!
Heino's been on my back for a while now to write about Turtle Video and I really do want to but it's not easy to start without driving away those few loyal readers I have. So I'm going to ease into the subject over the next couple of months. It was a big part of both our lives in the second half of the 1970's so consider this fair warning! :)
Anyway, Robin was magnanimous in the extreme by lugging this bulky and not very good video recorder around. We had Sony Portapaks that were just as good, half the weight and a quarter the size but we were happy to have yet another VCR at our disposal. Well, we did for a while. But suddenly the recorder started losing resolution at an alarming rate and it was hard on our tapes. Much scratching of heads without any solution coming to hand.
Until one night, over a bottle of Brandavino (a vile alcoholic drink that cost 2 bucks a bottle and was worth a quarter of that) the truth came out. Dave was sharpening his pencils by holding them against the video head as it span.
What a bastard!
Monday, December 19, 2005
Improving the imperfect
Sometime in the late 1970's Robin bought himself an upmarket cassette recorder. Heino remembers it as a SuperScope; I remember it as a SilverScope but I suspect Heino's correct; it was packaged in late 70's silverised plastic. You know the kind of thing, the slightest touch and the coating rubbed off and made the whole thing look tacky, which is probably why I'm remembering the word 'silver'.
The recorder came with a mini headphone jack but Robins headphones had the large style. They've been manufacturing adaptors for just such problems for at least 40 years that I know of but Robin decided he could do better than that; he was going to replace the headphone jack entirely.
So he cracked the case to check how much space was available. It would be a tight squeeze but it was doable with care and I'd guess it should have taken 15 minutes from go to whoa. Ever watched a hasty man make a chair out of packing crates using a blunt axe? I haven't either but that's exactly how I'd describe Robins approach.
Six or so hours later the recorder was half patched back together. The hole he'd enlarged was too large and the new jack wobbled about. Every so often one of the contacts would short against a pin on the PC board. One of the rubber belts had come off badly in an encounter with the soldering iron, which imparted an interesting stuttering effect to both recording and playback.
But he was proud of the result and, in the end, that's all that really matters, isn't it.
The recorder came with a mini headphone jack but Robins headphones had the large style. They've been manufacturing adaptors for just such problems for at least 40 years that I know of but Robin decided he could do better than that; he was going to replace the headphone jack entirely.
So he cracked the case to check how much space was available. It would be a tight squeeze but it was doable with care and I'd guess it should have taken 15 minutes from go to whoa. Ever watched a hasty man make a chair out of packing crates using a blunt axe? I haven't either but that's exactly how I'd describe Robins approach.
Six or so hours later the recorder was half patched back together. The hole he'd enlarged was too large and the new jack wobbled about. Every so often one of the contacts would short against a pin on the PC board. One of the rubber belts had come off badly in an encounter with the soldering iron, which imparted an interesting stuttering effect to both recording and playback.
But he was proud of the result and, in the end, that's all that really matters, isn't it.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
It's the owning that's important
We were at the local Half Price bookshop this afternoon; I needed to buy something weighty to read on the plane to Dallas Monday. Uh huh, I'm travelling again. This time I'm looking forward to it; two and a bit months without travel now feels too long.
This trip has been threatening for a while now. I first expected to return to Dallas in mid October but one thing and another delayed it and delayed it. Naturally the trip happens during the week before Christmas! I'm returning to Phoenix on thursday. Anyone want to guess how crowded that Southwest Airlines plane will be? And anyone want to guess which boarding group I'll be in?
But I digress. There we were at the bookshop, standing in line to pay. I chose 'The Old Curiousity Shop' by Dickens - a good meaty read if I know my Dickens! Beside the register is the LP/CD/DVD VideoDisc section. I'm still trying to decide how anyone could think that a good album cover consists of a shot of a womans mid section from her navel to half way down her thighs, wearing red shorts!
I honestly don't remember when VideoDiscs were released. Sometime in the 1980s but I couldn't get any closer than that. But there they were, packaged in much the same way that LP's were. Curiousity got the better of me and I thumbed through the range - nothing so memorable that now, nine hours after the event, I can remember a single title.
But I was reminded of Robin and the amount of time, money and effort he expended getting hold of a copy of 2001: A Space Odyssey[^] on VideoDisc. Great movie. I must have seen it a couple of hundred times. A pity then, that, having obtained a copy on VideoDisc, he didn't have any hardware to play it!
This trip has been threatening for a while now. I first expected to return to Dallas in mid October but one thing and another delayed it and delayed it. Naturally the trip happens during the week before Christmas! I'm returning to Phoenix on thursday. Anyone want to guess how crowded that Southwest Airlines plane will be? And anyone want to guess which boarding group I'll be in?
But I digress. There we were at the bookshop, standing in line to pay. I chose 'The Old Curiousity Shop' by Dickens - a good meaty read if I know my Dickens! Beside the register is the LP/CD/DVD VideoDisc section. I'm still trying to decide how anyone could think that a good album cover consists of a shot of a womans mid section from her navel to half way down her thighs, wearing red shorts!
I honestly don't remember when VideoDiscs were released. Sometime in the 1980s but I couldn't get any closer than that. But there they were, packaged in much the same way that LP's were. Curiousity got the better of me and I thumbed through the range - nothing so memorable that now, nine hours after the event, I can remember a single title.
But I was reminded of Robin and the amount of time, money and effort he expended getting hold of a copy of 2001: A Space Odyssey[^] on VideoDisc. Great movie. I must have seen it a couple of hundred times. A pity then, that, having obtained a copy on VideoDisc, he didn't have any hardware to play it!
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Tasteful rearrangement
Combining a couple of themes that I've been writing about this past week I recall the time that Sue and I went to Robins house. This was sometime in 1979 so I can't remember the why of the visit but when we arrived he was in the shower. His mother showed us in and left us to our own devices in his room. We had about 15 minutes alone. What to do???
I'm sure the answer is obvious. We opened his stash of porno magazines and spread them across the entire room, open to each centrefold. We'd barely finished covering the last few square centimetres of open space when he walked in, took one look and said...
'You bastards!'
I'm sure the answer is obvious. We opened his stash of porno magazines and spread them across the entire room, open to each centrefold. We'd barely finished covering the last few square centimetres of open space when he walked in, took one look and said...
'You bastards!'
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Dominus ad Nauseam
Back in 1980 Sue, Robin and myself were sharing a house. Quite the grandest house I've ever lived in; it had two (count em, two) bathrooms and three dunnies!
Sometime in March of that year cash was at a low ebb and we were really trying to eat cheap. We went to the local supermarket to do the shopping with about ten bucks in hand and almost a week to provide for. Not quite as bad as it sounds; ten bucks went a reasonable distance in those days if you were willing to eat rice and potatoes. So Sue and I were shopping frugally, selecting the aforementioned foodstuffs, when Robin came trotting up with a plastic cake knife (the triangular sort one uses to lift wedges of cake off the plate) saying 'Guys guys, we have to buy this.' 'Why??' we both chorused. 'What are we going to be eating that we'd need one of those?'. Crestfallen he stammered 'well, we might have a cake'.
We didn't buy it.
Almost 10 years later, Tuesday January 9th 1990, we held a 'Roast Robin' night. Heino was involved in that one. Sue and I and Peta and Robbo (about whom I haven't yet written) owned a coffee shop by then and we tricked the premises out for the evening. A fake coffin, a cardboard skeleton, cobwebs hanging from the ceiling and about 600 photocopies of a photo of Robin. He was staring at you wherever you looked! We even taped his face up behind the toilet doors.
Robin, of course, didn't know it was a roast. We lied about the arrival time so we could have everyone in position; when he walked in through the door we were chanting 'Dominus ad Nauseam' around the coffin. He took one look around, then stared at us and said... 'you bastards!'
But it doesn't end quite there. After the consumption of food and drink we took turns at giving a little speech relating some anecdote involving Robin. Of course they followed the pattern laid down for roasts; Robin was always the butt of the joke. When it came our turn we distributed a brown paper bag to each guest. Inside was a copy of the photo aforesaid, some mini mars bars and various other junk that tied in with some story or other about Robin. Also included was a plastic cake knife.
He took one look at it and said...
'You bastards!'
Sometime in March of that year cash was at a low ebb and we were really trying to eat cheap. We went to the local supermarket to do the shopping with about ten bucks in hand and almost a week to provide for. Not quite as bad as it sounds; ten bucks went a reasonable distance in those days if you were willing to eat rice and potatoes. So Sue and I were shopping frugally, selecting the aforementioned foodstuffs, when Robin came trotting up with a plastic cake knife (the triangular sort one uses to lift wedges of cake off the plate) saying 'Guys guys, we have to buy this.' 'Why??' we both chorused. 'What are we going to be eating that we'd need one of those?'. Crestfallen he stammered 'well, we might have a cake'.
We didn't buy it.
Almost 10 years later, Tuesday January 9th 1990, we held a 'Roast Robin' night. Heino was involved in that one. Sue and I and Peta and Robbo (about whom I haven't yet written) owned a coffee shop by then and we tricked the premises out for the evening. A fake coffin, a cardboard skeleton, cobwebs hanging from the ceiling and about 600 photocopies of a photo of Robin. He was staring at you wherever you looked! We even taped his face up behind the toilet doors.
Robin, of course, didn't know it was a roast. We lied about the arrival time so we could have everyone in position; when he walked in through the door we were chanting 'Dominus ad Nauseam' around the coffin. He took one look around, then stared at us and said... 'you bastards!'
But it doesn't end quite there. After the consumption of food and drink we took turns at giving a little speech relating some anecdote involving Robin. Of course they followed the pattern laid down for roasts; Robin was always the butt of the joke. When it came our turn we distributed a brown paper bag to each guest. Inside was a copy of the photo aforesaid, some mini mars bars and various other junk that tied in with some story or other about Robin. Also included was a plastic cake knife.
He took one look at it and said...
'You bastards!'
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
I want you
In 1979 Sue, Robin and myself were sitting in one of those hole in the wall coffee shops that used to dot Swanston Street Melbourne. They had such tempting names as 'The Krown Kafe' and so on. I honestly can't remember if any of them remain; it's been years since I was an habitue.
Robin doesn't smoke but Sue and I do; we were both enjoying a smoke when an attractive young lady approached and asked me for a light. So I lit her smoke and she wandered back to her own table. I leaned across the table, fixed Robin with my gaze and said.
'You know what happened there don't you mate?'
He had to admit he didn't.
'She wants me.' I lied.
He wanted to know how I knew so I spun him a story about how, if a woman asks a man to light her cigarette, she really means 'I want you!'. Poor bastard fell for it hook line and sinker. That very day he bought himself a cigarette lighter and presumably wandered around the city waiting for the moment when a girl would ask for a light.
A couple of months later he was complaining about how inefficacious the lighter was. Sue started laughing almost hysterically (you have to hear her laugh :-) ) as I explained that I'd been pulling his leg.
He took one look at us and said...
'You bastard!'
Robin doesn't smoke but Sue and I do; we were both enjoying a smoke when an attractive young lady approached and asked me for a light. So I lit her smoke and she wandered back to her own table. I leaned across the table, fixed Robin with my gaze and said.
'You know what happened there don't you mate?'
He had to admit he didn't.
'She wants me.' I lied.
He wanted to know how I knew so I spun him a story about how, if a woman asks a man to light her cigarette, she really means 'I want you!'. Poor bastard fell for it hook line and sinker. That very day he bought himself a cigarette lighter and presumably wandered around the city waiting for the moment when a girl would ask for a light.
A couple of months later he was complaining about how inefficacious the lighter was. Sue started laughing almost hysterically (you have to hear her laugh :-) ) as I explained that I'd been pulling his leg.
He took one look at us and said...
'You bastard!'
Monday, December 05, 2005
Box 1A
Back in 1983 or thereabouts I was asked to help a friend move house. Profuse reassurance that he'd be packed and ready on the day and all we'd have to do was load boxes and furniture into the truck, follow it to the new address and reverse the sequence.
Yeah right! That was the theory; the practice was that when I appeared bright and early that Saturday morning he was still in his dressing gown making coffee. And nothing was packed! Well, almost nothing. There were two medium sized cardboard boxes labelled Box 1A and Box 1B.
When asked what was in them he was remarkably taciturn, indeed, almost embarassed by the question. But a bit of nagging throughout the day and the truth eventually came out. It was his porn collection. Not hard to imagine his priorities.
I'm not going to identify him but if he were to read this post he'd take one look at me and say...
'You bastard!'
Yeah right! That was the theory; the practice was that when I appeared bright and early that Saturday morning he was still in his dressing gown making coffee. And nothing was packed! Well, almost nothing. There were two medium sized cardboard boxes labelled Box 1A and Box 1B.
When asked what was in them he was remarkably taciturn, indeed, almost embarassed by the question. But a bit of nagging throughout the day and the truth eventually came out. It was his porn collection. Not hard to imagine his priorities.
I'm not going to identify him but if he were to read this post he'd take one look at me and say...
'You bastard!'
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Predictability
Back in 1981 when Raiders of the Lost Ark[^] was released Robin was one of the first in our circle to see it. He raved about it and insisted that if we saw no other movie that year we had to see Raiders.
Now you have to understand that I'm not a big Spielberg fan. In fact, I'd rate E.T. as one of the three worst movies ever made. So I was rather reluctant to go see it. Indeed, I refused point blank and that was an end of it, for now.
A few weeks later Sue and I went to see a movie at the old Metro theatre in Glenferrie road. I can't remember what movie it was, probably something by Woody Allen. As we came out I noticed that the next movie on the bill was Raiders and an evil idea grew. So we went in to see Raiders.
The evil idea was to remember all the climaxes and, more particularly, the events leading up to them. Then we'd let Robin take us to see the movie next week and, whenever a climax approached, we could predict what was going to happen and convince Robin that the entire movie was a pot-boiler of predictability.
It worked a treat and by the end of the movie when we predicted that the Germans faces would melt he was totally convinced. Afterward we went to dinner somewhere or other and let him in on the secret.
He took a long look at us and said...
'You bastards!'
Now you have to understand that I'm not a big Spielberg fan. In fact, I'd rate E.T. as one of the three worst movies ever made. So I was rather reluctant to go see it. Indeed, I refused point blank and that was an end of it, for now.
A few weeks later Sue and I went to see a movie at the old Metro theatre in Glenferrie road. I can't remember what movie it was, probably something by Woody Allen. As we came out I noticed that the next movie on the bill was Raiders and an evil idea grew. So we went in to see Raiders.
The evil idea was to remember all the climaxes and, more particularly, the events leading up to them. Then we'd let Robin take us to see the movie next week and, whenever a climax approached, we could predict what was going to happen and convince Robin that the entire movie was a pot-boiler of predictability.
It worked a treat and by the end of the movie when we predicted that the Germans faces would melt he was totally convinced. Afterward we went to dinner somewhere or other and let him in on the secret.
He took a long look at us and said...
'You bastards!'
Saturday, December 03, 2005
The waltzing waters
You've noticed, no doubt, that we do frequent weekend outings. I was going to add 'when I'm in town' but amazingly enough, with the exception of that one night stay in Dallas a month and a half ago, I haven't had to do business travel for more than three months. Quite a contrast with the first 9 months of the year as you'll recall!
I really enjoy these outings. If my first wife Sue is reading she's probably reeling in shock because 20 years ago when we were married she had the devil of a time dragging me away from my computer. My second wife didn't have much better luck. But here I am in a still relatively new city to me in the midst of much natural beauty; the weather has cooled down to the point where it's possible to emerge from air-conditioning so I'm eager to go explore.
On one Sunday afternoon in 1985 or thereabouts Sue persuaded me to go for a drive in the Dandenongs, a small mountain range to the east of Melbourne. It marks what I think of as the eastern edge of the city though, to be sure, suburbia sprawls over and past them. We were driving down one of the main roads (I'm afraid I don't remember its name) when we saw the signs advertising the 'Waltzing Waters' at the Tatra Hut. We were both intrigued so there we stopped. An average buffet restaurant.
The floor show consisted of a bunch of coloured lights flashing in various sequences, lighting up a spray of water produced by water forced through a pipe with a bunch of holes drilled at intervals. Not just the one pipe and not all the holes were in a straight line. The DJ played Strauss's Blue Danube and worked a bunch of levers that rotated the pipes and adjusted the water pressure. Some of the time he managed to be on the beat.
Sue and I sat in surprised amazement, both at the tackiness of the show and the evident delight of most of the other diners. It wouldn't be much of a story if it stopped there but of course it didn't. Feeling 'had' we decided that it was only right we should share that feeling with our friends Robin and Rosemary. I've written about Robin before[^].
So we told Robin we'd seen the most amazing show on the weekend; he just *had* to see it. Robin was gullible in those days and he took the bait. So the following sunday the four of us repaired to the 'Tatra Hut'. Robin was full of anticipation. I don't say that I didn't hint that perhaps semi-naked women were involved.
The lights dimmed, the music played and on came the waters. Robin gave us one long look and said...
'You bastards!'
I really enjoy these outings. If my first wife Sue is reading she's probably reeling in shock because 20 years ago when we were married she had the devil of a time dragging me away from my computer. My second wife didn't have much better luck. But here I am in a still relatively new city to me in the midst of much natural beauty; the weather has cooled down to the point where it's possible to emerge from air-conditioning so I'm eager to go explore.
On one Sunday afternoon in 1985 or thereabouts Sue persuaded me to go for a drive in the Dandenongs, a small mountain range to the east of Melbourne. It marks what I think of as the eastern edge of the city though, to be sure, suburbia sprawls over and past them. We were driving down one of the main roads (I'm afraid I don't remember its name) when we saw the signs advertising the 'Waltzing Waters' at the Tatra Hut. We were both intrigued so there we stopped. An average buffet restaurant.
The floor show consisted of a bunch of coloured lights flashing in various sequences, lighting up a spray of water produced by water forced through a pipe with a bunch of holes drilled at intervals. Not just the one pipe and not all the holes were in a straight line. The DJ played Strauss's Blue Danube and worked a bunch of levers that rotated the pipes and adjusted the water pressure. Some of the time he managed to be on the beat.
Sue and I sat in surprised amazement, both at the tackiness of the show and the evident delight of most of the other diners. It wouldn't be much of a story if it stopped there but of course it didn't. Feeling 'had' we decided that it was only right we should share that feeling with our friends Robin and Rosemary. I've written about Robin before[^].
So we told Robin we'd seen the most amazing show on the weekend; he just *had* to see it. Robin was gullible in those days and he took the bait. So the following sunday the four of us repaired to the 'Tatra Hut'. Robin was full of anticipation. I don't say that I didn't hint that perhaps semi-naked women were involved.
The lights dimmed, the music played and on came the waters. Robin gave us one long look and said...
'You bastards!'
Friday, June 03, 2005
Robins Birthday
falls on June 3rd; he's 18 days older than I am and you can bet I never miss the chance to remind him of the fact. I revel in pointing out that he's hit whichever significant anniversary it is but I haven't yet. Of course, Heino, being the cheeky bastard that he is, can't resist pointing out that I hit the same anniversaries a bit more than 6 years before he does. Can't win em all I suppose.
In 1996 Heino was listening to the Doug Aitken show on 3LO Melbourne as he drove home. Each Monday Terry Lane would come on the show and relate some story or other regarding whichever famous composer happened to have been born on that day. On this particular Monday on came Terry, to relate that absolutely no one of any importance whatsoever had been born on June 3rd. Heino couldn't resist ringing Robin that evening, both to wish him a happy birthday and to apprise him of that fact!
I rang Heino to remind him that today is the day on which no one of any importance was born :-) He'll give Robin a call a little later to remind him of this singular circumstance, just in case the Alzheimers disease has finally caught up with him, 18 days before it catches up with me!
In 1996 Heino was listening to the Doug Aitken show on 3LO Melbourne as he drove home. Each Monday Terry Lane would come on the show and relate some story or other regarding whichever famous composer happened to have been born on that day. On this particular Monday on came Terry, to relate that absolutely no one of any importance whatsoever had been born on June 3rd. Heino couldn't resist ringing Robin that evening, both to wish him a happy birthday and to apprise him of that fact!
I rang Heino to remind him that today is the day on which no one of any importance was born :-) He'll give Robin a call a little later to remind him of this singular circumstance, just in case the Alzheimers disease has finally caught up with him, 18 days before it catches up with me!
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